The Summer of Jordi Perez (And the Best Burger in Los Angeles)(13)

“Be bolder, Abby,” Jordi tells me, and grabs my bag from me to shove it in next to hers. It feels like something metaphorically romantic is happening, seeing our lunch bags leaning against each other, but then I realize I am thinking—metaphor or no metaphor—about refrigerated fabric bags, and I let it go.

I let Jordi get coffee first so that I can copy how she mixes hers. It isn’t like a crush thing; it’s just that, even after Kaldi yesterday, pouring myself coffee seems like way too adult an activity for me. And maybe I don’t even have a crush; maybe Jordi’s just really cool. I mean, Jordi is really cool, so why can’t that be it? That’s probably it.

“Why are you staring at me?” Jordi asks.

Oh my god. “No reason.”

She smiles. “You’re staring at me for no reason?”

“I’m trying to learn how to mix coffee.”

Jordi takes another mug out of the cabinet and takes care of everything before passing it to me. It feels like such a warm gesture—not just literally—that I can’t help grinning at her and taking a huge sip.

“Oh my god!” It’s the second time this week that I spit out a mouthful of coffee. “It’s so—”

“Hot?”

“It’s really hot.”

Having a crush makes you an idiot.

“Jordi!” Maggie pops in from the front. “Grab the camera and come on out. We have a few new boxes arriving from the other designers we carry, and I’d love you to take a stab at photographing them.”

“If it’s okay …” Jordi reaches into her bag and takes out a smaller bag, which turns out to contain a very sleek camera. “I brought my own today.”

“Of course it’s okay! Come on.” Maggie smiles at me. “We’ll get you logged in on all our social media later, okay, Abby? For now, do you want to see the new shipments?”

Do I!

Maggie introduces us to the burgundy-haired employee whose name turns out to be Laine. Even as she’s slicing open giant boxes, her hair is in place, her blue floral dress doesn’t even seem to rumple, and she’s wearing four-inch heels.

“Abby, you can help take off the plastic bags and put everything on hangers,” Maggie tells me. “We might have to steam the wrinkles out of some of these dresses before you take any photos, Jordi. And feel free to use Laine—she models a lot of our looks for us.”

“‘Use’?” Laine laughs. “Thanks, Maggie. That’s flattering.”

I watch Jordi watch Laine through her camera, and I wonder what she’s thinking. And then I wonder what it’s like to be looked at through Jordi’s lens.

Today’s shipment is of two new styles of dresses—a fit and flare dress in blue polka dots and an A-line look in bright pink—and a variety of cardigans. Layering is very important to Los Angeles fashion. The city has a reputation for constant sunshine and warmth, but once the sun is down at night, LA remembers it’s secretly a desert under its newer identity. The cool night air doesn’t care what midday was like.

“Oh, I love this,” I say, even though I was trying to stay quiet and professional like Jordi. A bright fuchsia cardigan is too much for my resolve.

“Try it on!” Laine says.

“Yes,” Maggie says. “I’d love to see it on you.”

“What size?” Laine asks me, because the thing about thin people is they always seem to take sizing really casually. “Medium?”

The other thing about thin people is they always guess low for your size, as if that’s a kindness, or maybe they can’t comprehend a size beyond that. And I wish it didn’t bother me because, honestly, I don’t think there’s something wrong with how I look. And when I do sometimes hate what I see in the mirror, it’s never my body. Well, not the size of my body, at least. I worry my nose is weirdly pointy, and I hate how my hair looks without dye, and I find it disturbing that sometimes in photos my posture is just like Mom’s.

I worry about how other people see me, though.

“Probably not a medium,” I say, trying to riffle through the sweaters from the back because that’s usually where the largest sizes are. Cute brands that make fake retro clothes always tend to run small, so it’s a safe bet.

“That’s huge on you,” Maggie says as I pull on the biggest sweater. “You look homeless. I mean, chic, but homeless.”

“Maybe that’s what I was going for,” I say, which makes everyone laugh. Even Jordi.

Ugh, if I thought Jordi was just cool and not—oh, god—hot, I’d probably be able to stop noticing the curve of her upper arms. If I don’t want to have a crush on any more real people, why do I still have one?

The human condition is bullshit.

“Hold still.” Maggie pulls the cardigan off me and checks the tag before exchanging it for another in the pile. This one fits perfectly, even if it clashes disturbingly with my peppermint skirt.

Laine grabs a bright patterned scarf from a display and wraps it around my waist like a belt. I somehow manage to simultaneously clash even more but also look better. “Are you using Abby as a model?”

“No,” I say, and then to make sure everyone knows I know it’s a ridiculous thought, I laugh a bunch.

“Abby’s here to help us out with social media,” Maggie says, thank god. “But that’s a great idea.”