“It’s ten a.m.,” Harlow says.
“Shopping makes me anxious, and anxiety makes me hungry,” Jess says. “For tacos. Or maybe a burrito, a really fat one with extra guacamole.”
“No need to be anxious, sweet squirrel,” Harlow says. “And no need to worry about the budget, either. I have a secret, super affordable shopping honey hole I’m going to share with the two of you. But only because you’re my best friends and I trust you not to share this secret with others.” She sniffs. “And because you aren’t my size, so if you get addicted to fashion, you won’t buy up anything I want before I can get there.”
“I think I’m more likely to get addicted to crack than shopping,” Jess says, casting a longing look at a brunch place advertising “the best huevos rancheros in the city!” as we pass by, murmuring, “I bet they have tacos. Good ones, too.”
“But they don’t have vintage Yves Saint Laurent or Coco Chanel,” Harlow says, stopping beside a nondescript brick stairway leading up into one of the more dilapidated buildings on this block. “We’re here, ladies. Brace yourself. After this morning, you’ll never be quite the same.”
Jess gulps but I’m buzzing with excitement and not just because I downed another cup of coffee before we left the apartment.
I’m ready for this. Yes, I love my overalls and feeling comfortable while I create. But I’m in a rut. I need to shake things up and expand my comfort zone.
But I’m not going to buy a micro-mini because that’s what Vince always wanted me to wear or let my boobs hang out because cleavage is supposed to be sexy. I want to find something that makes me feel beautiful and confident, but on my terms, not anyone else’s.
I say as much to Harlow on our trudge up the four flights of stairs, but she just shoots me an indulgent smile over her shoulder.
“I’m serious,” I say. “If I can’t find something that feels right, I’ll go to our first lesson in overalls.”
“I hear you,” Harlow says, reaching for a steel door with a cheap cardboard sign taped to the front that reads “Maxine’s.” “And I support this decision. But I want you to promise to try on everything I pick out for you. You don’t have to buy it, just try it on. Okay? You trust me?”
Letting out a breath, I nod. “I do.”
“I do, too,” Jess adds. “But I’m also scared. The last time I went shopping in an actual store was when my mom came to visit last December. She made me spend five hours at Macy’s without a pee break or snacks. I thought we were going to starve to death and our corpses be found under the forty-percent-off rack come the spring thaw.” She swallows hard and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Are you sure we can’t get tacos first?”
“Have courage,” Harlow says as she opens the door, revealing a surprisingly bright and cheery loft space absolutely packed with clothes. “We’re going to have so much fun. I promise.”
And we do.
Not only do we have a blast trying on all the clothes Harlow and a tiny, gray-haired woman in a snazzy, disco jumpsuit bring to the dressing rooms for us, we each find several incredible outfits.
Honestly, they are perhaps the most adorable, sexy, spot-on, true-to-ourselves clothes the world has ever known.
“Wow, this is so comfortable,” Jess says, her eyes almost comically wide behind her glasses as she surveys herself in the mirror. The simple black jumpsuit with the wide-leg pants is tasteful, stretchy and soft, but classy, with a deep V front that skims the sides of her full—bra-less—breasts and makes her look—
“Sexy,” she says, blinking fast. “I actually look sexy. I look like a person who might have sex. Who like, probably has sex all the time. Loads of sex.”
“Oodles of sex,” Harlow says, beaming proudly from the tufted couch by the dressing room mirror.
Jess presses a fist to her lips, letting out a soft giggle before she hurls herself at Harlow for a big hug.
Harlow laughs, patting her on the back. “All right, all right. Be careful there, sexpot. We don’t want your boobs falling out.”
“They won’t,” Jess says, standing back up and casting her still-contained breasts a pleased look. “This thing fits like a glove.”
“I purchased that piece at an auction,” the owner says, swinging into the dressing room with another armful of clothes. “She was a petite woman with curves just like you and had all her clothes tailored by the most gifted seamstress on the Upper East Side. I brought you the rest of her things. If you like them, I’ll cut you a deal on the whole lot.” She winks at Jess. “You’re going to knock ’em dead, kiddo. And take it from an old lady, you should all be having oodles of sex. Pickings get slimmer as you age, sweethearts, and you can’t take that pussy with you.”
Harlow’s jaw drops, Jess snorts, and I find myself nodding along like I’m listening to a breakthrough self-help book.
She’s right. So right!
You can’t take your pussy with you. Or anything else.
We’re given this body, this spirit, this existence for a finite amount of time and the seasons of life pass so quickly. It seems like just yesterday I was a little girl racing Harlow up the hill behind the school to get the first turn on the tire swing at the back of the playground. Now suddenly I’m nearly twenty-four, with a bachelor’s degree and starting on my master’s, with students and therapy clients who turn to me for help.
And while I wouldn’t have wanted to rush growing up or push myself to have sex before I was ready, I’ve been ready for a while now. I just haven’t been putting that energy out into the world.
It’s like Harlow always says—if you want to manifest something in your life, you have to let the universe know what you want. Otherwise, it’s like swinging through the drive-thru at a fast-food restaurant and saying “eh…whatever,” and then being mad when you get fish with gross, plastic-y cheese on it instead of that burger you were craving.
But not anymore.
From now on, when I want a burger, I’m going to ask for it.
Starting right now.
Chapter 9
Ian
I used to love my job.
Back when I was a rookie, busting my ass to prove myself to management and the more experienced members on the team, I couldn’t wait to get on the ice for practice or a game. Even if I was bruised and sore from the day before, I’d charge out of the locker room ready to rumble.
Was I occasionally a touch too aggressive?
Maybe.
There were absolutely times when the older guys shouted for me to slow down and keep a cool head, but I only got benched for fighting twice in my first two years and never with my own fucking team members. I idolized the older players and wanted all my fellow rookies to succeed. After all, this is a team sport, for God’s sake. No matter how talented our forwards or fierce our goalie, we rise or fall together.
As I watch Pete tackle Sven the Dick after he pops off with some smartass comment on the other side of the rink, a part of me wants to toss my stick and walk. I love this game and pushing myself to get better as an athlete, but this is fucking ridiculous.