Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
So I expanded my search to include anywhere that might stock the opposite of designer wear in my quest to get him back for the dress. The very lovely dress that made me feel like a supermodel, but that’s not the point. Because the point is, he’s not supposed to make decisions on my behalf. Even if he thinks those decisions will benefit me. I choose my own clothes and pay my own way.
This is just a small reality check for the man, especially as I’ve received notification that my biometric card is in the mail. I’ve been granted my visa—weeks earlier than the forecast. I haven’t told Oliver, and if Ariana, the immigration lawyer, notified him, he hasn’t said.
We haven’t ironed out what happens after. Maybe we’re both trying not to burst this bubble. But we need to discuss what our relationship will look like. I’ll tell him about my visa. Soon. I’ll have to. But today, I guess I wanted to prove that things won’t change.
“This is unacceptable, Eve.”
“Too bad, so sad. Get your butt out of the car.”
“This was not what we agreed.”
“I don’t remember agreeing you could pick out a dress for me, and don’t invoke the stylist, because that’s just a technicality.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Hello!” I singsong. “Same here.”
“No, Eve, you are shit stirring,” he growls.
I press a hand to my offended chest. Moi?
“Yes, you! Causing trouble. Having fun at my expense and—”
“Sir, we’re parked in a loading zone.” Oliver frowns Ted’s way as he adds, “I reckon we might get clamped, maybe even impounded?”
Good one, Ted. Oliver climbs slowly from the car.
“You’re so tetchy.” That sounded a little too gleeful. The way he glares at me says he heard it too. “It’s not like I’d let you go to this thing looking stupid.”
“The fact that I’m here does not mean I will be wearing clothing purchased out of . . .” He turns his head, glances at the storefront, and apparently pretends not to know what it is. “That place.”
“No.” I hold up a finger. “No givesies backsies. You said—”
“In this instance, it would be takesies backsies,” he utters with a ghost of a smile. “It’s starting to rain. Let’s go inside and get this over with.”
I almost break out the happy dance when I remember something. “Wait.” Oliver turns, his hand on the door handle. “Say cheese!” I snap a pic with my phone.
“What was that for?”
“Pictures or it never happened, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“The only thing I fancy is getting this over with.” An old-fashioned bell chimes above the door as Oliver pushes it.
This is going better than I ever imagined.
Shit stirring?
Troublemaking?
Enjoying the heck out of myself?
Yes, yes, yes!
“Hi.” I greet the assistant with a bright smile before I almost bump into Oliver, whose feet seem to have turned into concrete. “What the f—”
“Fabulousness!” I shout, drowning out his growly dissent with enthusiasm and a sudden jazz-hands movement.
“You’re not the first person to be taken aback by the size of this place,” the store assistant offers happily, glancing up from the counter.
This place is huge. I guess this floor must be for homewares, as lounge and dining settings are dotted about the space, the rear wall filled with racks of plates and bowls and kitchenware.
I kind of love thrifting, though I don’t get to do it often. But when I do, I always come back with at least one gem. Which is why I stick my hand into a nearby wire basket overflowing with chunky glassware. Is that a novelty sherry glass? I yank my hand back, because nope. That thing looks more like a butt plug.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I turn my attention to the woman, her hair a shade of gray closer to lilac. I love how stores like this are almost exclusively manned by older friendly women. Trendier thrift stores, those run by hipsters and retro-loving cool kids, seem to have the vibe all wrong.
There’s something comforting about thrifting, not just because I’m doing my bit to fight fast fashion and landfills. And who doesn’t want to do their bit for curing cancer, helping the homeless, and saving animals? But it’s more than that for me. It’s the idea of the unwanted finding a new home, being recycled, reused, and reloved. Or maybe it’s flipping the bird to how I was raised. Who knows?
“Could you direct me to the men’s section, please?”
Oliver grunts, and the poor assistant’s eyes fly wide.
“Pay him no mind. He’s just stressed. You know what it’s like when you’re time poor but you need a new outfit for the weekend. Worst feeling in the world, right?”
Oliver glowers.
“No need to explain, dear. My Arthur used to sulk like a sullen baby when he had to go shopping with me.” Oliver’s attention spikes to the woman. “That’s it,” she says. “That’s the exact face he used to pull. I bet he’s still pulling it in his coffin. Anyway, menswear is in the basement.” She looks down at her ledger, and I swear she adds under her breath, “Same place as Arthur went.” However, it’s not her ledger that draws my attention but the laminated cards stuck to the front of the counter.