Capture

“And why are you trying to make me not-okay with this?”

“I’m not. I’m just…” Her face scrunched up with pensive dissatisfaction. “I’m just worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it. I don’t want you hiding in closets again.”

I tried to give Sam a reassuring smile, noting that this—her worry—was precisely why I hadn’t shared my plan with her. As far as she knew, Martin and I were platonic friends and I was over (or almost over) him. After what I’d put her through during the summer there was no reason to give her cause for anxiety now.

I turned my attention back to the mirror and frowned at my reflection.

“I can’t wear this dress.”

I liked the dress a lot in the store. It was a complicated dress. A beige silk sheath was beneath. Layered above was black, open-work lace crochet. The dress clung to my body—over my breasts, torso, and thighs—highlighting the smallness of my waist in comparison to my generous hips and bustline.

At the time, I also liked that it had a square cut neckline, and the fact it ended just below my knees. In my opinion, there weren’t enough square cut necklines. Large boobs always looked nice in a square cut and it showed my collarbone and neck to best advantage.

In truth, I’d bought it just for this dinner with Martin. I felt good in it, confident. But now I was questioning the choice. I worried it was too sexy. I didn’t want to come across as desperate or manipulative, not when I was planning to have a serious conversation with him about whether or not our future relationship was in the cards.

“Why? You look hot. It’s sexy. I’d do you.”

“Because it might be too sexy. And it’s always catching on things.” I moved my arm back and forth over the openwork lace and my bracelet caught. I stilled my movements so I wouldn’t pull the thread and ruin the dress.

“See. My bracelet is caught.”

“Of course, when you try to get your bracelet caught it’s going to get caught.” Sam rolled her eyes then crossed to me, helped me disentangle my arm, and removed the bracelet. “Just wear a different bracelet. Or no bracelet at all…” Then she added under her breath, “Less for him to take off when you both succumb to passion.”

I flattened my lips into an unhappy line and affixed a scowl to my face. “I want him to be sensible, not succumb to passion.”

Sam glanced up at me, her face said, bitch, please.

Then she said, “Bitch, please.”

“It’s true. I…I need to talk to him, get some things straight. And besides, like I said, he wants someone else.”

“Wanted someone else, past tense, after he sees you in this dress.”

I grew frustrated because Sam’s sentiment was the opposite of what I wanted. I wanted Martin to want me, want me. Not want me because of the dress. I wanted him to think of me as The One because despite everything, he was still my One.

Gah! This is so confusing.

“That’s it, I’m changing.”

“No! There isn’t time. He’ll be here any minute. It’s almost seven.”

Oh. Shoot.

I stiffened, glanced at the clock next to my bed. “Oh shoot!”

“What?”

“I’ll be right back.” I scoured the room for my black shoes. “I’m going to run down to the cleaners and get my tuxedo before they close.”

“What? Why?”

“I have that show tomorrow and I forgot to pick it up today. Shoot! They close in ten minutes and they’re closed all day tomorrow.”

I slipped on one of my flats, deciding the dress was just going to have to be okay.

“No! You can’t wear those shoes!” Sam lunged for me, ripping the second shoe out of my hand. “It’s a crime against fashion. I won’t let you do it.”

“Sam, I don’t have time for this.”

She turned hastily and marched out of the room—holding my shoe hostage—and returned seconds later carrying sexy, black silk stilettos. I was stuffing my black clutch with my wallet, Chapstick, and cell phone.

“Here. Wear these.” She held them out to me.

“I can’t wear those. They’re too…too—”

“It’s fine.” She knelt down and picked up one foot, then the other, elevating me by three inches as she slipped the shoes on. “See, they fit. They’re perfect.”

I didn’t check in the mirror. If I didn’t hurry, the cleaners would be closed and I would have to wear my dirty tux instead. It smelled like sweat and barbeque sauce. I tucked my clutch under my arm and spun for the door.

