The F-Word

The day dawns gray and cool. Typical early fall weather or a hint of things to come? I’m not into superstition so I tell myself it can’t be the latter as I pull up in front of Bailey’s apartment building, but I have to admit I’m, well, not nervous. Not exactly. Wary, is a better way to describe it.

No way I’m going to let Bailey know it.

It’s twelve noon on the nose, and she is waiting for me at the curb. She’s wearing her new jeans, the new white T and the white—what are they called? Mules. The apricot jacket is slung over her arm. The outfit is casual and she looks…spectacular, is the only word that works.

She’s even left her hair loose.

Yes. She looks spectacular indeed. Good enough to eat…and that isn’t a phrase that should be in my head.

She also looks terrified. Uh oh. Not terrified. Grim. Determined. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happened.

Well, fuck. We’re going to have to change that.

I smile as I get out of the ’Vette. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. No answering smile.

I reach for her suitcase. So does she. We both grab the handle and fight for possession. Enough.

“Bailey?”

“Yes?”

“Let go.”

“Mr. O’Malley. I’ve been thinking…”

I let go of the handle, straighten up, fold my arms over my chest and give her what I hope is a stern look.

“What did you call me?”

She swallows hard. “Matthew. What I mean is…”

“What you mean is, you’ve thought things over and this isn’t going to work.”

She heaves a sigh of relief. “Exactly.”

“Because you won’t be able to pull it off. Or I won’t be able to pull it off. Or Verifiably Vile Vi is so smart she’ll see right through us.”

“She knows me. Everybody in my family knows me. And—”

“They think they know you, but I’m the man who actually does. I know the real Bailey. The one who’s been standing by and waiting to greet the world all these years.”

She sighs. “If only that were true.”

“It is true.”

“Have you forgotten the old saying? Clothes don’t make the man. Well, the woman. I’m still me inside.”

“Yes. You are. And that’s a damn good thing, because you are and always have been a smart, strong, proud, brave, altogether remarkable woman. The only change is that you’re no longer hiding any of who you are from the world.”

“That’s a fine pep talk. But—”

“It’s the truth. You’re all those things.” I put my hand under her chin and gently urge her to lift her face and meet my gaze. “You’re also beautiful.”

“It’s the clothes.”

“I thought we just agreed that clothes don’t make the woman. Trust me. You are beautiful.”