Page 25 of Masquerade Mistake
“This is Sunset Bay’s hidden secret,” Maren says. “It’s where all the rich people discard their barely worn clothes so that regular people like you and me can snatch them up and look like a million bucks. How this hasn’t ended up on everyone’s radar, I don’t know. I just discovered it a few weeks ago, and I don’t think I’ll ever buy a new outfit again.”
“You’re just telling me about this now?” I say, pulling a pair of Brunello Cucinelli denim trousers from the rack, and I nearly choke at the price. “$500? For a pair of jeans?”
Maren peers over my shoulder, then checks the waist for the original tag that’s still attached. My eyes widen. Brand new, these jeans cost $1,500.
“Who in their right mind buys jeans for this much?” I ask. “I don’t even think my car is worth this much.”
Maren takes the jeans and puts them back. “Those ones are a bit pricey, but this store also has designer clothes in your budget. I promise.”
Thankfully, she was right. For the price of a patch made of Brunello Cucinelli denim, I walk out of there with three new blouses, two camisoles, a pair of high waisted bootcut pants, and a flirty dress that may or may not be what I wear on Friday night. When I’m alone. Doing nothing. Definitely not dating Ethan.
Maren has to work the next few days, so she sets me up with a hair and nail appointment, along with brow shaping. I thought my brows looked fine before, but when done, I feel kind of like a supermodel—which is ironic, given Ethan’s dating record. It’s not that I want to be like any of the girls he’s dated, but it’s nice to be a little more glamorous than my usual yoga pants and sloppy bun.
Over these last few days, Ethan has been texting me too. He can’t possibly know my hesitation, and yet his frequent contact seems like a lure to keep me from bowing out. It’s working. I haven’t told him I’m not going, and by Friday afternoon, it’s pretty much a given that he’s taking me out—especially when I give him Maren’s address.
“I feel like such a liar,” I say, sitting in a booth at Insomniacs while Maren takes her time cleaning the table next to me. I’m wearing one of the camisoles we bought a few days earlier, and I sip my iced almond milk latte carefully so I don’t splatter the tan liquid on the designer top. I wrinkle my nose at the taste. A new guy is working the coffee bar today, which explains the less than stellar ratio of espresso to milk. But I’m relieved that Nina isn’t here. For some reason, I can’t face her on the day I’m going out with her cousin, even if this was her idea all along. It’s enough that I’m going, even if I’m pretending to live in a cramped one-bedroom apartment full of Maren’s guitars and dark style.
“You’re not lying,” Maren says. “You’re protecting your privacy.”
“No, it’s still lying.”
She shrugs, as if lying is no big thing. There was a time when it wasn’t for her. It’s different now. She’s as honest as the sea is wet, sometimes blatantly so. I guess it’s part of her recovery, but we don’t talk about that much.
Still, I find it amusing that she’s encouraging me to lie. The only reason I’m not turning back is because all of this is for Finn. If Ethan doesn’t check out, he’ll never have to know about his son.
“After work I just have to grab a few things from my apartment and then I’ll be at your house,” she says, looking over her shoulder toward the cash register. Her boss is there, shooting daggers at Maren. “Crap, I have to go. Just be ready when I get there, because there won’t be much time.” She rushes off to the counter, and I sit back in my booth and sip my latte. My phone dings and I look at it, smiling when I see Ethan’s name pop up.
Ethan: I can’t stop thinking about tonight.
I cover my mouth, hiding the grin that won’t quit on my face. For all the ways I need to play it cool around him, I’m already failing—and he’s not even near me.
Me: You mean when we go to the bookstore and I read you passages from Frankenstein?
Ethan: Honestly, that sounds kind of erotic. Is that weird?
I grin. To be honest, I’d find it erotic if he read passages of his favorite book to me. Does he have a favorite book?
Me: Careful there. I may just hijack this date.
Him: I have a feeling I’d be fascinated by anything you want to do.
“Quit texting and go get ready,” Maren hisses at me on her way past my table. I smother my smile, type back a quick smiley face, and book it out of there.
I still have an hour until Finn’s bus gets to the house, so I take my time getting ready. I take a long shower and exfoliate every inch of my body. After blow drying my hair, I curl it into soft mermaid waves. I apply shimmering pink eyeshadow to my lids, then line the edges to give them a dramatic look. A little mascara, some blush, and lip gloss, then it’s time to get dressed. I settle on the dress I bought this week, but pair it with chunky boots—ala Maren style—just so Ethan doesn’t think I’m some feminine flower. I probably am, but I’d like to be perceived a little tougher than that.
I’m ready with fifteen minutes to spare, and I linger at the doorway of my office. There are a million things to do before Monday morning’s swag shipment, but I submit to letting them wait. Maren was right, I haven’t had a break in years, and one night won’t kill me.
When Finn arrives home, he slumps into the house like a deflated beach ball.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, roughing up his hair and kissing his forehead.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, budging past me and opening the refrigerator.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say with a laugh. I’d be offended, but I know exactly why he’s upset. Sure enough, he perks up when Maren’s car rolls into the driveway, and he runs out to greet her as she balances a pizza with one hand and a bag of God-knows-what in the other.
“Do I want to know what that is?” I ask, nodding at the bag when she breezes into the kitchen.
“Nunya business,” she says, skirting around me, holding the bag away. I still make out a few familiar candy wrappers through the sheer plastic.