The Two Week Notice

5

“He said he likes it when you call him sir!” My cousin Viv announces, grinning like she’s just won the f*****g lottery as we weave through the human obstacle course that is the town centre on a Saturday afternoon.
I swear to God, if one more person clips my shoulder with their oversized H&M bag, I’m going to commit a crime.
“It’s not like that,” I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter around myself like it’ll protect me from this conversation. “I think, well, I think he was trying to degrade me.”
The words hang in the air like stale cigarette smoke.
“So he’s a kinky f**k like you!” She practically yells, and I watch in horror as an elderly woman with a walker slows down to give usthe look. You know the one. The “young people these days” look that makes you want to spontaneously combust.
“Spencer said that too; it’s not true. I am not kinky; I haven’t even orgas.....” I catch myself, my mouth snapping shut like a bear trap as the old woman shuffles past at a glacial pace, definitely pretending not to listen but absolutely listening.
I plaster on my best “I’m a normal, functioning member of society” smile and wait until she’s out of earshot.
“Look, I don’t know where you got this rumour from, but it’s not true! I am completely normal when it comes to s*x!” I say, my voice hitting that pitch that only dogs and guilty people can hear.
Viv scoffs. Actually scoffs. Like I’ve just told her the earth is flat and also I’m the queen of England.
“Girl, are you snacking on stupid? I know you have s*x dreams about your old high school teacher; you have a weird kink for being controlled,” she says, grinning wildly like the absolute menace to society she is.
I stop walking. Actually stop. A man behind me nearly faceplants into my back and mutters something in Dutch that I’m pretty sure isn’t complimentary.
“Okay, I’m officially hitting the ‘abort mission’ button on this convo,” I announce, feeling my face transform into a ripe cherry. “Let’s just pretend this never happened, shall we? If only I couldawkwardly shuffle away"
But no. Viv’s not done. Viv is never done.
“He’s cute, huh?” She asks, and against my better judgment, my traitorous brain conjures up his face: Prince Charming’s dark brown hair with some slight curls and one piece hanging down in front of his face like he’s auditioning for a boy band, beautiful brown eyes that probably have seen things, those muscles that have absolutely no business being that defined...
STOP BRAIN. WE ARE NOT DOING THIS TODAY.
“He’s... interesting,” I mutter, biting down on the end of my pen like it’s the last cigarette on earth. My new phone starts ringing, probably my mother wondering why I haven’t responded to her seventeen texts about whether I’m eating enough vegetables.
“Umm, interesting is just another word for I wanna jump his bones,” Viv says, and I can’t help the smirk that escapes.
“Your mind is crazy, girl,” I say, but I still can’t ignore the heat pooling in my stomach every time I think about him. Which is annoying. And inconvenient. And completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
“Let’s look him up, shall we?” Viv says, already pulling out her phone with the speed of a woman possessed.
“Please don’t,” I mutter, but it’s too late. It’s always too f*****g late with her.
She turns the screen to me, and
“Eww, what the fuck.”
It’s a video of him making out with two girls in a club. His eyes are the size of tennis balls, glazed over like a f*****g doughnut, and I should be grossed out. Iamgrossed out. But there’s something in his eyes, something like... discontentment? Like this whole tough front is all an act. Like he’s performing for an audience that isn’t even watching anymore.
“That’s just nasty,” Viv says, fake-throwing up for dramatic effect.
I quickly hand her phone back and roll my eyes so hard I see my own brain.
“Anyway,” I say, because I need to change the subject before she starts analysing myfeelings, “I can’t afford the kind of dress he wants me to wear, and you will be waitressing with Spence, and you can’t even make eye contact with me without getting fired.”
“Babe, there’s smoke breaks; you have got to chill,” she says, linking her arm through mine like we’re in some coming-of-age movie. “Plus, we might find a stunning dress.”
We walk into Birds and Trees thrift shop, and I’m immediately hit with that smell, you know the one. Old lady perfume mixed with mothballs and desperation.
“This place smells like my nan’s attic,” I mutter, flipping through a rack of clothes that should have been burned in 2009.
“Vintage, babe. It’s called vintage,” Viv corrects, holding up a shirt that says “I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom” in neon pink.
“That’s a war crime.”
I show her a tiger-print dress and scoff. “Who wore this? Carole f*****g Baskin?”
“I think I might have something,” I mutter, my fingers brushing against something that doesn’t immediately make me want to gouge my eyes out.
I pull out a purple satin skater dress. It’s... actually not terrible? It’s got a scooped neckline, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that flares just enough to make me look like I have my life together even though I absolutely do not.
“Holy s**t,” Viv breathes, snatching it from my hands. “This is it. This is the dress.”
“It’s... not awful,” I admit, which for me is basically a standing ovation.
“Not awful? b***h, this dress is going to make him forget his own name,” she says, holding it up against me. “You’re going to walk in there looking like a snack, and he’s going to be like ‘yes ma’am, how may I serve you,’ and you’re going to be like ‘on your knees, sir,’ and—”
“I am going to strangle you with this dress.”
“Kinky.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I do, unfortunately. But I’m not about to tell her that.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the cramped changing room, staring at my reflection in a mirror that has seen better days. The dress fits like it was made for me, hugging my curves in all the right places while still leaving enough to the imagination.
I look... good. I look like someone who has her s**t together. I look like someone who doesn’t have s*x dreams about her high school teacher or get flustered when a certain someone calls her “sir.”
“You better not be having a crisis in there!” Viv yells through the curtain. “I can hear you overthinking!”
“I’m not overthinking!”
“You’re literally always overthinking! It’s your whole personality!”
I pull back the curtain, and Viv’s jaw actually drops.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “We’re buying this. Right now. No arguments.”
I look at the price tag. Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars for a dress that makes me feel like I could conquer the world, or at least conquer whatever the hell this weird tension is between him andme.
“Fine,” I say, because I’m nothing if not a woman of poor financial decisions. “But if this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”
“If this goes badly, I’m buying you tequila.”
“Deal.”
We walk to the counter, and the woman behind it, who looks like she’s been chain-smoking since the 80s, gives me a knowing smile.
“Special occasion?” She asks.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
“First date?”
“God, no,” I mutter as Viv laughs out loud.
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push it. Smart woman.
We pay, and I clutch the bag like it contains classified government secrets as we walk back out into the chaos of the town centre.
“So,” Viv says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “What’s the plan? You show up, you look hot, he realises he’s been an i***t, you get your kinky little heart’s desire?”
“I don’t have a kinky heart’s desire,” I protest, but even I don’t sound convincing.
“Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.