Or maybe I just really, really liked the rookie. Legitimately.
The more I overthought it, the more the answer seemed frustratingly simple. Why had I agreed to go? Because I wanted to.
I just wanted to.
I knew the risks. But part of me truly didn’t care. Part of me really, really longed to be near him. At any cost. Apparently.
“I think it’s wonderful,” Diana said, refusing to let me beat myself up. “Sometimes we meet people we just click with. That’s a good thing. That’s a gift from the universe.”
“Unless it gets you fired.”
“It’s not going to get you fired.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “I already have one strike against me in Austin. I can’t be playing around.”
As soon as Diana tilted her head and said, “You do?” I remembered I hadn’t told her.
I took a breath. “I had an interpersonal conflict,” I said.
She decided not to pursue it. This was the first time I’d come to crochet club, and I suspected she didn’t want to scare me off. “Well,” she said, staunchly taking my side, “this is the opposite of an interpersonal conflict.”
“Not sure the fire department will see it that way,” I said.
“We’ll just have to make sure you don’t get caught,” Josie said.
“Easy,” Diana said then. “Just wear your hair down and clothes that are not your usual style.”
What was my usual style? Work pants. Work shirt. Work boots.
“What’s the dress for the party?” Josie asked.
I shrugged. “Fancy? Ish?”
Diana looked me over. “Do you have anything fancy?”
I shook my head.
“Do you even own a dress?”
I shook my head again.
“I’ve got dresses,” Josie said then, raising her eyebrows at me. “I’ve got a whole closet full—going to waste.” She patted her belly.
Next thing I knew, the crochet was abandoned, and we were making our way next door and then upstairs to Josie’s closet—both of us helping Diana with pavement cracks and stairs to move things along. Then I was standing in front of Josie’s full-length mirror while the two ladies pulled out dress after dress, holding them up in front of me, then tossing them in rejection piles on the bed.
Too purple, they’d decide. Or: Too bright. Too dark. Too flashy. Too plain. Too stiff. Too floppy. Too many pleats. Too teenagery. Too old-lady. Too much cleavage. Not enough cleavage. And on and on.
“This is overwhelming,” I said.
“Close your eyes,” Josie said. “We’ll do all the work.”
“I’m just not really a clothes person, you know?”
“We know,” they both said in unison, not pausing.
Then my mother added, “You can’t go to this thing in your bunker gear.”
At last, after what felt like hours, they narrowed the whole closet down to one singular, perfect, life-changing dress. Baby blue, midthigh, with spaghetti straps and a fluttery ruffle across the boobs.
