If the Shoe Fits

by E. J. Noyes

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Great. Now I should have checked before offering to help, but…if you hate shopping, you’re not going to turn full-on five-year-old throwing a tantrum because you have to try on clothes when all you want to do is hang out in the toy department, are you?”

  The teasing was so easy and enjoyable, it almost felt like the back-and-forth I indulged in with my family. “No way. I was always the one sneaking off to the pet store not the toy department.”

  Her expression was perfectly serious. “I’m going to have to stop you from coming home with a puppy, aren’t I?”

  “Why can’t I have a puppy?” I mock-pouted, adding some widened eyes to the mix.

  “Well, maybe you can. If you behave.”

  Snorting, I confessed, “Well, that sucks because I rarely behave.”

  Her grin was slow and just a little cheeky. “Oh, Jana. I can believe that…”

  * * *

  The next day, Thursday, I had my first—and final—date with KittyLover78, AKA Chad. Friday was dinner with Sabs and Bec and they were both home when I arrived just after seven. I unloaded dessert onto the counter, hugged both of them and poured myself a glass of red from the open bottle on the kitchen table.

  Sabine pounced. “How’d your date go last night?”

  “No go. Ugh, he was so promising too. I thought all my stars were aligning until they most definitely did not.”

  “Ah. So why’d you ditch this one?”

  “Firstly, he took me out for Mexican and ordered all my food without consulting me.”

  “Yeah, okay, that’s gross and also totally early nineteen-hundreds misogynist,” Sabs conceded.

  Bec, stirring something that smelled incredible on the stovetop, glanced over her shoulder. “Who even does that? I don’t even think we’ve done that, have we, darling?”

  “No we have,” Sabine quietly disagreed. “But only because one of us has been caught up at work and it’s an ‘I need to eat as soon as I get to the restaurant or I’m going to pass out’ situation.”

  Bec murmured her agreement, while I nabbed a cracker and cheese from the pre-dinner snacking plate. “And! As if that wasn’t bad enough, he ordered everything super spicy. Like burn your mouth until you can’t feel it anymore spicy.” A cardinal sin. It was there on both of my dating-site profiles under Dislikes for all to see, right underneath cruelty to animals and homophobia. Spicy food. “And Thursdays are an alcohol-free day, so I couldn’t even chug beers to get past it.”

  Sabs grimaced, well aware of my spice-wimpiness. “Okay, you get a free pass on this guy, I’m not even going to tease you. That’s a really dickish thing to do. Also, how many times do I have to tell you that the only way to stop your mouth burning isn’t drinking but eating something not spicy, like bread or dairy.”

  “Oh geez, thank you for the support and your advice. There was nothing else, even the tortilla chips were covered in hot stuff. I suffered, Sabs! And after all that, he’s still married, but separated, and spent half an hour complaining about his soon-to-be-ex and her bitch of a divorce lawyer, until he finally asked what kind of a lawyer I was. Then he went very, very quiet.” Needless to say, despite the high hopes I’d had on my first contact with him, there would be no further dates.

  “Well, shit.”

  “I knowww,” I whined. “Guys, I haven’t been laid in over five months. I’m developing some serious Popeye Arm here.”

  Bec glanced up, alarm painted on her face. “You have what now?”

  “Popeye Arm,” Sabs said helpfully. “You know, your dominant arm muscles get so big because you’re self-servicing constantly.”

  Bec’s grin was full-dimpled. “Ah. That’s a good one.”

  “I know, right? I thought of it.”

  “That’s because you were a horny shit,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah,” Sabs agreed, leaning over to kiss Bec. She lowered her voice, but I could still hear her murmur, “Just so you know, babe, I haven’t had Popeye Arm in a very long time.”

  “I’d hope not.” Bec grinned, reaching up to pull my sister close for another kiss.

  Sabs leaned her elbows on the counter, staring at me. “Did Mom talk to you about the party she’s throwing the night before the wedding? Like we don’t have enough shit to organize and a ceremony rehearsal that day, then she has to have a party so everyone who isn’t coming to the wedding can give us their best wishes. And admire the new fence color or whatever the fuck she’s trying to show off this time.”

