Page 30

Chapter 30

Emilie

My brain is a mess. A tornado full of things I need to accomplish and things I shouldn’t be thinking about. It’s hard to keep things straight. Plus, I’ve had a string of a few rough nights with my OCD.

Not uncommon for a streak of anxious days and almost sleepless nights to stack on top of each other. Nothing like your brain working against you when you’re already down and out.

That means I’m drinking an iced coffee bigger than my face and I’m convinced it won’t be the last one I have today. My eyelids are heavy, like my lashes are weighing them down, and my muscles ache like I’ve been working out too much. But really, I’ve just been awake.

It’s one of the first days where it feels like summer is truly on its way out. The wind blows, kissing my skin with the type of chill I love. Leaves are tinged with red and gold, most of them holding onto their branches—for now at least.

I’m walking from the coffee shop back to my apartment when my phone buzzes.

Zack

have a surprise for you

can I change our plan for tonight?

Me

I like surprises so yes

same time, see you soon

and yes, we’ll still get food

He does it again—answers a question before I have the chance to even ask.

When I’ve been pacing my hallway, unable to sleep, I almost called Zack this week. I know he’d come over, but I also know he’s had a rough practice week. Part of me is afraid to rely on him.

My intrusive thoughts aren’t going away.

I don’t know what Zack’s plan is.

His suggestion of ‘let’s do what feels right’ changes this whole thing and I find I’m more reserved. Like I don’t want to come on too strong, because now it’s for real. Maybe it’s always been real?

Reaching my apartment door, I yawn as I let myself in. I look at the time and have a few hours before Zack will pick me up. I place my iced coffee in the fridge, trying to keep the integrity as much as possible.

I fall onto the couch, grab a blanket, and set an alarm on my phone.

Time for a powernap.

A soft knock wakes me up. I shoot up off the couch, gasping, looking at the time on my phone.

“Emilie… are you in there?” Zack practically croons from outside the door.

I smooth my hair as best I can and open the door.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I fell asleep and my alarm didn’t go off. ”

Zack laughs, coming in and closing the door behind him. “It’s totally fine. There’s no rush.”

A tiny piece of the panic falls away with his reassurance.

“What do I wear? What’s the vibe?”

Zack rubs his hands together, his forearms flexing, and I need a drink of water. Fuck, this man is so hot.

“Two surprises. Wear something comfortable. Nothing physically active.”

Huh? That’s not really a clue. I change into my favorite pair of black leggings, tank top, and a lilac quarter zip sweatshirt. This is comfortable.

“I want pants that color.” He points to my quarter zip when I walk out of my bedroom.

He could wear the hell out of this color. No doubt about it.

“I’m so fucking excited! Let’s go, baby.” He reaches for my hand, and we’re out the door.

“Where the hell are we?” I ask, as we stand outside what looks like a small warehouse. “Should I have told a friend I was going somewhere with you? This gives off a real murdery vibe.” I raise my eyebrows, looking at the building and back to Zack, who is grinning bigger than ever.

“We’re going shopping. Private shopping. Just you and me,” he says, like it doesn’t make me have even more questions.

I shake my head, clearly needing more information.

“You said you didn’t have a dress for the wedding, right? Now’s the time.” He opens the door for me .

He has a way of remembering everything. It was about a week ago when we were having dinner with Willow and Tripp, when I made a single comment about still needing clothes for the destination wedding.

And he’s right. The wedding is only a couple weeks away and this is a task I’ve procrastinated long enough.

We walk in, and it’s just a basic entrance way with one woman sitting at a reception desk. There’s no signage or anything indicating a brand or store.

“You must be Emilie.” The woman stands and offers a handshake. “I’m Mia. Your stylist for the evening.” She smiles. “I called Willow’s stylist and she had some measurements for you, so we’ve got lots for you to choose from.”

“Good to see you, Mia. Thanks for pulling this together for me,” Zack says.

Wait. Personal shopping like a single stylist, a bunch of clothes, and me and Zack?

I did not see this coming.

Mia walks, we follow, and when she pulls open a massive industrial sliding door, I see racks of clothes split down the middle. I’m guessing one side is for me and one is for Zack.

“I have some of my assistants around so they can help coordinate and with whatever you need. Dressing rooms are in that back corner.”

Zack looks at me, grinning ear-to-ear as Mia walks further in.

“Tell me you’re surprised!”

“Yes. I would’ve never guessed this.” I take in all the racks and still can’t quite believe it.

“This is usually open for brand influencers, models, celebrities—whoever has a connection. I rented it out and had stuff brought in for you and me.”

What the fuck? I can’t get over how thoughtful this is .

“If we’re going to this beach wedding, we gotta look fly.”

I shake my head, putting my hand to my forehead. “Don’t say fly,” I joke.

“So fly. Like a damn stylish bird.” He doubles down. “Let’s shop.”

Mia immediately swirls me away and is asking me about colors, fabrics, overall vibes of the wedding, and anything I want to stay away from. She takes me through racks of clothes, grabbing items and putting them up to me, but taking them away before I get a good grasp on it. One of the assistants follows like there’s a string connecting their hip to Mia’s. They work together, effortlessly exchanging dresses, some to keep and some to put back, without a word.

After forty minutes of building out my own rack—everything I want to try on—I’m ushered into a dressing room unlike anything I’ve ever seen. There’s a massive mirror, which is basically the entire wall, with a touch functionality to change the type of light. In the corner is an accent chair, next to a full sofa.

There’s a refreshment station in the opposite corner with a high-top table that boasts quite the spread: water, seltzer, champagne, juice, and a few canned cocktails.

