Cruz made no comment about the amount of food I was shoveling into my mouth at a Guinness-record speed, and I had the dignity to not try to explain my chipmunk-like behavior.
But when I arrived with my seventh course for the meal—my dessert, a chocolate chip ice cream—and began seasoning it with salt, he couldn’t take it anymore.
“You put salt in your ice cream?” He dropped his newspaper, glaring at me.
“The saltiness heightens the sweetness.”
“Your craziness heightens your hotness.”
“Cruz!” I chastised. “What did you drink? It’s unlike you not to hate me.”
“I never hated you, you fool.”
There was something wary and unguarded about the way he looked at me. Something so completely un-Cruz-like. But I chose to ignore it because…well, because I was a mess and knew nothing about men and did not want to make any mistakes.
He might be harmless, but he still didn’t make me feel safe.
From there, we moved to the shopping mall, or arena, or whatever this hell was. Duty free or not, none of the prices were within the range I liked to pay.
Let me rephrase—I did not like to pay anything at all for the atrocities I called my clothes, a fact that oftentimes landed me at different thrift stores, where apparently, a lot of the clothes belonged to women of a certain ancient profession.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t find anything sensible. There were modest cardigans aplenty to choose from, which I was sure used to belong to equally pleasant grandmas of Mrs. Underwood’s type, but I suppose I needed to go with one streamlined fashion choice and therefore went for tart.
“I just want you to know that I feel mighty uncomfortable about you writing a check to pay for my stuff,” I lied brazenly.
Cruz had money and came from an upper-middle-class home. If there was one thing I didn’t feel for him, it was bad.
“I just want you to know that I couldn’t care less,” he deadpanned.
He first dragged me into Ann Taylor, but couldn’t convince me to try anything on, on the grounds that I didn’t want to look like Margaret Thatcher breaking it to England that they were getting into the Falklands.
Cruz faced the same challenges at the Gap, where the clothes were significantly younger, but somehow also blander.
“I’m going to look as appealing as a tax return,” I choked out.
“Well,” Cruz insisted, “one way or the other, you’re ending today looking like my missionary-loving wife.”
Things took a turn for the better when we entered Anthropologie. Their clothes seemed to have a lot of color and swagger, like the type of outfits you’d see a Hollywood spawn wearing on a coffee run to impress the paparazzi.
I picked three ankle-length sundresses in different patterns and cuts, each one of them more costly than my rent, and watched Cruz’s poker face as he swiped his credit card to pay for them.
I assumed he might be doing that on Wyatt’s order, or even Catherine Costello’s, to try to reform me into something digestible for human consumption.
This whole day made me feel super prickly, but I still went with it. Unfortunately, I had no say in this, since I had lost a bet.
Then there was Trinity and my parents’ wrath to think about. And the fact Bear deserved a mother who didn’t look like she practiced the most ancient profession in the world.
Also, privately, I could admit I really, really liked the Anthropologie dresses.
“I think I’m starting to get a feel of what you’re into,” Cruz said when we got out of the store, which by the way, smelled like a new car and someone’s upscale bathroom.
I ignored his observation. I already felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman without being told I was on the cusp of self-discovery and inner transformation.
Next, we went to Free People, where I grabbed a few pairs of pants and some casual shirts and jackets. Then we went to a bohemian boutique, something small and not too pricey, and Cruz splurged on two pairs of sandals for me—both orthopedic but surprisingly not hideous—and a little purse that didn’t look like a tie-dyed squirrel.
I didn’t thank him one time during the entire shopping trip, careful to remind him that it was his idea, not mine.
Finally, around two in the afternoon, when I was ready for my lunch （more like in danger of eating my own arm）， he stopped in front of Prada.
He jerked his chin inside. “Ladies first.”
“Are you crazy?” I glared at him. “I’m not really going to let you buy me anything from there.”