Say a Little Prayer(29)

Maybe this is why I’m here. Maybe this is why Pastor Young thinks I’m a bad influence.

“Do you trust me?”

I hold out a hand and watch as Julia blinks in surprise. “I…what?”

“Do you trust me?” I repeat.

“Of course, but—”

“But nothing.” I motion her toward me, deeper into the store. “Come here and show me how this works.”

Julia’s expression is still guarded, but this time, when I step into the aisle, she follows. “You don’t need me to show you,” she says. “You’ve been thrifting before.”

“Sure, but according to you and Ben, this store is special. What’s the secret?”

“There is no secret!”

We both jump as Ben’s head pops out from behind a rack of graphic T-shirts. “Jesus Christ, Ben!” I press a hand to my chest. “Don’t do that! I thought you were a ghost.”

He ignores me, gliding a hand over the top of the hangers instead. “There’s no secret,” he repeats. Then he lowers his voice and whispers, “The store provides,” before sinking back behind the rack. When I peer around the corner, he’s gone.

“Cool,” I say. “That was normal. The store provides?”

Julia nods. “He’s right. Close your eyes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you trust me?”

The same question I’d just asked her. The same one I’d always answer with a vigorous, emphatic yes. Julia’s finally grinning, hand outstretched in my direction, and I think that even if I didn’t, even if she wasn’t one of the most important people in my life, I would absolutely lie to keep her here. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I have a single second to process the warm press of her fingers around my wrist before she tugs me into the next aisle.

“Good,” she says. “Now put your hand on the rack.”

I swallow, suddenly very aware of my pulse fluttering under the exact spot where Julia’s touching me. “I know how to thrift.”

“Do you want me to show you or not?” She places my hand deliberately over the nearest rack. “You can’t look. Just stop when something feels right because the store—”

“?‘The store provides,’ I heard. It actually gets weirder the more you say it.” I shake my head, eyes still stubbornly closed. “And what do you mean by ‘feels right’?”

“For me, it’s kind of like a spark.”

I choke back a breathy laugh. My fingertips are already buzzing with a very different kind of energy, and I flex both hands as Julia guides me down the aisle. At first, the only thing I feel is my own uneven heartbeat and the reassuring press of Julia’s palm between my shoulder blades. Then, just when I’m wondering how long I have to pretend to do this, something soft snags between my fingers.

“Wait!”

We both stop, and I tug a long mustard-yellow skirt from the rack. Julia’s eyes widen. “Oh,” she breathes. “It’s beautiful.”

The pleated fabric is silky between my fingers, and even though it’s not something I’d usually wear, I can’t seem to put it down. It feels like it belongs on an art teacher or an up-and-coming actor, someone eccentric and glamorous who knows exactly what they want. It’s my size, too, and when I look up, mouth partially open in disbelief, Julia is grinning.

“Told you,” she says. “The store provides.”

Maybe it does. I tuck the skirt over the crook of my arm as we continue browsing. No wonder Hannah likes this place. It gives off the same strange, vaguely disarming energy as her collection of crystals back home. Like any second I’m going to read my fortune in the row of hats dangling from the wall or find my true love lurking between the plates of tarnished jewelry.

Ben is already digging through the back aisles when we catch up, occasionally tossing another garment into the haphazard pile at his side.

“Find something?” he asks without looking up.

I shrug. “Maybe. I’m not usually a skirt girly.”

“The store doesn’t give you what you want. It shows you what you need.”

“Oh, really?” I pluck a starchy gray button-down from the top of his pile. “And you need this for what, exactly?”

Ben snatches it back, tips of his ears flaring pink. “It’s for New York.”

I’ve never been to New York, so it’s entirely possible everyone dresses in the same dull, neutral palette Ben keeps pulling from the racks, but something about the lack of color makes me stop. I glance down at the blue flamingos patterned across Ben’s tie-dye tank top and try to imagine him buttoning himself into a business-casual dress shirt for two whole weeks this summer. The hesitation must be clear on my face because he stops digging, arms falling dejectedly at his sides.

“Oh,” he says. “You hate it.”

“No!” I shake my head. “Of course not! It’s just…a little boring, don’t you think?”

“This is what they wear in New York.”

“Says who?”

“A Google search for ‘Manhattan street fashion’?”

“That can’t possibly be right. You’re going to art school, Ben. No one is this allergic to color.”