  “She did, and also insisted I get a new dress for it. It reeks of a setup,” I grumbled.

  Sabine grimaced. “Ah, yeah, um, she mentioned Marcus Adamson.”

  “Who?”

  “You know the Adamsons. They live at the end of the road, and their son Marcus got his shirtsleeve caught in the hay baler when he was thirteen. Me and Dad were fixing the fence after your horse busted through it, yet again, when Mrs. Adamson came screaming across the fields that border ours that they needed help.”

  It sounded vaguely familiar and I delved into the ol’ memory bank. “Oh right. Didn’t he chop his finger off?”

  “Yeah, two. Right ring finger and pinky, and degloved his middle finger. It was so awesome. And horrible for him of course,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  “How do you know it was those exact fingers?”

  “Because I’m the one who found those exact fingers in the baling machine and put them on ice after I’d done some epic first aid on his hand,” she pointed out cheerfully.

  Bec laughed, while I suppressed a gag. Once I’d pushed the thought of mangled hands from my head, I told Sabs, “You’re so gross.” Still, I wasn’t surprised. She had wanted to be a surgeon for as long as I could recall and had always run headfirst into every situation where someone was injured so she could help them.

  “What? I did such a good job that they were able to reattach the ring finger without issues. The pinky was too mangled. Shame.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Hey, thanks to me he still has nine perfectly functional fingers.” She bounced her eyebrows, grinning wickedly.

  “Again, thanks for that visual. Moving on, I’m going tomorrow to check the fit of my dress and collect it if everything’s fine which I’m certain it will be. I’ll also get that tie for Mitch and this damned setup party dress.”

  Sabine’s bouncing eyebrows turned to dubiously raised ones. “Will you be okay with all of that?”

  “Jesus, why does everyone suddenly doubt my ability to buy clothes? Have I randomly started appearing in burlap sacks paired with checkered flip-flops and a flower garland?”

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Sabs’s eyebrows went even higher. “Uh, Jannie…you pay someone to shop for you.”

  Even Sabs didn’t know, but along with the lack of time problem, I also found outfit and shoe coordination tricky. Given my job required me to look capable and confident and somewhat stylish, it was an issue. “Well, yeah but I still have to approve what she’s chosen. I don’t lack style, Sabbie.” Small lie. “I lack time and motivation.” Big truth. “Mom jumped on me about this a few days ago. Are you two colluding?”

  Bec, bless her, spoke up. “Calm down, sweetheart. I’m sure Jana’s got everything under control.” She turned wide blue eyes to me, and I read everything in the expression. Please tell her you’ve got it under control or she’s going to go full Bridezilla on us and I don’t think I can talk her down.

  “Everything’s under control, Sabs. Chill, all right? And I have someone coming with me to make sure everything’s as it should be, and help me buy another dress.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a woman I met last week who works in our building. She’s super stylish. It’ll be great, I promise.” I snapped my fingers. “It’s the shoe breaker.”

  “You’re trusting someone you barely know?” Sabs asked, not even bothering to disguise her incredulity or alarm.

  Bec, bless her doubly,
spoke up again. “I’m sure it’s all fine. Just relax.” She stroked Sabine’s back.

  My sister flashed Bec a look I knew well—anxious and trying to act like she wasn’t—then turned her focus, now a pleading look, back to me. “Seriously, Jannie, please don’t come home with a fucked-up dress. Please. I’ll never be able to get you back there to have it fixed.”

  Fuck, she was pushing my goddamned buttons. Just breathe, think of calm blue oceans and Brad Pitt shirtless in Fight Club. It was her special day and all that, so I swallowed my childish retort, smiled my best smile for her and promised, “I won’t. It’ll be perfect, I promise. For the record, I’m not a complete idiot. And like I said, this woman knows what she’s doing.” I kept my smile fixed in place and hoped Brooke was as good as I thought she was.