“I feel like you’re a champagne girl,” Mia says as one of the assistants is reaching for a flute and the bottle.

“I want champagne!” Zack yells from somewhere before walking in. “My room is right next door,” he points.

When each of us has a glass of bubbly, Zack offers up a toast. “Let’s get this poppin’!”

I shake my head, clinking his glass with mine. “That’s better than when you told me you put the champ in champagne so I’ll take it.”

“We’re going to go through a few other racks in case you don’t find what you’re looking for. While we’re pulling back up options, press this button if you need anything. We’re going to be at the front of the warehouse so we won’t be able to hear if you just call out,” Mia explains, pointing out the button on the wall.

I can’t imagine not finding something in what’s already in this room. There has to be at least twenty dresses and a few two-piece sets.

I take a sip of the champagne, the fizz promising.

“Want to show each other what we try on?” Zack asks. “Even if you don’t like it.”

“Let’s do it,” I agree.

I’ve put on ten dresses, and so far, they’ve all been duds. I mean, they’re fine, but they don’t speak to me in the way that makes me think it’s the one. I’m on my second glass of champagne and starting to get winded.

Why is it that trying on clothes does that to you? Makes it feel like you’re doing strenuous activity?

“Oooh, wait until you see these shorts, EJ. You’re going to lose it!” Zack yells from his dressing room.

I step into the next dress. Already, I’m obsessed with the color—almost like a dusty lavender with a touch of blue with it. When I put my arms in and start to pull it up, I already have a great feeling. I zip up the side effortlessly, like it’s about to fit perfectly.

I look into the mirror, set to natural light since we’re going to be on the beach.

Yes . We’re on to something here.

I spin to see the back, and already know I’ll be buying this, whether I wear it to the wedding or not. This is so coming home with me.

The fabric is a light and flowy chiffon, the type that lifts a bit when you spin. It’s a maxi dress and I stand on my tip toes to confirm my suspicion—this will be perfect with the right heel.

Thick straps sit on my shoulders before trailing down the front, creating a dramatically deep V—my cleavage looks solid, even without any type of bra, meaning it will look way better when I’m wearing one. The bottom is classic, the type of skirt that moves and sashays with each step you take.

The same V is mirrored on the back, creating a mostly open, and deeply low, back. I smirk into the mirror and almost squeal. I love this dress so much.

I can’t wait to show Zack. My mouth feels like sandpaper, making it hard to swallow. Reaching for the flute of champagne, I take a sip, trying to push down the nerves. Why wouldn’t I be nervous to show the first dress I sincerely like to my very fashion forward fake, but sort of not fake, boyfriend?

Being someone with high anxiety, I prefer clear situations and relationships. Naturally, I’d find myself in something complicated like whatever Zack and I are doing. I’m going to overthink, no matter what, but right now it feels like there’s too much to overthink.

I shake my hands, trying to release the tension, and stop the impending clamminess that comes with sweaty, anxious palms. Tipping my head from left to right, I stretch my neck and shoulders, trying to create space between my chin and shoulders.

I walk the short distance to the area where Zack and I have been showing whatever we’re trying on.

“I’m serious. These shorts are going to turn into my whole personality in Mexico. I can’t wait—” Zack stops as soon as he sees me, his mouth dropping open and eyes taking me in from the top of my head to where the dress sweeps the floor .

His eyes on me feel like an itch you finally get to scratch. I do my best not to melt in a puddle because that’s my first response when he looks at me like this.

“That dress...,” he says while putting his hands on his hips. “Are you for real right now? You beachy goddess.” He reaches for a hand, which I give, and he spins me around.

I let out a laugh as he continues, “Great dancing dress. Nice and fluffy when you’re moving.” He’s gone from mouth open to a solid smile, and it hits me in the stomach, stealing my breath.

The dress is a little long, and I trip but fall right into Zack’s chest, like I’m on the set of a romcom movie. The one where the clumsy nobody falls into the arms of the handsome athlete. It’s humbling but also like a dream come true.

“It’s fucking gorgeous. Please get this one.” His voice is little as he leans forward, still holding me up.

I get myself upright with no assistance and take a couple steps back.

“You’re right on the shorts.” I need a topic shift—less me and more of anyone else. Zack is wearing blush pink shorts and a black shirt. I don’t know if I’ve seen another person pull off pink like this man can. Plus, it’s that short inseam that no one can get enough of.

We smile at each other before walking back to our respective rooms. When I’m in front of the mirror, I put my hands on my cheeks, feeling the warmth of my skin. I turn the fan setting up, needing more air.

I grab the zipper and pull. It only gets an inch down before it gets caught. Be gentle, Emilie, you want to wear this later, don’t ruin the zipper , I scold myself while pulling the zipper back up and trying again.

Stuck.

I think I need someone to pull the fabric as I zip. With the placement of it, I’m not able to get an angle or do it with two hands.

“Zack, can you help me with this zipper?” I call out .

He comes in a few seconds later.

“It’s stuck, I think if I pull the fabric, you can unzip it—but remember I want to buy this. Don’t ruin it with your man hands.”

He turns, facing my hip with the zipper, and spreads his legs before putting his hands on the inside of the fabric, his fingers touching my ribcage. His other hand goes to the zipper, and my hands pull the fabric together—a bit awkward, but I think it will work.

Zack looks at me. “Are you ready?”

His voice pricks my skin. It’s delicious and a tiny bit uncomfortable. I want more. More of his eyes on me, his voice like this, his fingers on my skin.

Why do I feel like we’re not talking about zippers anymore?