Look Both Ways(57)

“Good. I know it’s unfair, but I want you all to myself.” She sighs and puts her head down on my chest. “Loving two people at once is so confusing.”

I suddenly feel like I’ve downed fifteen shots of espresso. “Wait,” I say. “You love me?”

“Of course I do. Don’t you know that?”

She looks up at me with those pretty sunflower eyes, and it becomes very easy to forget all about Carlos. Guys I’ve dated have told me they loved me before, and I’ve said it back; Jason and I started saying it after a couple of months. I thought I was telling the truth, but the way I feel right now is so different that it makes me want to call him and take it back.

“I love you, too,” I say, and the smile that breaks across her face could power a city block.



“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad,” I say.

“And you still want to do this?” She cups my cheek in her hand and kisses me, soft and sweet.

“Yes,” I whisper against her mouth.

“Good. I was so afraid that I’d screwed things up and lost you.”

I know I shouldn’t let everything I feel fade away. We’ll have to talk about Carlos eventually. But no relationship is perfect, and my girlfriend loves too many people seems like something I should be able to handle. Dating Zoe is the one thing I’m doing right this summer, and I’m not willing to give it up over this.

So I pull her closer and say, “You didn’t lose me. You can have both of us.”



We stay in bed until the shadows start to lengthen, holding on to each other and murmuring silly, pointless things that feel important because they’re interspersed with “I love you”s. When Zoe’s alarm goes off at seven-thirty, she buries her face in my shoulder and groans. “I have a stupid costume fitting. I don’t want to let go of you.”

I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

“Will you come with me?”

I’ll probably be in everyone’s way, but Zoe finally wants me near her again, and I don’t want to let go, either. “Sure,” I say.



She holds my hand all the way to the shop. When we get there, she changes into a flouncy yellow dress and stands in front of a three-way mirror while a gray-haired woman pins her hem. There are only two costume people still working—everyone else is probably at dinner—so I wander through the organized chaos of the shop without fear of being a nuisance. The shelves that line the walls are packed with spools of thread, ribbon, trim, and buttons in every conceivable color, and there are half-naked dress forms everywhere, clad in Shakespearean doublets and sequined evening gowns. In one corner, shoe boxes are stacked all the way up to the ceiling, each one neatly labeled. The lulling whir of sewing machines and box fans fills the air, underscored by the oldies station playing on a tiny radio. It’s nicer than I expected in here; maybe I won’t mind working wardrobe for Macbeth next rotation.

I’m inspecting a pair of blue satin pantaloons when Zoe comes back out in her normal clothes and slips an arm around my waist. “Hey,” she says. “All done. You want to see something cool?”

“Of course,” I say.

She grabs my hand, leads me to the back corner of the shop, and pushes back a faded maroon curtain to reveal a staircase. “Come on,” she says. “Costume storage is up there.”

“Are we allowed to go in?”

“Probably not,” she says, but she’s already on the third step. I take a quick look around the room, but nobody’s watching us, so I follow. This isn’t exactly a daring escapade, but Zoe’s enthusiasm makes everything feel like an adventure.

We emerge into a big, dusty space crowded with a maze of clothing racks. The one closest to me is labeled “1920s Women” and holds more flapper dresses than I’ve ever seen in one place. The next one over has military uniforms on one end and Victorian gowns on the other. I finger the beaded hem of a black-and-silver dress. “This place is amazing,” I say.



“Isn’t it?” Zoe disappears down an aisle and emerges a minute later wearing an enormous red Kentucky Derby hat with feather plumes. “What do you think?” she asks. “Does it bring out my eyes?”

“Oh, for sure,” I say.

“Here, I got you one, too.”

She tosses me a hideous, wide-brimmed gold hat covered in cloth roses, plastic cherries, and a fake bird. I pull it on and adopt a terrible British accent. “Daahhh-ling, won’t you join me for tea and crumpets in the parlor?”

Zoe swaps her hat for one of those furry Russian ones with giant earflaps. “No time for tea! Fetch me the sled dogs!” she growls in a baritone voice, and we both burst out laughing. I love that even after everything we went through this weekend, we can still be silly together. It makes me feel like things are going to be okay between us after all.

Zoe pushes deeper into the room, opens a plastic bin labeled “Undergarments,” and pulls out a lacy purple bra so big, she could probably fit her entire head into one side. “Oh my God, look,” she says. When she fastens it over her T-shirt, the empty cups sag down so low, they almost touch her waist. She sidles up to me and shimmies her shoulders. “Do my giant purple bazooms turn you on, baby?”