Delaney

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“And you didn’t touch it?”

Penny stares at me through narrowed eyes, asking me once more the question that has evidently bedeviled her since we met at Blue Suede a few minutes ago in this hastily called shoe-shopping session with my girls. Minus one—Nicole isn’t here.

“No, I didn’t touch it,” I say, emphasizing the last syllable as I turn away to scan the white cubes in this shoe boutique on Columbus Avenue.

I eye some tan suede pumps with a silver stripe along the side. Pretty, but too monotone for a date night. I spot a pair of black leather Mary Janes with two straps over the instep. Promising.

I arch an eyebrow at Penny and point at the shoes. “Too sassy or just right?”

“Try them on. They have totes potential.”

My eyes land on a pair of red beauties next—fire-engine-red peep-toes with a sling back and a cardboard placard that says “Made in the USA.”

I crane my neck heavenward. “Dear God, please let these red shoes come in my size, feel like soft pillows, and make me look like a sexy angel.”

Because I love made in the USA products. For many reasons. Not only am I a big fan of making goods right here in the homeland, but also because that means less waste, less transport and shipping. A total win-win.

That is, if the shoe fits. And the shoe rarely ever fits my boats.

Penny grabs both pairs as a wispy-thin saleswoman floats over to us.

“I’m Jane. May I help you?”

Penny smiles and hands her the shoes. “Size ten, please.”

What can I say? I have huge feet, and I have no clue how it happened. I don’t have the excuse of being very tall. I’m simply a five-seven gal with size-ten flippers.

“Let me see what I can find,” Jane says, flashing a perfect grin that shows off straight white teeth. She heads to that magical land in the back of shoe boutiques. Seriously, how is it possible for any shoe store to house as many pairs as they need unless there’s an enchanted lair in the back or a portal to another dimension full of boxes of shoes?

Penny grabs my arm and tugs me into a corner beside a display of fuck-me ankle boots. “Ooh, touch these,” she says, her hand darting out to stroke a dove gray pair.

I join her and moan softly. “Like velvet.”

“See my point? You couldn’t resist touching the shoes.”

I laugh. “You set a shoe trap.”

“So explain to me how it worked this morning. I want to understand how it went down.”

“I’ve already told you. He showed up in my spa this morning, then stripped down to nothing but a smile and asked me out.”

“Totally clear on that part.” She narrows her brown eyes. “Now, tell me the part about how you somehow developed Superwoman-esque resistance and refrained from either, one, dropping down to your knees and taking him in your mouth, or two, at the very least, stroking his free-range dick.”

I laugh as I check out a pair of black leather boots with a sleek zipper up the back. “I don’t think giving a blow job at my place of work is in the best practices handbook for small business owners in Manhattan.”

She huffs. “Fine. But what about my second point? You didn’t want to wrap a hand around it? Just to test it? I’m not saying you should have done any handiwork. But, dear Lord, it was pointing at you.”

“Amazing how I was able to control all my baser instincts.”

“How? I’m completely serious. Not because I think you’re some crazy perv”—her voice softens—“but because I know how much you liked him. How attracted you were to him. And for him to just get into his birthday suit for you . . .” Penny’s voice trails off, and she blows out a long stream of air like she’s mystified.

“I was wildly attracted to him, and look, I’m not going to lie—I still am.” It feels good to admit the truth. “But I needed time to process his nudity.”

“Have you processed it now?”

I smile. “Shoe shopping helps me process everything.”

Because . . . shoes.

“Fair enough.” Penny grabs the black zippered boots. “I saw you staring at these. Let’s try them on your flipper-feet.”

“I love that you have no problem mocking my clodhoppers.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, making sure I see her little bitty ears. “You’ve seen my ears right?”

I laugh. “They’re cute.”

She shakes her head. “They’re tiny. They’re like mouse ears. One of the many reasons I grew my hair out years ago. Anyway, I want you to know that once we finish this emergency shopping session, I’m going to order you a gold medal trophy for resistance.”

“I look forward to displaying it proudly on my shelf.” I wag my finger at her. “But don’t forget—I did touch his chest and his abs.”

“Oh, that’s true. I’ll make it a silver medal.”

