Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

Charlie, on the other hand, had been going over to campus since we were in middle school, when he was apparently treated like a mascot at the parties. By the time we were in high school, he was just accepted as a fixture. And often, he was the one who was providing the party, or at least the one who knew who was holding. It had always been jarring to look across a dorm room or a house as I sat on the sidelines and see my brother, front and center, holding court.

As I followed Bronwyn and Roger up the stairs, I grabbed onto the railing, avoiding the passed-out guy, trying not to lose my balance. I was perfectly sober, but I was not wearing my own shoes. This had not been my choice, but apparently “no” was not a word Bronwyn readily understood.

“Of course you’re coming!” she’d said after I’d protested and Roger had reappeared with my suitcase. She’d said hello but then shooed him out again so we could begin to get ready. Which is when I found out that I was, most likely, not getting out of going to the party.

“It’s really okay,” I said.

Bronwyn, who had been humming something under her breath and rummaging in one of her drawers, turned and looked at me. “Of course you have to go,” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m fine here,” I said. “Really.”

She waved my words away again. “You’re coming, sugar,” she said. “And what’s more, it’s going to be fun.” She straightened up and looked at me closely. “I think we could change this up a bit,” she said, gesturing to my flip-flops, loose T-shirt, and jeans. “I understand you had to dress for travel and all.”

“Right,” I murmured. I didn’t want to tell her that this had become my uniform. It wasn’t planned, just what I kept gravitating toward. Somehow, clothes that were too fitted felt like they were suffocating me, skirts made my legs feel too cold, bright colors drew too much attention. So I’d ended up with an ensemble that let me hide a little, and let me fade into the background, and it was working just fine.

“But,” she continued, “to every season. Am I right? A time to be casual and a time to dress up. And this is the latter.” She pulled out a pink one-shouldered top, looked at it, then me, then tossed it on the bureau. She rummaged farther in, gave a little gasp of triumph, and came out with a long, sky-blue top edged with yellow. “Perfect,” she said.

“Bronwyn,” I started, not wanting to offend her, but not wanting her to make all this effort for nothing. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but I just don’t think I feel like going to a party tonight.” That was an understatement, but I wasn’t sure how else to put it. I was only just getting used to spending time with Roger. I had spent almost three months barely talking to anyone, and the thought of seeing so many people, and being around that many strangers, made me feel like the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed. Once, I’d happily gone to parties. It had never been an issue. But that, of course, had been Before. That had been Old me.

“I know,” said Bronwyn with a sigh, surprising me. “Half the time I don’t want to go out either, darling. But you know what? You go anyway. It’s the Taylor family motto: You get up, you dress up, you show up. And usually have a pretty good time by the end of it.” She threw the blue shirt at me, and I caught it. “And sometimes,” she added, in slightly hushed tones, like she was letting me in on a secret, “if you don’t feel great on the inside, just look great on the outside, and after a while you won’t be able to tell the difference.” She smiled at me. I guess I didn’t look totally convinced, because she shrugged and said, “But if you’re miserable, I promise you can leave early, ’kay? Now put that on and I’ll find you a skirt.”

I realized that resistance was futile and pulled off the jam-stained T-shirt as Bronwyn emerged from a pile of clothing with a denim skirt. She glanced up at me, and I tried to turn away—I was only wearing my bra—to put the blue shirt on. As I felt the softness of the material, I could tell that this was a really nice shirt. After spending the last few months in preshrunk cotton, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like, and I ran my fingers over the neckline, which was delicately scalloped.

“This too,” she said, and a bra whacked me in the head.

“Um,” I said, holding it up, “I think I’m okay….” This just seemed to be taking the clothes borrowing a little far.

“Don’t worry, it’s new,” she said. “I bought it for my roommate last year. I mean, the girl lived in her sports bra. Such a shame. But she told me she didn’t want it. And that I was being inappropriate. Can you believe it? Try it on.”

“Um,” I said, wishing I could just get dressed, “it’s really all right….”

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “If you’re going to dress, you have to do it all the way. I think that good underwear is so underrated.”

I turned the bra over in my hands. It, like the shirt, was obviously well made. It was a pale green with underwire and delicate lace, and definitely a lot sexier than any of the bras I currently had. “Well, thanks.”

“Of course. And,” she said, grabbing something else and throwing it at me, “here.” It was a matching pale green thong with the tags still attached.

“You bought your roommate underwear?” I asked.

“Well, it was a set!” she said, a little defensively. “You don’t want to separate a set. And you can just save it for special occasions, if you like.” She winked at me, and I tried not to blush. The first—and last—time anyone had seen me in my underwear, it certainly hadn’t been anything this impressive. But then, Michael hadn’t really seemed to care, so maybe it didn’t make a difference after all. “So you get changed and then we’ll see how it looks!” she said, grinning and clapping her hands together as she headed out the door.

When the door closed behind her, I got dressed, then had to sit down on the bed for a moment and try to wait out the wave of sadness that had just clobbered me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed hanging out with another girl—how much I’d missed Julia—until now. We always got ready for parties together. She was a genius with hair, and loved doing mine, since hers was so curly she said she could never do anything fun with it. Sometimes the getting ready part—in my room, music blasting, choosing clothing—was much more fun than the party itself. And then after the party, I’d drive her home and we’d recap the night.