Dear Life(50)

“Hello?” Two syllables. That’s all it takes. His deep voice instantly starts to calm me.

“Hey, want to get a drink?” I anxiously ask.

“I’m already ahead of you. Come to my place, I have a bottle of Jack open and currently being consumed.”

He doesn’t need to ask twice.





DAISY


“Daisy?” Carter asks, standing from the booth.

I fidget in place, not quite feeling right in my skin just yet. My neck feels exposed, as if I’m not even wearing a shirt, my legs, although comfortable, can’t comprehend the lack of fabric not flowing around them, and my feet, well, they are confused as to why they’re wrapped up in leather.

Thanks to my dad’s little “I’m sorry I was a bad dad fund” I was able to completely update my wardrobe, besides pajamas. Amanda and Hollyn tried to convince me to get some sleek and silky PJs but I wasn’t having it. No one sees me when I go to bed, so I told them I was sticking with my I love Lucy flannels. But everything, all the way down to my undergarments, has been replaced.

Thongs, oye! They just sit right up in there, don’t they? And what’s the point of wearing them with jeans? I told Amanda and Hollyn you can’t see panty lines through jeans but they didn’t care. All granny panties will be removed from my drawer. I don’t see anything wrong with them. They are sensible undergarments. According to the girls, they are not sensible for a twenty-one-year-old.

Also, interesting fact, vests are in but not the kind of vests I was wearing. I got a couple of cute, modern vests I’m allowed to wear with boyfriend Ts, but only if I tuck the front part of my shirt into my jeans that’s paired with a belt and a long necklace. Honestly, my head is swimming with fashion advice. I told the girls they’re going to have to take pictures of outfits for me until I get the hang of it all.

Once we were done spending a pretty penny, getting alterations for our dresses, and indulging in an Orange Julius—what a treat—we headed home, but for me, I wasn’t done. I was riding a high of becoming a new woman on the outside and there was one person I really wanted to share it with. You would think it would be Gram but when I went into my phone to dial her, I ended up calling Carter.

At first I was confident in my decision to call him, but once I started asking him to hang out, nerves took over and I tried to backtrack so I didn’t have to face rejection. Lucky for me, he said yes.

The entire taxi ride over to Prohibition was full of bouncy knees and sightseeing. It wasn’t until I was paying the cabbie and getting out of the car that I realize just how nervous I was.

This entire outfit is new to me. I might think I look nice, but then again, I thought I looked nice in my watering-can crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered polo shirt peeking out of the neckline. Who’s the judge of what looks good?

Will Carter like it? Do I even care if he likes it?

I hate to admit it, but I do care.

He’s a handsome man, with his dark, almost sinister eyes and mysterious vibe. For once in my life, it would be nice for a man like him to look at me differently. Not like a friend or an acquaintance, but like a beautiful woman he can’t resist.

The funny thing is, I don’t need him to validate if I’m pretty or not. I can look in the mirror and know I’m pretty, inside and out. I just want to be appreciated on every level. I want to be swept off my feet. I want a man to not be able to take his eyes off me.

Clearing his throat, Carter looks me up and down and runs his hand through his hair. “I, uh, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Pulling on the hem of my jacket, I shyly say, “Yeah, I did a little shopping today.”

His jaw ticks as he takes me in one more time. Instead of complimenting me, like I thought he would, he clears his throat again and tells me to take a seat. His dismissal of my appearance breaks my heart.

“I’m getting a beer.” His head is buried in his menu, so I can barely hear him.

“A beer?” I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. He could have said he’s getting the deer, or he’s becoming queer, or he likes their schmear. What else rhymes with beer? Year, tear, veer, adhere. Maybe he’s switching gears or he wants to do a Bronx cheer. Or his friend is Buzz Lightyear.

Being friend’s with Buzz Lightyear, now that is something I would be interested in talking about.

“Why are you giggling?” he asks, annoyed, from over his menu.

“Do you know Buzz Lightyear?” I ask, a little too giddy.

His eyebrow questions me. Lowering his menu, he assesses my features, his face growing harder with each once-over. Uh oh, why do I feel like I’m about to get in trouble? Leaning forward, with a menacing look, he asks, “Are you high?”

High? Is he insane? “I beg your pardon.”

“Marijuana, did you smoke some?”

“No! And I’m insulted you would even ask. I don’t do drugs.”

Sitting back in his seat, he says, “Marijuana is hardly a drug, Snowflake.”

“Well, it’s a drug to me, and no, I haven’t smoked any. Why would you ask that?”

“Why would you ask if I know Buzz Lightyear?”

“Because you said beer.”

The look on his face is priceless. “I’m not following.”

“It was a rabbit trail in my head. I don’t think you want to know.”