His chest shook with laughter. “Oh, January!” He teased.
“Shut up!” I said, pulling away while laughing and wiping away my tears.
Jason pulled me back to him and hugged me harder, making me sigh. “What’s up with you, January MacLochlainn? Hmm? Why the sour face?” He ran his thumbs underneath my eyes.
“Oh, I’m just so happy to see you,” I semi-lied.
“Oh, just happy to see me, is it? Could it be you're sick of Tom as well?”
“A little,” I admitted not realizing how true that really was. I loved Tom so much, but I wasn’t an imbecile. The way he’d been treating me these past two days was alarming to say the least.
“Come on,” he said, wrapping his arm around my neck and swinging me toward the doors of the fanciest store I’d ever laid eyes on.
“We are going to stick out here like a sore thumb, Jason.”
“Yeah, we might have one of those ‘Pretty Woman’ moments.”
This made me laugh.
“Yeah,” he said, spreading his free arm before us, “imagine it. They’ll look down at you in disdain, perk their noses in the air and say with their haughty French accents, ‘You are not Lafayette material, miss!’ Then I’ll step in and save the day by flashing my black card. They’ll cower and bow at your feet, kissing your shoes and begging your forgiveness.”
“You have quite an imagination, Jason.”
“I know, I should have been a writer instead, but I’ve heard there’s no money in it.”
We stopped and took in the magnificence of the store. It felt like I was standing within a giant Fabergé egg. The word opulent came to mind, plenty of times.
“The world is your oyster,” Jason said, kissing my temple, making me want to cry again, “and it seems you need it.”
I wanted to call Tom and run to him, but I also wanted to ignore Tom or find him and slap him in the face. I was a dichotomy of feelings, but one thing was for sure, I needed to talk to him, to get it out there. If he was regretting being with me or telling me he loved me, then I needed to know, so I could get over it and move on. I had more respect for myself than to endure disrespect. I was a MacLochlainn, damn it!
We went to a few stores but nothing really stuck out at me. It was either too formal or too casual. Jason explained that the festival was usually a light affair, but the first night, if you’re lucky enough to be invited, the labels throw a party at one club hosting several up-and-coming bands and it’s usually a dressy night.
“I don’t know about these stores, Jason. I’m not seeing anything.”
“There’s plenty to choose from. You’re just obsessed with price tags. Stop. Just find something you’ll look good in and put it on.”
“How eloquently said.”
“Well, I don’t know shit about this kind of stuff. Listen, I’m gonna go find some digs for Tom. Find something then I’ll come find you.”
“All right,” I sighed.
Perusing the stores was a lot of fun but Jason was right, I was afraid of the price tags.
“If Seven doesn’t care, neither do I,” I bolstered myself.
I called the attention of a woman in a store full of couture, but she didn’t shy away from me. In fact, she was extraordinarily kind and seemed excited to help me. She told me I was the perfect model for the clothes in her store, but somehow I doubted that. I told her to work her magic and an hour later, Jason found me with a few new things in hand, including a few essentials that I believe I would have rather died than buy in front of Jason but I had no choice.
“What is this, La Femme Nikita?” he asked, picking the lacy object up with one finger.
I shoved it all down back on the counter and knew the blush that burned my face would take days to calm down.
“Jason, I swear. Don’t embarrass me.”
“I’m sorry, kitten,” he smiled. “Mwar!”
“Oh my God, you’re never going to let me live this down.”