“Hello and welcome,” came a voice. “Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?”
Oh. He’d gone in, apparently. “I need some clothes,” he said, and his voice sounded strange.
“Great!” the man said. He was young and well dressed, his hair in a perfect swoop off his forehead. “My name’s Radley. And you are?”
“Joshua.”
“What are you looking for, Joshua?”
He had no idea how to answer the question. “Just . . . everything, I guess.”
The answer caused Radley to brighten. “No problem! What size do you usually take? Do you have colors that you like? This is quite . . . cheerful.” He gestured at Josh’s shirt, which was, he just realized, a shirt Mrs. Kim had bought him in Korea the last time she went—garish red-and-yellow swirls. Cargo pants. Birkenstock sandals with socks.
He probably should’ve looked in the mirror before leaving the house.
Somewhere, Lauren was laughing. It almost made him smile.
“Whatever you think,” Josh said. “I don’t have the best taste in clothes.”
“Thank God you said that so I didn’t have to pretend.” Radley grinned. “Okay, let’s get started.” He began plucking things off the racks, a few shirts here, pants there, jeans, a sweater, more pants, another shirt. Josh trailed behind him, agreeing with everything, seeing nothing.
Seven extra years. He could’ve been with Lauren for seven extra years, but he’d been a complete and utter asshole.
“These pants are really on trend,” the guy was saying. “You can cuff them to be extra hipster, if you must. See the pretty print underneath? Or just leave as is for a more conservative look. I’d French-tuck this shirt, maybe add a vest or a grandpa sweater. This hat would make it supercute for date night. Here, why don’t you start trying things on, and I’ll grab whatever else I think you might like.” He hung up a dozen articles of clothing in a dressing room, looking pleased, then went back to the racks for more.
Josh closed the dressing room door behind him and looked at the mirror. Lauren had coached him in dressing once they’d been dating a little while, but he’d reverted to his old clothes since her death. They predated her, and somehow it was easier to wear things that weren’t attached to her memory.
He really did look like a dork.
He pulled on a pair of cotton pants in a shade of orange—coral, Lauren would’ve said—a blue T-shirt, a blue-and-yellow-printed button-down.
“I grabbed you a pair of shoes just in case you want to see yourself without those, uh . . . atrocities.” Radley slid some brown loafers under the closed door.
Josh put the shoes on. Looked in the mirror.
With his haircut, and the undeniably modern outfit, he looked different. He didn’t look like the hermit genius workaholic with no life, as he used to be, or the stunned-stupid mouth-breathing widower he’d become.
He looked . . . he looked like the guy who’d married Lauren Carlisle. He looked like her husband again.
The pain hit him in the stomach, and he bent over. A keening sound came out of his mouth, and he tried to cover it. Tears rained out of his eyes without warning, and his chest was crushed by the grief.
He could’ve had years more with her.
“Joshua? Joshua? Are you okay?” came the salesperson’s voice. The door handle jiggled.
The mirror showed his face, wet from tears, creased in agony, scared, hopeless. How was he supposed to live without her for the rest of his life? His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, clamping his arms over his head.
The door opened, and Radley stood there, a key in his hand. “Oh, God, you are so not okay. What can I do? Should I call 911?”
“My . . . my . . .” He could barely choke the words out. “My wife . . . died.”
“Holy Mary. Oh, man, that sucks.” Radley sat on the little bench and put his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “How horrible.”
It was so embarrassing, crying here, almost funny if it weren’t so utterly, wretchedly awful. He was full-on sobbing now, his arm across his face, tears soaking into the unpurchased shirt. He didn’t want to look like Lauren’s husband. He wasn’t anymore. He had no right to look like Lauren’s husband. He didn’t deserve to, not when he’d failed her. Not when he’d given up seven years with her.
Don’t be a loser.
Her voice was so clear his head jerked up to see if she was there.
Of course she wasn’t. He choked on another sob, then another, this weird, hiccuping thing that he was powerless to stop. He was a loser. That was the problem.
“Can I try this on?” asked a guy with an impressive beard, holding up a shirt.
“Can’t you see he’s having a crisis?” the salesperson snapped. “Jesus! Some compassion, please? Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you forty percent off.”
“I’m sorry,” Josh managed.
“Don’t apologize. Here.” Radley—Ripley?—got up and left the dressing room and returned a second later. He held a bandanna in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. “Wipe your face, you poor thing. I’ll lock up.”
Josh felt a hundred years old. He hauled himself onto the bench and sighed. The hiccuping had stopped.
Not cool, breaking down like this. Not cool at all. His hands were still shaking. His ribs hurt from crying. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, drank some water, and when Radley came back, he was under control again, though his eyes were leaking still.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“It’s totally fine,” Radley said. “How long has it been?”
“Three months.”
Radley nodded. “Listen. Do you want to get a drink or something? The mall closes in ten minutes.”
“That’s . . . that’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to. You’ve been great.”
“I know.” He smiled. “And I’m sure you have tons of friends to lean on, but sometimes a stranger is easier.”
“Your hair is really cool,” Josh said. Why? Why say that? (But it was.)
“It takes forever, but it’s worth it, right?” Radley said, waving his hand over his head. “Come on. Let’s go get a mangotini or a scotch or something. Really.”
It beat going home to a lifeless apartment and grieving dog.
“Okay,” Josh said. “I’ll take everything, by the way.”