You (You #1)(63)

“Beck.”

“What?”

“Look, I don’t know shit about girls’ clothes, but those pants that you were trying to return, they look good.”

“They don’t look good on me.”

“Can I see?”

You fight a smile but you lose. “Here?”

“Yeah,” I say and you’re walking more slowly now and there’s nobody monitoring the dressing room because it really is Christmas and Santa knows I’m a good boy. We walk down the corridor of dressing rooms toward the handicap one on the end. You don’t tell me why you’re pushing that door open and you don’t invite me into the room but I follow. I sit down on the bench and you stand in front of the three-panel mirror. You pull the pants out of your bag and what is wrong with you that you’re still thinking about pants?

You sigh. “See, what I really want are jeggings.”

But what you really need is an orgasm and I tell you to try them on. You are blushing, naughty and a door slams and someone’s muttering get a room and we did get a room, we have this room and your furry boots are off and you’re unzipping your jeans and they’re so snug that when you pull them down your panties start to go with them.

“Come here.”

“Joe. Shh.”

I motion for you to come here. Because you are shy at heart, you pull your pants up and even start to zip them as you walk over to me. I look up at you and you look down on me and you start to crouch down and reach for my belt buckle but no. I grab your hand, firm.

“Stand up.”

You do. And when I start to unzip your pants you step closer and wiggle and help me get you out of those pants and I get you all the way out of them and throw them at the mirror and finally, at long last, in the Young Sluts Department of Macy’s in Herald Square, Christmas comes early. I taste you. I lick you. And when you cum you cum at the top of your lungs.

I love shopping.

Sex clears the mind and the orgasm agrees with you. We leave the dressing room and you decide to give the pants you were trying to return to your mother—I knew we were never getting any earmuffs. You hold my hand hard and tight and we ride the escalator four flights back down and you do not want to browse anymore. The music softens as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” begins, my favorite sad holiday song. You ask me what I’m doing for the holiday, and I tell you that I’m working, of course, and you tell me that you’re going to have to get a job. You lead me into men’s hats and you pick up a red and green wool monstrosity. I shake you off.

“Maybe I can work here.” You smile. “You could come visit me on my breaks.”

“Do you really need a job?”

Instead of answering me, you pick up a red hunting cap like the one Caulfield wore in The Catcher in the Rye and you look up at me. “Please? It’s pretty much my favorite book of all time.”

I can’t say no and I love you for not mentioning the book by name. I put the hat on and you bite your lip. “Adorable.”

It’s hard to get you to take me seriously while wearing this ridiculous hat but I try. “Seriously, Beck, do you need a job?”

“You are too hot.” You squeal and you take out your phone. “One picture, Joe. You have to let me get that for you.”

“I better not see that on Facebook.”

“You’re not on Facebook, silly,” you say. “Smile.”

You take my picture and I give you the hat and you dig in your bag for your credit card. “Beck,” I say. “You don’t need to buy me a hat I’m never gonna wear. Seriously. Do you need a job?”

“I know I don’t need to buy it,” you say. “I want to.”

It’s Christmas so I let you buy me the cap and I say I’ll only wear it on one condition.

“Anything,” you say and you have gorgeous tunnel vision.

“Tell me you’ll take a job at the bookshop.”

“Yes!” You cheer and you throw your arms around me, I give you everything you want, everything you need, and you kiss my neck so softly, my lips, tenderly. You murmur my name—Joe—and everyone walking by probably thinks we just got engaged.

LATER in the day, Ethan shows up for an interview. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the job has been taken. He looks like a gerbil and he’s friendly as a puppy and he’d be better off in an animal shelter than a bookstore. He talks a lot and I check your e-mail and it’s clear to me that you called Peach and told her about our shopping excursion and your new job. She writes:

Beckalicious, I hope you’re not beating yourself up after the Target romp. Remember: Doing something trashy does not make you trashy. You’re only human, little one! Just please be tender with him, probably not the best idea to work together. Maybe better to work on campus? Anywho, be well, Peach.

The e-mail from Peach kills my Macy’s buzz. What if you back out on me? What if we work together and we don’t get along? What if you need to have #girlsnight on your nights off and I never get to go shopping with you again? Ethan would never bail on me; he brought three copies of his résumé. “You seem awfully busy, Joe,” he says, perky. “If you want me to go I can come back in a little while! My day’s clear!”

I buy time. I don’t know if I can deal with his energy. “What are your five favorite books?”