  Chapter Seven

  The dress store was empty of customers when we arrived just on nine thirty a.m. The dressmaker clasped her hands together and offered me a practiced smile. “Ms. Fleischer, I’ve been expecting you. Your sister called earlier this week to inquire about the dress, actually. She seemed quite…concerned but I assured her everything is under control and the dress completed as discussed.”

  “Of course she did,” I said under my breath, before plastering a practiced smile of my own on my face and responding more appropriately, “Thank you, I’m certain everything is fine. She’s just anxious, as I’m sure you’re used to.”

  “Mmmm, yes, absolutely.” The dressmaker was the antithesis of every stereotype I held about seamstresses which was sixties, short, glasses, and a wrist pincushion—not early thirties, tall, auburn-haired, and looking like she should be modeling her dresses. She gestured that I should follow her to the fitting rooms.

  After a glance at Brooke, already settled on one of the plush seats in the waiting area, legs crossed and phone in hand ready to pass time while I did the dress thing, I nodded. Before I disappeared around back, I said with more than a hint of fake drama, “Wish me luck…”

  Brooke’s smile was anything but practiced. It was warm, genuine, and adorably encouraging. “You don’t need it.”

  It only took ten minutes for me to strip down to my underwear, be remeasured, receive a barely audible murmur of approval or thanks that I’d apparently stayed the same size, and then shimmy into the dress for a final check. The seamstress asked if I was satisfied.

  I twisted to look at myself in the mirror. “Uh…I guess?” I stared some more, taking in the flowing midi skirt, the fitted bodice, and not-too-plunging V-neck with cap sleeves. The dress fit, it looked good, what else did I need? Sabine’s Please don’t come home with a fucked-up dress because I’ll never get you back there to have it fixed echoed through my head. Sigh. “Just a moment, I’ll have my friend check it or my sister is going to have a meltdown.”

  I hopped down off the box and slipped out to the waiting area where Brooke was still alone. The dressmaker followed at a respectable distance, silent while I asked Brooke, “Could I get an opinion? I think it looks great, but do you think the dress fits properly and all the rest?”

  Brooke glanced up from her phone, her mouth dropping open for a moment before she snapped it shut again. Her eyes, however, remained wide open. “Shit, that’s fabulous. You look incredible. Um, mhmm, everything seems, uh…yeah I think it fits. That color is…wow.”

  The dress was a darkish seafoam green, a compromise between blue and green for both Sabs and Bec. I fiddled with a sleeve. “Mm, thanks. I told Sabs I’d retract my agreement to be her maid of honor if she made me wear something pink, frilly, too short or generally unflattering.” Which of course, had set off a round of Jana’s picky teasing. Fleischer status quo. “I’m still a little concerned I’m going to fade into the green pasture background and be a disembodied head.”

  “You’d never fade into anything, Jana.” Brooke cleared her throat. “What are the brides wearing?”

  “Both dresses, both white.” They were keeping their dresses a secret from each other, but I’d seen both gowns, and they were exquisite. “Sabs was wavering between dress and fitted tux and heels but I think her childhood fantasy of a white gown won out in the end.”

  Brooke stood and walked over, indicating that I should turn around. I did so, slowly, and once I’d completed a full three-sixty she gave me a thumbs-up. “I can’t see any weird stitching or missing bits. I’d say you’re good to go.”

  From behind me, I heard an exhalation and what sounded like a mumbled Thank God.

  I reached for Brooke’s hand and gave it a grateful squeeze. “Thank you. I think she’d have killed me if I didn’t get this one right.”

  “No worries, Jana. It’s my pleasure.”

  After I’d taken possession of the dress, Brooke and I wandered through the mall to find The Other Dress. The garment bag slung over my arm was getting in the way as I looked through racks of clothes and after my twelfth exasperated huff and shuffle, Brooke carefully extracted it from me to carry it. “For the sake of your sister. If you ruin it now…”

  She bought a few blouses for work and a gorgeous A-line skirt that I was tempted by myself before I realized I’d never be able to wear it at work in case I bumped into her the day when she wore it too. We’d wandered through almost half the mall, found nothing suitable for Mom’s party, and I was beginning to get hangry. Not a good mood while doing something I already found annoying. I decided I’d try one more dress and then it was time to break for lunch and recharge my shopping batteries.

