“I don’t know. I have less than twenty bucks.”
“I’m going to get you some cash, first thing. That way, if this vacation doesn’t work out and you need, you know, some space or that hotel room you wanted, you’ll be able to afford it.”
“That’s really nice of you,” she said. “I just hate the idea of—”
“Don’t say it.”
“What?”
“You were going to say impose again.”
She smiled, ducking her head.
“Whatever you take from me, it’s a loan, okay? Pretend I’m your friend at home giving it to you, and pay me back next week. What was her name, Dana?”
“Anya.”
He stood, opened his wallet, and handed her a credit card. “Here’s Anya’s credit card. I think the limit on that one’s something like twenty-five thousand dollars. Spend less than that, okay? But she spells her name funny, so you’ll have to sign it B-E-N-H-A-U-S-M-A-N.”
She ran her fingers over the raised numbers. “All I need is a pair of jeans and a couple T-shirts. We could go to Walmart.”
“We don’t have Walmart in Manhattan. And you’re supposed to be on vacation, right? Be on vacation. Go crazy. Buy something you like. You get to keep the clothes, so you might as well enjoy them. Now, where do you want me to take you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been shopping in New York.”
He unlocked the deadbolt and held the door open for her.
When she brushed past him, he looked down, an automatic response to the soft pressure of her arm against his. She couldn’t possibly know what her ass looked like under the smooth, shiny material of the track pants, bouncing down the steps.
“I’m just going to take you to Macy’s, okay?” he asked. “It’s huge. I’m sure they’ve got something you’ll want.”
Preferably something big and shapeless. Which, once you start wearing it, I’ll begin to find inexplicably hot.
“Macy’s it is.” She hit the landing and disappeared around the bend to the next flight.
“And buy some decent shoes.” His voice and his footsteps echoed off the concrete walls. “Yours suck.”
Her loud laughter filled the stairwell, and he hurried to catch up.
CHAPTER TWELVE
This was why the Internet was invented, May thought as she trudged toward the escalator that would take her to womenswear and the inevitable flogging. So nobody would ever have to try on j
eans in a public dressing room again.
But she would make the best of it. She wouldn’t be one of those girls who let a few minutes in bad dressing-room lighting destroy her day. She could be in and out of the store in fifteen minutes, and she could manage not to think any hateful thoughts.
It’s like going to the gynecologist for a Pap, she promised herself. Quick, necessary, and afterward you can buy a cookie.
She found the store directory and took the escalator to the right floor, where she discovered that the reign of the skinny jean continued unabated. There were cheetah prints and brightly colored solids and one pair with giant blue and white flowers that reminded her of old women and teacups.
With a deep sigh, she craned her head toward the back wall, looking for the ghetto where they kept the fat-girl jeans.
SHOP PETITE STYLES! one sign shouted.
“Shove it where the sun don’t shine,” she muttered.
She was once again reminding herself not to be negative when someone plowed into her.