Leah on the Offbeat
Page 42

So isn’t this magical. I’m bra shopping with Wells.
He shoves his hands in his pockets as we walk through the parking lot. “So, what is it that you need?”
“An item of clothing.”
“An item of clothing?” He shoots me a confused smile. “Am I supposed to guess?”
“No,” I say quickly. Fuck my life. “Just. It’s a bra.” For my boobs, Wells.
“Ah.”
Now I can’t even think straight. Maybe my brain is boiling. Maybe that’s a thing that happens when you achieve peak mortification.
We step through the automatic doors, and the first thing I see is a bag display: giant canvas zipper totes and faux-leather purses and, already, a summery display of woven beach bags.
“Oh no.” I smack my forehead.
“Everything okay?” Wells asks.
“I don’t have a purse.”
I mean, technically, I do. But the only purse I own is a ratty canvas thing I bought three years ago from Old Navy. I can’t bring that piece of shit to prom.
“Okay. We’ve got this.” He nods eagerly. “Would any of these purses work?”
“And shoes. I don’t have shoes.”
Okay, I’m honestly starting to freak out, because this really feels like a sign now. No bra, no shoes, no purse, car battery dead, Mom occupied. Universe, I hear you loud and clear. I shouldn’t have even considered going to prom. I should go back home and watch HGTV, and return the dress as soon as the mall opens tomorrow.
I just wish. I don’t know. I wish I were the kind of girl who remembered things like bras and shoes and purses. It’s like there’s a prom gene, and I’m missing it. And I guess it makes sense. I can barely be trusted to dress myself, normally. No surprise I’m a hot mess and a half when it comes to this crap.
“This is cool,” Wells says, holding up a little clutch. It’s made of gold fake leather, and it’s shaped like a cat’s face, and even I have to admit it’s adorable.
I bite my lip. “How much is it?”
He checks the tag. “Oh, it’s just twenty dollars.”
“Welp. Never mind.”
“Leah, I can cover that.”
I laugh. “Yeah, no.”
“I mean it. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”
God, I really hate this. Literally, the last person I want buying me shit is Wells. He’s not my stepdad. He’s definitely not my dad. And it’s just weird and uncomfortable, and I feel like a sellout.
But. I don’t know. I also don’t want to carry a canvas bag to prom.
“I’m going to go find a bra,” I say quickly, eyes starting to prickle. This is all so ridiculous. And honestly, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to do this without Mom. I don’t know anything about strapless bras. I don’t know how they’re supposed to fit. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to try them on. I end up circling the racks in the lingerie area, probably looking like a little lost turtle. Finally, I grab the cheapest one in my size, but even the cheapest one is almost twenty-five dollars. For a bra I’m probably going to wear one time. And if I’m paying twenty-five dollars for a bra, there’s no way I can buy shoes. I’ll have to wear my sneakers. Just some giant ugly-ass sneakers. Now I’ll really have a prom aesthetic.
I may be feeling slightly hysterical. Slightly.
Wells is already holding a Target bag when I find him at the self-checkout. He smiles and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, I know you didn’t want me to, but I got the cat purse.”
“Seriously?”
“It’s just, I thought you’d probably try to push back, and then I’d insist, and we’d go back and forth, and I know we don’t have a lot of time. So.” He bites his lip. “If you don’t want to use it, that’s totally fine.”
“Oh. Um.” I stare at the bag.
“I would have grabbed some shoes, too, but I didn’t know what size.”
“That’s . . . fine. That’s really cool of you, Wells.”
It’s weird. I’m used to saying his name with a sarcastic kind of emphasis, a tiny vocal eye roll. Saying Wells without that little bite feels strange and incomplete.
I pay for the bra with Mom’s card, and we head back to the car. But when we get there, Mom’s still on the phone, so Wells and I lean against the trunk, side by side.
“So, are you excited?” he asks.
“For prom?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I never went to mine.”
“I never thought I would.”
“Just don’t forget to bring a camera. Your mom’s going to want pictures.”
“My camera?” I mean, of course Wells would suggest that. As if I’m going to roll into prom with a giant old-timey camera and a tripod. Maybe I should skip the camera altogether. I’ll just bring some oil paints and a fucking easel.
“I guess you’ll have your phone for that, huh?”
“Uh, yeah.” I smile.
He smiles back. And for a minute, we just stand there.
“Thanks for the purse, by the way,” I say finally. I scuff my shoe on the asphalt. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I was happy to.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” I say, blushing faintly. Because apparently I’m not capable of thanking people without making it awkward. Wells probably thinks I’m ridiculous, getting so flustered over a twenty-dollar purse. Twenty dollars is probably nothing to him. He probably uses twenties as toilet paper.
But Wells just shakes his head. “I know this kind of thing can be really uncomfortable. I used to hate receiving gifts.”
“Me too.”
“Even if I knew the person could afford it. I just didn’t like feeling like I was getting a handout.” He looks at me, and it’s as if he’s reading my mind. “I didn’t have a lot of money growing up.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah. I was kind of the poor kid in the rich neighborhood. My friends all had houses, and we were in this tiny little apartment. I don’t think some people even realize there are apartments in the suburbs.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“I just. I don’t know. I totally figured you were kind of a country club kid.”
“Well, I was, in a way.” He smiles. “I was a caddy.”
“That is . . . a golf thing, isn’t it?”
“Nailed it,” he says. And it’s strange. I feel lighter. Like maybe this nerdy dude can stick around if he wants. Maybe Mom could use a bootleg Prince William to distract her. I guess it’s either that or haunting the aisles of Publix, warning the baby moms how fast it all flies by.
Here’s the thing, though: no one ever warns the babies.
30
GARRETT’S EXACTLY ON TIME, AND I step out onto the front stoop to meet him. He looks at me, opens his mouth, and shuts it. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him speechless.
“Holy shit, Burke,” he says finally.
“Holy shit, Laughlin.” I tug the end of my hair.
I guess I do feel kind of pretty. Now that I’m dressed, the hair totally works, and I’ve got the rosy cheeks thing and the smoky eye thing and the freckled shoulder thing all happening at once. And as it turns out, my boots are the exact same shade of gold as my cat purse. So, that’s a thing that’s happening. I’m wearing combat boots to prom.
Garrett just stares at my mouth. I guess I’m glad he’s not staring at my boobs.
He gives me a bone-white corsage for my wrist, and Mom helps me pin a boutonniere to the lapel of his tux. Then she herds us outside the house for the photo shoot from hell. It doesn’t help that Garrett has no clue where his hands go. First he hooks his arm around my waist—then my shoulders—then back around my waist. I half expect him to whip out his phone to consult Google on the issue.
When it’s finally time to go, he opens the car door for me—and it’s honestly super weird to be wearing a prom dress in Garrett’s mom’s minivan. Garrett’s as quiet tonight as I’ve ever seen him. I can’t help but steal a few glances at his profile.