  I spotted yet another well-dressed mannequin in a window and ducked into yet another store with long-suffering Brooke in tow. After apologizing to her again for how boring dress shopping was, and receiving another don’t-worry-about-it response, I slipped into the change rooms to repeat the strip down, dress on, ask Brooke’s opinion routine. Turning sideways, I studied myself in the mirror. The cut was great and did fantastic things for my cleavage but the color was all wrong, and made me look almost sinister. Sighing, I admitted, “I think it’s a little too dark for me. You could get away with it though.”

  “Maybe.” Brooke tilted her head, tapping her lower lip with her forefinger. “I saw something I thought would look good on you. Do you mind if I grab it?”

  “Go nuts.” I slipped back into the fitting room to take off the dress while Brooke hunted. In nothing but my underwear, I jiggled in the overly air-conditioned cubicle, responding to texts—a frantic, lengthy missive from Mom and a calmly questioning but still panic-laced one from Sabine. A light knock on the fitting-room door made me toss my phone onto the chair in the corner.

  “Just me,” Brooke’s slightly muffled voice assured me.

  I opened the door, using it to shield myself from the other women milling about outside. “Find what you were looking for?”

  Wordlessly, she held up a light blue, mid-length halter-neck dress. She seemed exceedingly pleased with herself, a smug smile tilting the edges of her mouth.

  “I never even saw this. Shit, it’s great.” I snuck an arm out to take possession of her offering. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Brooke leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have a gift for ferreting out clothes.”

  A quick check confirmed it was my size too. “That you do. Want a job as a personal shopper?” I was only ninety percent kidding.

  She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, face contorted as though she was considering a life-changing decision. “Hmmm…plenty of benefits come to mind, the least of which it would mean I could quit my current stressful, soul-sucking job. I’ll get back to you.” Grinning, Brooke gently pulled the door closed, the soft click echoing through the small cubicle.

  I left my bra on a hook and stepped into the dress. Sliding the zip up my ribs, I stared at my reflection. She had a gift indeed. The dress was made for me, a fitted bodice with a slightly flared skirt that fell just below my knees. And the hidden helpers inside the bust left the cleavage enhancement of the previous dress for dead. Winner.

  I
flung the door open, startling Brooke leaning against the opposite wall. All she said was an appreciative, “Nice.” When I beckoned, she stepped into the cubicle, leaving the door open.

  “What do you think?” Standing on tiptoes, I turned my back to her so I could check the hemline in the mirror.

  Behind me, her eyebrows made a slow trip north. “I think you look fantastic but, uh you need a small adjustment.” Brooke pointed to my collarbone, moving in as though she was going to twitch the halter strap to the side.

  Moving the fabric along the inside of my left breast, I agreed, “Oh, yeah I think it might need tightening. Back there.” I held the strap off my neck, pulling the dress a little tighter but it still didn’t quite sit right.

  “Do you want me to hold it?”

  “Could you please? I can’t quite get the angle right.”

  Brooke carefully took over, her fingers grazing my skin as she moved the fabric and held the strap away from my neck. “I think about there.”

  “Yeah that looks good.” I raised my eyes to meet hers in the mirror but couldn’t find them because they were languorously moving over my body. Her overt appraisal didn’t bother me, in fact I felt a flash of excitement in the pit of my stomach that was both pleasant and unexpected. I waited until her eyes came back to mine in the mirror and was surprised by the barely disguised desire in them.

  Brooke shrugged and flashed me the cutest caught me grin. I wouldn’t have been bothered by her checking me out regardless, but something about her appreciation had gotten under my skin. And not in a bad way. After a charged moment, she murmured, “I think this is the one.”

  I had to swallow before I could answer in a voice that felt hoarse and far more unsteady than it should have been, “Yes. I think it is.”

  She stepped back, her eyes still locked with mine in the mirror, and said, “I’ll leave you to get changed.”

  The moment I was alone again, I had to lean against the wall of the cubicle and fan my suddenly hot face. What the hell was that about?