We wander to a plush, blue suede couch, as the saleswoman returns from the enchanted storage room, her arms laden with boxes of shoes.

“Here you go,” she says brightly, handing me the red shoes and the black Mary Janes. “I brought you the red peep toes in a ten, and the Mary Janes in a nine and a half because we don’t have them in a ten.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though her effort is futile. Sales women always think a nine and a half is the same as a ten. But I have never jammed my hooves into anything less than a full and proper ten. It’s a myth that women with petite feet cling to—the mistaken notion that one half size smaller will fit just fine. But we big-footed ladies know that single digit sizes will never fit our German-shepherd-puppy paws.

Penny hands Jane the black boots. “And we saw these beauties and couldn’t resist. Can we try these in a ten, please?”

Jane’s expression turns crestfallen, placing a hand on her heart. “Oh, I’m so sorry. They only go to nine.”

I sigh. The curse of banana boats.

Penny’s eyes light up. In a stage whisper, she says to Jane, “Then just bring them back in a seven.”

I fix her with a searing stare. “You are the luckiest bitch in the world.”

She blows on her fingernails as the saleswoman takes off once more. “I’d still trade you my ears for your feet.”

I run my finger over the shell of her ear. “Stop it. Your ears are perfect.”

She taps her toe to mine. “So are your feet.”

“Fine. We’re both awesome.”

“We absolutely are,” Penny adds.

I open the box of red shoes and tug the silica gel packs and the stuffing from the left one. “But seriously, though. What do you think? And I don’t mean about the physical stuff. Obviously we’ve established the connection is still there. What do you make of the whole effort he’s gone to?”

Penny inhales and downshifts to a more serious tone. “It’s kind of like a grand gesture. Only he had to do it at the start, not at the end.” She sets her hand on my arm. “And I do love that he’s not just making lip service about wanting to see you again. He sent you a salad. Your favorite salad at that. He sent you lilacs. And he sent you himself, in all his naked glory.”

I scrunch my forehead. “So the lilacs and salad and nudity are all on the same level?”

Penny scoffs. “No. The flowers and the salad—let’s be honest, those are a total swoon. But him risking being naked in public for you.” She fans herself. “That’s the big gesture.” She drops her voice. “I mean, it was big, right?”

I pretend to zip my lips. Then I nod the answer. Yes.

“That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not only a big gesture. It’s a you-can’t-ignore-me gesture. The man clearly wanted you to take him seriously, as in pay-attention-to-me-because-I’m-not-going-away.”

“He was kind of hard to ignore,” I say with a waggle of my eyebrows.

Penny holds up a hand, and we smack palms.

She clears her throat. “But seriously, I do think he’s making a big play for you. And I’m impressed. But don’t tell Nicole I’ve become head cheerleader or she’ll have my neck.” She scans the shop like Nicole might be listening, picking up a pair of brown leather pumps and searching underneath them. “Just making sure she didn’t bug this shop.”

I crack up. “Nicole knows what happened. I did invite both of you here today. She’s on deadline, though, writing a column about how to deal with bizarre sexual proposals, so she’s occupied thinking up tips for turning down pegging, toe-sucking, or hot sauce fetishes.”

An eyebrow rises. “Hot sauce fetish? Is that a thing?”

I nod. “There’s a fetish for everything. However, Nicole still managed to berate me for a full minute.” I shudder as I recall the full weight of Nicole’s vexation. I’d texted her, and moments later she called and shouted “You can’t be serious?” over the line. Even when I gave her the CliffNotes, she warned me to be careful. Then she made me tell her all about my date with Trevor and proceeded to remind me why he’s a great catch.

“He is a great catch. I’ve no doubt about that,” I’d told her.

“And he said he had a wonderful time with you, so please keep him on the front burner.”

“I will,” I promised before she jumped off to bang out more words.

But now the question on the front burner in my mind is how to do drinks with Tyler. I meet Penny’s eyes as I drop the tissue from the right shoe into the box. “Can you give me some advice?”

“Anything.”

“How do I know if I can trust him again? It’s only drinks, but what should I be on the lookout for? I feel like understanding men has eluded me in the last few years. My dating experience is woeful. But you’re back with Gabriel. How were you able to let go of the past?”

