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June’s not much better. Her jeans have dirt on them from god knows what. Her shirt is wrinkled and there’s a small tear near the hem that I don’t remember seeing before.
“We’re not dressed for that,” I say.
She looks down at herself, then at me, and her face falls. “Oh. Right.”
I spot it half a block up — Second Chances, the sign says in curling letters. A thrift store wedged between a hardware store and a shop with a bunch of handmade candles in the window.
“There,” I say, pointing. “We can get something better.”
Her smile returns. “Yeah? We’re going shopping?”
“Yeah.”
I park on the street, and we walk to the store together. The bells above the door jingle when we enter, and the smell hits immediately — that thrift store combination of mothballs, old fabric softener, and the ghost of other people’s lives. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, turning everything slightly yellow.
Behind the counter sits a teenage girl with purple hair and earbuds in, hunched over her phone. She doesn’t look up when we enter. Her thumbs move across the screen in rapid-fire taps, and I can see the glow of some game reflected in her eyes.
June moves toward the women‘s section and I head toward the men’s racks.
I flip through button-downs that are mostly too small or too large or patterned in ways that suggest their previous owners had bullshit taste. Eventually, I find a dark blue one that might work, and some charcoal slacks that look like they’ll fit. I grab a few pairs of jeans too, some plain t-shirts. Practical things. Things we’ll need if we’re staying mobile.
When I look over at June, she’s holding up a dress. Casual, nothing fancy. Navy blue with small white flowers scattered across it. Something you’d wear to Sunday brunch or a summer picnic. She’s examining it with her head tilted, considering.
“That one,” I say, crossing to her.
She looks up. “You think?”
There’s no question. She’ll look fucking gorgeous in it.
“Try it on.”
The changing rooms are at the back, just a narrow hallway with three doors, each with a flimsy latch and a gap at the bottom wide enough to see feet. I duck into the first one and change quickly. The slacks fit well enough. The shirt is slightly tight in the shoulders, but looks decent when I tuck it in. I leave the casual clothes folded on the bench.
When I step out, June’s still in her changing room. I lean against the wall outside and wait. The employee at the front hasn‘t moved, still absorbed in whatever game she’s playing. Her headphones are the over-ear kind, probably noise-canceling.
June’s door opens.
The dress fits her as if it was made for her. It hits just above her knees, shows her collarbones, makes her waist look small and her legs look long. She’s let her hair down, and it falls in waves past her shoulders. She’s barefoot on the dingy carpet, and somehow that makes it better; this beautiful woman in a sundress standing in a shitty thrift store changing room like she’s walked out of a different life.
“Well?” she says, and there’s uncertainty in her voice. Like she needs my approval.
Not for this, she doesn’t.
“You’re stunning,” I say, and I mean it. “Just fucking stunning.”
Her smile breaks across her face like a sunrise. Wide and genuine and reaching her eyes.
I cross to her in two steps. Cup her face in my hands. Her skin is warm under my palms, and I can feel her pulse jumping in her throat.
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too.”
I kiss her. Soft at first, just lips against lips, tasting the coffee she drank this morning and something else that’s just her. She makes a small sound and her hands come up to my chest, fingers spreading across the fabric of my new shirt.
The kiss deepens.
My tongue slides against hers, and she opens for me, tilting her head to give me better access. I walk her backward until her spine hits the changing room doorframe, and she gasps into my mouth.
