Page 27 of A Perfect Fit

We work in silence for the next few minutes, setting up the clothes rack and brushing any dust away from the dropped clothes.

“You know, I feel like this is a new side of you I’m seeing today,” Isabelle suddenly says.

I place a white blouse back on its hanger. “There are many sides of me you haven’t yet seen.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to see the whole package—” She stops talking and grunts, “Forget it.”

A smug smile tugs at my lips, and I’m clinging on to what she just said like a gold mine. “You think I’m a whole package?”

“That’s definitely not what I meant,” she says, her hand movements faster and more aggressive as she lines up a few dresses on the clothes rack.

“Don’t take out all your frustration on those poor clothes.”

“Should I take out my frustration on you then?” Her voice is honey sweet as she tilts her head to glare at me.

I don’t break eye contact. “Sure. Go ahead and release all that frustration in your body.”

Isabelle scoffs. “On second thought, I’m good.”

“Come on,” I say. “Don’t back down now. Let’s see if it’s more effective than hitting a punching bag with a picture of my face on it.”

Isabelle’s face reddens, and she tosses a shirt at my face. I catch it in time and let out a laugh, eliciting another grunt from her.

Maybe I’ve always secretly enjoyed messing with her more than I think. Maybe I’ve always liked seeing her flushed expression or the way she scowls each time I get a rise out of her. Maybe I’ve always enjoyed the back-and-forth with her.

We’re adults now, yet it feels like only yesterday when we were passing each other in the hallways back in high school, shooting taunting glares and firing insults at one another. Competing against each other and keeping a tally of the other person’s wins and losses.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like eight years have passed at all.

High school. Speaking of which, there’s something I’ve been curious about.

“So, are you going to the Summerhurst High reunion?” I ask.

Isabelle studies me carefully. “Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Maybe we can have another impromptu debate at the reunion,” I say. “Maybe you can tell me why you think I’m a jackass and we can debate that out.”

Isabelle smooths a yellow dress. “A three-hour reunion isn’t enough time for that.”

“Well, I have plenty of time for a round two.”

Isabelle opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, a dusty pink paints her cheeks.

I place the last piece of clothing back on its hanger before staring her right in the eyes. “See you at the reunion. Or maybe earlier. Who knows?”

Not giving her the chance to respond, I head off.

As I walk away, realization sweeps through me that what was supposed to be a simple one-minute conversation somehow turned into a fifteen-minute encounter.

And maybe, I didn’t mind that much either.

Chapter Nine

JACKSON