Chapter 006: Outfit Dilemmas and Stolen Glances
962 Words
~SAFFRON~
Have you ever had this feeling? The one where you think you’ve got enough time to prepare for a night out, but suddenly it’s past the scheduled time, and you still haven’t put together anything good to wear? Every piece in your closet looks wrong. Not even the new clothes my mom bought me could fix it.
And it’s not like I care much about what Jason would think about my outfit.
I don’t.
I just don’t want to overdress for a house party—maybe the only one I’ll get for a long time. I also don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard to fit in with his crowd. First impressions matter, right? Especially when you’re about to walk into a house full of strangers in New York.
In the full-length mirror... my reflection stares back at me, a chaotic mix of colors making me look like a puzzle pieced together in haste. Clothes scattered at my feet like silent evidence of my panic.
By 7:45, I finally settle on an oversized plaid shirt hanging loosely over my shoulders, its brown and tan checks adding a cozy layer to the crisp red tank top that hugs my torso just above my high-waisted faded blue jeans. White sneakers keep it casual, like I hadn’t spent hours obsessing over that lingering gaze at the pool. I pull my hair into a neat ponytail, swipe on lip gloss, spritz deodorant, and fasten a thin bracelet around my wrist. That’s it. Done.
Pleased with the way I look, I grab my phone from the dresser, quickly reply to my mom’s last text asking how I’m coping, then slide it into my back pocket and turn off the light.
Jason is already in the living room when I descend the stairs. He checks his Apple Watch, scrolls on his phone, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He takes a slow drag and puffs out smoke in that lazy, practiced way that screams he’s no stranger to it. The black baseball cap worn backwards against his tousled hair gives him a playful, boyish charm amid his confident style. His black leather jacket is oversized, unzipped over a simple white tee that hugs his frame just right, teasing the tattoos curling up his neck. He looks… God, he looks incredible. Clean and devastatingly handsome. There’s something different about the way he’s put himself together tonight, like he ransacked his wardrobe too.
But the most amazing thing is the way his eyes fly open when he catches sight of me. He inhales audibly, the cigarette freezing halfway to his lips. For a few heartbeats, the two of us just stand there, staring at each other.
“You…” His voice trails off, his throat working as he swallows. I open my mouth, wondering if I should ask him if this is a bad idea. If maybe we should call off the whole thing. But I can’t quite make myself say it.
“You took so long,” he finally says, shifting his weight as I reach him.
His cologne mixes with the lingering smoke, wrapping around me, impossible to ignore. “Yeah. Clothing issues,” I reply, aware that he still hasn’t looked away, making me feel a little nervous about the house party. I notice he’s shaved the stubble from his jaw, making him look even sharper.
Jason manages to rip his eyes from me and glances down at his watch again. “We better get going.”
“Yes, of course. Let’s go.”
I follow him to the car garage, walking closely behind him. He flicks the cigarette away as he approaches a red Mustang, and I exhale in relief—the smell had been clawing at my throat. He pulls a key from his beige pants and unlocks the car. Riding in a Mustang after that limo ride? Pretty cool for nineteen.
“I’m kinda nervous,” I admit once we’re on the road, the city lights streaking past us. Cool night air drifts in through the slightly open windows. “I’ve never been to a house party.” I blurt out.
The second it leaves my mouth, I regret it.
“How old are you?” he asks blankly.
I hesitate, taking a brief pause before answering, “Nineteen.”
He raises his eyebrows “You’re not legal to drink alcohol,”
I huff, “Legal or not, I don’t even fancy drinking alcohol.”
I catch him stealing glances at me before his eyes return to the road.
I stare at his neck tattoos then, curious about the meaning of the black Chinese calligraphy ones, with a crown inked close to his ear. “How old are you?” I ask, chickening out on the real question about his tattoos’ meaning.
“Not old enough to smoke or drink.”
And yet you smoke.
His eyes flick to my face, catching whatever expression betrayed my thoughts, and he confirms it with his next words.
“f**k the rules,” he says curtly, and slows to a stop at a red light. I suck my teeth.
As his fingers drum against the steering wheel, I notice his eyes stray from the windshield. After a moment, I realize where he’s looking. He’s subtly looking at my legs.
I lift my eyes, and he realizes he’s been caught. His gaze snaps up quickly to the windshield.
I shift in my seat, heat crawling up my neck.
The ride to the house party gets quiet. I pull out my phone to keep myself busy, but I can't help but notice how he keeps looking straight ahead, not glancing once at me. And I can’t shake the feeling that this silence is only temporary.
- Writer