“You want me to go? He’ll be here any minute,” she asked.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just run across the street and do it really fast. I doubt he’s taking me someplace that requires reservations or anything.”

“I don’t mind,” she called after me as I sprinted down the hall to the front closet.

“I got it,” I called back.

“Okay, fine. I have to go drop a load anyway,” she announced, and I heard the bathroom door shut.

I smirked as I stepped into the closet and felt for my formal coat. Of course mine was at the back. The last time I saw it was when I unpacked it two days after we moved into the apartment. I wasn’t even sure it was in the closet.

I pulled the chord to turn on the hanging bulb above because the door had creaked shut behind me, cutting off my light source.

I shifted through the coats—all twenty plus of them—and reminded myself to ask Sam why she needed so many coats. There was one in each color of the rainbow plus four or five black ones that looked exactly the same.

“Weirdo,” I said to the coats, shaking my head.

Then a knock sounded at the door and I stiffened, my brain shouting, Oh barnacles! He’s here! I turned to abandon my coat search, my hands shaking a little, but found I couldn’t move. I twisted, frowning down at myself, searching for the source of my immobilization.

The crochet dress was caught in at least three places on three different coats, by the buttons at the cuffs.

Blast!

“Coming!” I heard Sam call, the bathroom door opening and the sound of flushing toilet following her.

“Wait, Sam!” I whispered, reaching for the door, then realized my mistake too late. She couldn’t hear me if I whispered behind a mostly closed door.

It was too late, because two seconds later I heard her open the front door and say, “Who the hell are you?”

I breathed a sigh of relief, glad it wasn’t Martin after all, then turned to untangle myself from Sam’s army of coats.

My relief was short-lived because, after a beat, Martin’s voice responded, “I’m Martin. And you are?”

Ooooohhhh mmmmmyyyyy Ggggoooooodddd!!!!

I froze.

“Ha-ha, come in. Parker just left to run an errand, she’ll be right back.”

“An errand?”

“Yeah, she had to grab her dry cleaning from across the street. It should take her, like, literally less than ten minutes. They close in ten minutes, they’re closed all day tomorrow, and she has a gig tomorrow night, so…you see how it is,” Sam explained as she shut the door.

“Where’s she playing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, some really fancy to-do. She has that tuxedo uniform for all the shows.”

“Does Kaitlyn work every day? Does she ever get a day off?”

“Starving artist has to make a living somehow, you know?”

“Hmm…” His answer sounded non-committal, but also rang with frustration, like he was irritated I had to work every day. But I wanted to work, to prove I could support myself as a musician. It was important to me.

And I didn’t know why I was obsessing about this since I was stuck in the closet and there was no way to exit gracefully. I glanced back at the coats holding me in place, deciding I was just going to call out and ask for help when Sam spoke again.

“Martin, are you still in love with Kaitlyn? Or are you just here to break her heart into a million tiny pieces again?”

I froze. My call for help stuck in my throat.

“Again?” His tone was dry. “I didn’t know that happened. When did that happen?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, hot stuff. I’m not impressed by your GQ good looks, your Scrooge McDuck money vault, or your genius brain.”

“Then what impresses you?” I knew he was smiling…with his sharp teeth.

“Honesty,” she said.

I could picture her face as she said it. Her eyebrows would be raised in challenge, like she didn’t expect him to be honest, like she was daring him.

I opened my mouth again, but then stopped, squeezed my eyes shut, then turned to the coats. I couldn’t call for help. It was too late. The only thing I could do was disentangle myself and try to sneak out undetected, praying Sam would lead him into the living room.

Instead I heard her press, “Why did you drop out of school? You didn’t even try to contact her. That was kind of an asshole thing to do.”

Then I heard Martin, who was by now, very close to the door, ask, “You want the truth?”

“No, Martin. Lie to me. I love it when boys do that.” Sam’s tone was flat and would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been caught in the closet by her coats.