Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Shopping cart duty,” I proclaim.
He looks back toward the front door and then to Grace like he’s measuring the distance between the two points before he quickly strides off to get a cart. As he crosses the store, I keep one eye on him, not entirely convinced he won’t make a run for it. I don’t think he’d abandon Grace, but he’d definitely leave me here without a second thought or a ‘See ya later.’
Grace and I get started, flipping through items as we slide the hangers down the metal rod. “What about this?” she asks approximately four shirts in.
I eye the tie-dyed, cropped T-shirt with a cartoon cat and mouse emblazoned on it. “Do you like Tom and Jerry?”
“Who?”
“Seriously?” I ask, pointing at the labeled characters.
She frowns, puts the shirt back, and continues to look through more. Cameron returns, and I set my coffee plus the shirt I found into the cart. “How do you know what to get?”
I don’t stop sorting through the rack, but I explain, “I shop for two things—myself and resale. For myself, I need to truly love it. That’s it. For resale, I look for things in high demand, like Western brands, single stitch T-shirts, especially concert or band merch, and the current big seller is ‘grandparent chic’ pieces.”
“Grand. Parent. Chic?” He sounds out the words like they’re totally unfamiliar to him.
“Mm-hmm, like crochet pieces, skirts that look like floral couch fabric, Grandpa tweed trousers.” I feel Cameron’s eyes on me, and when I glance up, he’s looking at me like that explanation didn’t help in the slightest. In fact, it might’ve only confused him more. “You’ll see. I’ll show you when I find it.” There’s always a stash of good finds if you’re willing to look hard enough, and I am a thorough and experienced thrift shopper.
But while I’m shopping, Grace is simply flipping through clothes aimlessly, her eyes ping-ponging from the rack to me, and I realize she’s simply mimicking me. When I glance to Cameron, I find him sipping his coffee while staring at his phone.
Nope, this won’t do. Not on my watch. We’re having a fun outing, not whatever this is quickly dissolving into.
“New game plan,” I announce, grabbing their attention. I move to the closest rack, and looking at Grace, I say, “Tell me when to stop.” While she’s still processing, I start walking my fingers along the hangers, one at a time.
“Stop!” she says, smiling even though she has no idea what I’m up to.
I pull out a white T-shirt proclaiming Jones Family Reunion 2013 in royal blue and hold it out, nearly forcing it into her hands. “Your mission is to create an outfit using that.”
Her smile falls instantly. “This is ugly, and my name isn’t Jones.”
She’s right on both counts, but I tilt my head, surveying her. “It’s for fun. Make a silly outfit, a cute one, an awful one. What could you match this with to make it better?” I drop my voice to a whisper like the two of us are conspiring against the game I’m creating on the fly and challenge, “Or worse?”
She snorts out a laugh, eyeing the shirt critically. “I don’t think anything could make it worse.” But she heads toward another rack to scavenge.
Cameron leans my way. “She’s going to make the ugliest outfit imaginable. You know that, right?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, pleased that he’s paying attention. “Maybe not. You’re not off the hook either. Tell me when to stop.” I at least have the decency to choose a rack of men’s clothing for his journey into thrift store outfit creation. But he doesn’t say a word as I flip through the hangers. Instead, he defiantly shakes his head like he’s not participating in this adventure. But he is, like it or not. I pick one at random for him and hold it up like I’m sizing it—and him—up. “Good luck.”
I lay it over his chest and pat his pectoral muscle, registering that it’s rock hard at the same time I realize it’s completely inappropriate to touch him this way—especially after this morning’s peep show—and quickly let go of the hanger. Luckily, the shirt stays, stuck on his broad shoulders, and I pin him with a look, daring him to refuse.
He slowly drops his gaze to the linen shirt, which is a short-sleeved, button-up with vertical cream-colored stitching on a black background. It’s vaguely vacation-like, but not quite Hawaiian. Honestly, it’s a much easier assignment than Grace’s, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate the gift I’ve given him. When he scoffs at the not-that-bad shirt, I sing-song, “I could choose again. I’m sure it definitely wouldn’t be anything uglier.” I delicately tap one finger on a hanger that’s holding a particularly busy, neon print shirt and offer a sly smirk that promises a much worse fate.