Unmissing(29)

An employee in a white vest saunters up to us, and Merritt wastes no time telling her she’d like a three-ounce bottle of the eau de parfum.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say—after she slides her glossy black credit card across the counter and the woman carries it off to the register.

Merritt waves it away, brows knitting. “Don’t be silly. This is my treat. After everything you’ve been through—and what you came home to—you have my full sympathies. I just want to help you any way I can. Figured a little shopping and a light lunch might help us get to know each other better, too. Our situation is . . . unique. But I know we can navigate it together.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s attempting to buy my friendship. Or my loyalty. Or my sympathy. Something. She’s definitely buying more than a fragrance. And it’s sad, if I think about it too much—the fact that her only power is wielded from a tiny plastic rectangle.

The associate returns with my perfume wrapped in a pink bag and secured with a white satin ribbon. She hands it to Merritt first, who shakes her head and points to me. The woman’s sweet expression sours when she takes me in—and I can’t blame her. I don’t have the radiant glow of a woman who gets bimonthly facials. My hair is thin and lifeless, the cut crooked (bless Delphine’s heart). There isn’t a speck of makeup on my face. And I’m wearing another one of Amber’s outfits, which I deduced are at least fifteen years past their prime after finding a pair of black gaucho pants in the mix this morning. I was tempted to wear them for sheer comfort, but I opted for some low-slung flare jeans and a burgundy velour hoodie with a J on the zipper and Juicy spelled out across the back.

“Should we check out shoes next?” Merritt points to the back of the shop, where five wall racks display an assortment of footwear—most of them suited for cooler weather. None of them as practical as tennis shoes.

She waddles—albeit elegantly, if that’s possible—to the shoe area, browsing for a second before selecting a pair of black leather boots. In any other store, I’d assume they were meant for hiking. But here I get the impression these are meant to be a fashion statement.

“Maybe something more every day?” I reach for a canvas TOMS shoe in a shade of bleeding-heart red. While the color won’t go with much, they’ll stay cleaner than these white Keds I found in the donation bin of a shelter five towns over.

Her manicured brows rise as she inspects them without touching. And then she offers a polite, “Mm-hmm. Yeah. Those could be nice.”

She doesn’t like them.

Ordinarily it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t like them, but she’s the one throwing down the plastic.

“I’m just a tennis shoes kinda girl.” I try to lighten the tone and add a shoulder shrug. “Boots are great, they can just get kind of heavy for every day.”

“But do you like them?” She holds up the black boot, and I catch a glimpse of the $200 price tag dangling from the tongue.

“Yeah, they’re nice.” I mentally calculate how many TOMS a girl could buy with two hundred bucks while I pretend the price doesn’t floor me.

“Why don’t we do both?” She takes the canvas shoe from my hand and raises it over her head, flagging the attention of a bored-looking associate by the register. “Could we try these on?”

“Size six,” I say.

“In a size six,” she calls over the chill music pumping through the speakers.

The associate nods, disappearing into a back room and returning with two boxes stuffed with tissue paper and pantyhose socks. I take a seat and try them on while Merritt watches.

“Walk around and make sure they’re comfortable.” She points, watching me. Such a mom. Not that I know what that’s like. My mom was always bringing home hand-me-downs from various coworkers when I was younger. I’m not sure we ever set foot in an actual store together. “They good? Think they’ll work?”

I slide the second pair off and set them carefully in the box. “Are you sure you want to get these? You just bought me perfume . . .”

“Lydia.” She splays a hand across her décolletage, over the diamond pendant hanging down to her cleavage. Eyes glistening, she says, “It would be an honor and a privilege to help you get back on your feet.”

I can’t do emotions. Or emotional people. I had to tamp that shit down early on, or The Monster would feed off it. It was chum to a shark. I didn’t want to give him more than I had to.

“Stop. Come on. Don’t cry.” I wave my hand, frantic, as if it could make the tears dissipate before they have a chance to slide down her creamy pink cheeks and ruin her flawless makeup. If we were true friends, maybe I’d hug her—or at the very least, rub her arm out of comfort. “There’s nothing sad about this. This is awesome. I love these shoes. Love the perfume. And I’m enjoying my time with you.”

I add the last line as a bonus, figuring a little white lie won’t hurt her. If things were different, maybe I would enjoy my time with her. Guess we’ll never know.

Within seconds, she fans her eyes, manages a laugh, and composes herself. This can’t be easy for her—my return to Luca’s life. I don’t want to make this harder for her than it already is. None of this is her fault.

“What about a coat? Do you need a winter coat? I know you have a light jacket, but it gets cold out here sometimes . . .” She switches gears, scanning the various racks of jeans, tops, and sweaters until she settles on a small selection of seasonal gear. Puffy coats, mostly. The kind meant to make you look like an expensive marshmallow on the ski slopes.