“And I was so mad when the other team’s fans cheered you for missing it. I stomped my feet and flipped them off on the TV screen,” I say.
He chuckles, and his easy approach makes me lift my face a tiny bit, but not enough for him to see my mascara streaks.
“That guy who came into my store? He called me a stupid bitch in his review,” I confess, and it’s embarrassing to admit that out loud even though it’s in black and white and living forever online.
Carter seethes like a bull in a ring. “And he’s a cheating asshole. Want me to track him down and tell him he fucked with the wrong jewelry store owner?”
The image of Carter marching up to that slick man’s fancy home amuses me so much that the tears slow, then stop.
“No thanks. But I feel better now.”
I finally raise my face and, judging by Carter’s quickly hidden horror, I might feel better, but I can’t say the same about how I look.
Thank god for Sephora’s world-domination strategy. Five minutes later, Carter’s miraculously found another parking spot on this street and pulled up at the nearest makeup shop. “Tell me what kind you need, and I’ll get it. I love errands,” he says, rubbing his palms like he’s excited to track down a new tube of eye makeup.
“It’s from Mia Jane. It’s called Evening Shade. I need it in black. But not Jet Black. Be sure to get Studio Black. Not the volumizing one and not the waterproof one, but the curling, conditioning one,” I say.
He repeats, “Evening Shade. Studio Black,” but his warm brown eyes glaze over a bit, and it’s pretty clear what I need to do. I can’t let him save me every second of today.
“I’ll brave it,” I say, then dab at my cheeks again with a tissue I found in my clutch.
“I’ll go with you,” he says.
I take one more soldiering breath, then I step out of his car and join him on the sidewalk. I try not to freak out. Truly, I do. I hold my head high, and we stride into the shop, where a woman with electric-blue hair gawks at my clown face, then quickly course corrects. “Oh, honey, let’s take you to the makeup triage center.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Ten minutes later, I look presentable again with my makeup redone thanks to the electric-blue makeup angel.
Trouble is, there’s a new problem. I didn’t spot it before, but under the bright lights of the shop, I point at Carter’s slate-blue shirt, covered in my Jackson Pollack tears now. “I ruined your shirt,” I say, and maybe I do need waterproof mascara after all.
He glances down at the ink splotch the size of a sandwich on his shoulder. “Yes, you did, Dumont,” he says, but he’s sort of amused, maybe even proud.
My turn to save the day. “Gap to the rescue,” I say. There was one on this stretch of Chestnut when I grew up here, but when I scurry outside, there’s no Gap nearby. There’s no Target or men’s shop I can see either. I speak into my phone, asking where the nearest Gap is since those things are like Starbucks. But I shake my phone when I read the answer: “Google said the nearest Gap closed down.”
“I’m still in mourning. But I can just wear this,” Carter says, plucking at his horribly stained shirt. “I literally walk around with mud on my shirt on Sundays.”
“But it’s a Friday,” I say, energized by my new mission—to help him. He’s done nothing but help me since I made the official move to town, from lifting the couch, to giving me a ride, to letting me slobber all over his shoulder.
And dammit, I need a victory. If there’s one thing this broken down, hot mess of a divorcee can do, it’s shop.
I speak into the phone again, asking where the nearest men’s shop is when my attention snags on a thrift store at the end of the block. Daisy’s Duds. “Oh, I know that place. There’s another one in Haight-Ashbury. My yoga teacher Katie went to it one night and told us about it. They have a lot of costumes but clothes too.”
“We’re going to be late though,” he says, chagrined. “I’m late for too many things in life.”
I smile sympathetically. “You’ve got that under control, though, with all your alarms. You were bang on time yesterday at my house, after all.”
See? I can make light of the boob flashing. We have so returned to the normal zone, no problem.
His brown eyes darken, then he jerks his gaze away from me for a second. “True. I was.”
“And besides, this tardiness is on me. Okay?”
After a beat, he acquiesces. “Let’s do it,” he says.
“Yay!” I text my sister that I’m running a few minutes late, then we fly inside the shop teeming on one side with sequined dresses and feather boas alongside cop, doctor, and fireman uniforms. The other side of the shop is stuffed with everyday clothes, including rack after rack of short-sleeve button-down shirts. “Look! It’s like the holy grail of thrifting. Utility worker shirts,” I say, grabbing his arm and tugging him to the X marks the spot, where most of the shirts were clearly donated from men who work in blue-collar jobs—their names are sewn into patches on chest pockets.
Carter gawks at the selection of shirts. “I don’t know how to choose between Jim the Plumber and Chet the Electrician.”
From the counter, a voice calls out: “Let me know if I can help you, darlings. I’m Angel.”
I turn to a muscular man with stunning emerald eyeshadow and a fabulous feather boa. “I’m good for now,” I chirp as I flick through the racks quickly, hunting for just the right shirt. “The Texaco one is cute, but it’s a medium, so that won’t fit.”
“How do you know what size I wear?” Carter asks.
I toss him a what do you take me for look. “You play football for a living. You’re a brick wall. You’re not just a large. You’re an extra large,” I say, quickly surveying the strapping guy in front of me. “How tall are you? Are you six-six?”
“Only where it counts,” he says with a wink.
And I’m a little flustered. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Of course he is, you dingus. He’s a man.
Show me a man who doesn’t crow about the size of his dong and I’ll show you a leprechaun.
I snap my gaze back to the racks, hunting feverishly for an extra-large dick—I mean, an extra-large shirt.
I need a shirt. That is all.
Ah! Bingo. I spot a gray auto-repair shop shirt with a patch that reads Magnus. “Well, Mister Six Six, this one seems perfect for you,” I say, then thrust it at him.
“I’m actually six three,” he says, lifting his hand to the top of his head to indicate his real height, then he peers at the name on the shirt. “The name does fit.”
Does Carter moonlight as a dildo model?
Stop, you dirty perv.
“It’s only a large though,” I say, trying to stick to the task at hand. Sizes of shirts, not rods. I call out to Angel, “Any chance Magnus left a shirt in a large and an extra large?”
He chuckles, a big, booming, baritone laugh. “Magnus is one of a kind, but I might have something else for you. Be right back, darlings.”
“Try this on anyway,” I say to Carter, staying in full bossy shopping mode. “Let’s hope it fits like an extra large.”