“You should. I would, if I were you.”
“They hurt.”
“There are so many comfortable styles!”
May wrinkled her nose. “They make men feel short.”
“If you’re with a man who has a problem with your height, you’re with the wrong man.” Celestine winked. “Stay put. Now that you’ve found the right jeans, I’m bringing you more fabulousness, and I’m going to find a friend in the shoe department who can locate some great, comfortable-heeled boots that you can walk in for miles.”
May stayed put, turning side to side to look at herself in the two-hundred-dollar jeans.
You get to keep the clothes, so you might as well enjoy them. That’s what Ben had said.
Had she ever enjoyed clothes? As a kid, when she’d gone shopping with her mother, she had mentally counted down the seconds until the nightmare would end. Not that her mom was cruel—far from it. It was only that for the period their shopping session lasted, she would turn her complete attention on the problem of May’s body. How to make her look smaller, shorter, less chubby. How to find pants to fit her all-wrong adolescent shape.
Meanwhile, Allie would be gleefully choosing clothes off the rack. Can I have this one, Mom? How about these?
Everything fit Allie. Everything looked good. These days, she wore unusual ensembles she’d concocted over weekends spent thrift-store shopping. Mom thought the clothes made her look eccentric, but men turned to watch when Allie walked by. She was striking. Memorable.
Celestine came back with a single pair of pants. “Try these on.” She handed May some sort of faux-snakeskin horror.
“They aren’t really me,” she said doubtfully.
“Oh, indulge me. My personal shopping appointment didn’t show, and I’m getting a kick out of dressing you. You’re so fantastically tall.”
Dutifully, May struggled into the pants, which were odd and tight but which, she had to admit, made her thighs look kind of impressive.
“Those are amazing,” Celestine said with approval.
“I have anaconda thighs.” May gazed at herself in the pants. Strangely, she felt neither approval or repugnance, but something in between. “I look like I could squeeze a man to death with them.”
“I know. Like some kind of marvelous Amazon warrior.”
“Terrifying.”
“Sexy.”
“You think?”
A brusque nod. “I do. I’m getting more styles. You stand there looking at yourself in those pants for a moment, and try to see yourself as I do.”
May stood as instructed. After a few seconds, she got bored at gazing directly at her hips. She looked at herself as a whole person, head to toe.
The longer she stared, the more alien her own image became.
That wasn’t her in the mirror. Not May Fredericks from Manitowoc, Wisconsin, who sometimes bought the same top in three different colors to avoid having to think about it too much. It wasn’t Dan’s May, plain and steady.
This was a tall stranger whose honey-blond hair had dried wavy and windblown. An unknown woman in snakeskin pants who looked like she might eat you up and spit out your bones if you crossed her.
This was the woman who’d exacted vengeance against Dan for wrecking what was supposed to be one of the most beautiful moments of her life.
A powerful, impolite, passionate woman.
And the weird thing was, May recognized her.
She was the person May had always known she was, deep down. The person no one had ever encouraged her to be.
But in New York, she could be whoever she liked. If she wanted to leave the store wearing faux-snakeskin pants, no one back home would ever find out, and New York wouldn’t bat an eye.
Celestine returned with a rolling rack of pants, and then her friend Leon brought some shoes to look at. Another salesperson, named Mona, arrived with tops. It all became kind of a blur, and somehow fun, having all these people fuss over her while calling jeans “denim” and tossing around words like peplum and marled. Mona handed her a loose-fitting sweater with wide stripes, and May said, “I can’t wear stripes.”
“Honey, you can wear anything you want.”
Thinking of herself in the snakeskin pants, May whispered the words beneath her breath as she walked back into the changing room holding the striped sweater. You can wear anything you want.
Of course she could. She’d known that. But she’d never really felt it. Every time she bought clothes, she listened to the nagging voices inside her head that said, No, not that. God, no. Not for you. Sometimes, she found a shirt that was so beautiful she wanted to cry, and she bought it for Allie.
May pulled the sweater on. She poked her head through the cowl neck and brushed her hair out of her face. Her loud bark of laughter echoed through the changing room. The sweater had dolman sleeves, and it looked awful.