Page 53 of Love Unspoken

She has no fashion sense.

I looked at my clothes and grimaced. Everything was black. Long and black, covering my whole body. I didn't have one sexy outfit.

I texted Darren: I know you're dying. But what should I wear?

Darren: I'm circling the drain, babe. Wear the dress I bought you.

Me: FUCK NO!

Darren: Or you can wear your black yoga pants. Those be homey, Miss Chicken!

Me: I probably don't even fit that dress.

Darren: Don't insult my training, Sparky. You're in shape.

Last Christmas Darren had bought me a dress that had a designer label on it. It was not black. It was also still wrapped in the bag it came in and was hanging way back in my little closet. I pulled it out, and I wondered if I'd still fit regardless of Darren's training. The past year had been tough. I hadn't been eating properly or sleeping all that well. The first six months after my father died, I just went to work, went to the Krav Maga Institute, babysat Magnus, and stayed home in sad pajamas indiscriminately using my DoorDash app.

I pulled the dress out and put it on the bed. I unzipped it and grimaced. It was a maxi dress with a slim skirt, a fitted bodice, and two bows on the shoulder to hold it in place. It was red. Like fire engines, the color of the sole of expensive shoes, slutty porn star lips red.

It was almost too summery I thought critically. I couldn't wear that in December in Boston.

I texted Darren about it, and he replied: You keep your apartment warm, and it's not like you're going out wearing it.

I had some burns on my hands, but they had mostly disappeared unless you looked carefully. They had not required skin grafts, and the scarring had been minimal; the same for my arms, which allowed me to leave them bare. It was my lower back and legs that were no-show areas. The truth was that I'd been lucky because I hadn't ruptured a spleen or had internal bleeding. I had had first, second, and even third-degree burns across my body. There had been a scar on the side of my neck, but that had mostly faded. The one on my face was also not too bad. This was one of the few advantages of my African heritage—my melanin could hide the many sins of my skin.

I put the dress on with shaking hands and looked at myself in the mirror. It was like seeing a stranger.

I took a photo and sent it to Darren.

Darren: Reggie says he'll do you. Nancy says she'll do you, too.

I chuckled. Nancy was with Reggie, a former linebacker's very sexy wife. I wrote back: What's Nancy doing there?

Darren: She had COVID last month, so she thinks she's the shit. She gets it again; she's gonna kill Reggie.

Me: Amias will think I dressed up for him.

Darren: No shit! Really?

Me: Are you being sarcastic?

Darren: Yeah, Sparky.

Me: I'm wearing yoga pants. This is too hard.

Darren: You wear your skanky pants, girl; you can find a new trainer.

I sent him a finger emoji and set my phone down.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

I decided to go all out. I blow dried my hair. I decided I wouldn't wear any special makeup. Just mascara and lip-gloss like I always did. And maybe a little concealer to hide the dark circles, and that acne scar from like a month ago and….

I put on black ballet flats and decided not to look in the mirror anymore so as to not hyperventilate. In any case, as a rule, I only had mirrors that I could look into waist up. I didn't need to see my legs. No one needed to see my legs.

TWENTY

AMIAS