Penny sighs. “We didn’t have the sort of past you guys did. But even so, the way I put it behind us was to learn who he is today. What made him tick. How he was the same. How he was different. When you see Tyler, don’t just get caught up in a swirl of reminiscence. Learn about the man he’s become. See if that man is someone you want to spend time with.”

That feels way more intense than I’m ready for. I backpedal from the idea, kicking off my work flip-flops. “I’m only going out for drinks.”

Penny smirks and reins in a laugh. She holds it in so hard, it’s as if her face is about to burst.

“You don’t believe me?” I ask defensively as I slide my bare feet into the red sling-backs.

Penny erupts in laughter as the saleswoman returns with boots. “Say. That. Again,” Penny says in between gasping breaths.

“I’m only going out for drinks,” I mutter.

The rail-thin saleswoman tries to straighten out a smile, and Penny points at her. “Even Blue Suede Jane doesn’t believe it’s just drinks.”

I cock my head, eyeing one then the other. “Seriously, ladies? Both of you?”

Jane laughs sweetly and gestures to my feet as I stand up in the red heels. “Well, you are shopping for shoes. I can’t think of a bigger sign that something isn’t just drinks. A new pair of shoes means you really like a guy.”

We all let our eyes drift down to my toes. Jane gasps first, Penny clasps her hand on her mouth, and I beam at the heavenly vision before me.

The shoes are divine.

In fact, these red peep-toes are perfect for a date with a man who went to such lengths just to earn the right to drinks.

Just drinks.

Just drinks.

Just drinks.

That mantra echoes in my head as I walk to the bar, listening to a podcast on local politics. The poli-sci major in me can’t resist, and I like to be informed on the issues facing my city. But I have a harder time focusing on the words of the hosts because my heart beats faster and my skin prickles as memories fight their way to the front of my brain.

Memories I haven’t let myself linger on in ages.

At Brown, Tyler and I were a team, a pack of two, fueled by our shared desire to learn everything. We studied together, quizzing each other for our tests on modern United States history or on twentieth-century literature. We hunted for interesting lectures from guest speakers on the hottest issues of the day. We walked to and from classes together, and spent many nights in the library, hunched over our laptops.

When it came to our backgrounds, we were as different as they come. I didn’t grow up with much, and my dad took off when I was fourteen and my little brother, Caleb, was twelve. I can’t really overstate how much that sucked.

But I dealt with it and moved on, and that’s why I’m in a better spot now to be able to track him down.

At the time, though, he left us with nothing. I went to public high school outside of Tampa and busted my butt in my classes so I could go to a good school. Hard work paid off, and I nabbed a scholarship to Brown. Tyler came from money and a happy home in Los Angeles, growing up with his brother and their two parents, who ran a successful business together.

His parents had already finished saving for his full education by the time he was five.

Our drive, though, was parallel, along with our love of learning. We spent many late nights at the college snack bar, debating anything and everything. We’d share an ice cream with sprinkles, and we’d talk, then head back to my dorm, or his. Once the door closed, all the talk would vanish, and we’d find ourselves engaged in the most favorite collegiate activity of all.

Getting horizontal.

The second the clothes came undone the aspiring lawyers disappeared, and we became those people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Skin to skin, lips to lips, we came together, and I’d never felt so close to anyone in my life. It was a perfect union of respect, desire, and love.

It was everything I’d never felt in my home, but wanted in my life.

Sometimes on weekends, we went on long drives. He had a black BMW, and during the fall, we’d get claustrophobic and take off, driving through the tree-lined neighborhoods in Providence, then beyond. We escaped a few towns over, finding hills, and hidden places, and then we’d pull over.

We got to know our way around the front and back seats of his Beemer quite well. Every time he touched me, I felt cherished. Whether in the car, the shower, the dorm, the library, the bed, or the car, he adored me.

He fought for a chance with me, and then once we were together, I was never second best. I was his equal, and that made me love him even more.

That’s what hurt so much when he broke up with me. Not the end to our plans, not his tactless and calloused word choices, not even what went down at the debate.

What hurt the most was that I’d lost him.

When I reach the bar, I remember Penny’s words and focus on the here and now.

Today.

Tonight.

Not the past.