17. Runway Strut

17

RUNWAY STRUT

STYLE (TAYLOR’S VERSION), TAYLOR SWIFT

Manny

“Here, here, here,” Cara shouts, pointing at the big white and blue sign above the old-fashioned entrance door.

“What is this?” I ask, confused as to why we’re pulling over in front of a charming but very vintage thrift store.

We get out of the car and walk toward the timeworn building showcasing slightly faded paint with large windows. Blue shopping carts swarm the entrance, but before I can ask her again what we’re doing here, she gets out cash from her purse and hands it to me.

Raising my eyebrows at her, I try to open my mouth to say something, but she brings her index finger to my lips and says, “Shh! Listen. You have ten minutes and twenty-five dollars to find me an outfit for this party. I will do the same for you. Meet me by the changing rooms in ten. Got it?” She winks at me and runs through the doors and into the store.

I walk around the thrift store, holding a couple of dresses and skirts in my hands, completely annoyed at the fact that I don’t understand this game. And if I’m being honest, I’ve been annoyed all day at the fact that I want to undress her. I want to be exploring every inch of her body and not finding more ways to cover it. In the end it doesn’t matter either way, because she’s off limits and I know that. It doesn’t hurt to dream though.

“Time’s up!” I hear Cara shout from across the store and the clerk by the dark register chuckles at that. I shake my head and walk toward her, clothes in hand and a smile on my face because it is impossible to look at how happy she is right now and not match it.

“Lemme see, lemme see.” She has the biggest smile on her face and her hands together in front of her chest like she is two seconds away from a cheer clap.

“Three outfits and a hat to match,” I say proudly, holding up the garments in my hands.

“Ah! Good job!! Those look like me!” Cara shouts.

Handing her the clothes and pointing at the cart next to her, I ask, “What about you?”

“You’re going to have to wait and see. Go try it on and come out to model for us.”

“Who’s us?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows and looking around. That’s when I notice the two employees sitting by the dressing room doors. “Well hello, ladies,” I croon, giving them each my hand to shake.

“You’re such a flirt. Let’s go,” Cara taunts, pulling me by the arm and dragging to the dressing room. The rooms are side by side, divided by a thin wall and even though I can’t see her, I can hear her ruffling around with her clothes.

“Cara, you okay over there?” I ask as I change into the first pair of dress pants and white collared shirt. This is already a no. It smells like Abuela’s closet, and I look like I’m going to prep school .

“Hush and get dressed,” she shouts from her side and I snicker because this is ridiculous—but who am I to say no to her?

I hear the door to the changing room open so I get out of the small stall and stand across from her showing off my outfit. Cara tries to contain her laughter but instead she nods to one of the women sitting down. A Taylor Swift song plays —hard not to know it’s a Taylor song after Allie listens to her non-stop—and she struts down toward them, swaying her hips and walking to the beat. She’s wearing white pants that don’t reach her ankles with a pink top and a fluffy hat. I added that hat as a joke, but of course, Cara can pull it off. She spins around, walking in my direction, and when she reaches me, she grabs my hand and pulls me, leading me toward the space she just walked by.

“What?” I ask, wondering what the deal is.

“Model for us, hotshot, let’s see your runway strut,” she urges, clapping her hands to the beat of the song.

These girls want a show? Then it’s show time!

I start walking down the made-up runway, exaggerating my steps as if I were a model putting on a show. When I make it to the racks of clothes, I turn around and smile. I walk back and repeat the same. Walk, pose, smile, repeat. With a loud round of applause, I make it back to the dressing room area and Cara’s laughing now. So damn hard. So cute, too.

I get right next to her, bringing my hands around her back and pulling her to me. If pretending she’s mine is what I’m doing today, then I’m playing along every chance that I can. “Do I get a ten?” I ask, whispering into the shell of her ear and causing her to shiver and tense under my touch.

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask the judges?” she manages to ask and I swear she’s trying hard as hell not to be affected by me. Why am I playing with fire when I know I can’t let it burn ?

I let her go, turning around to see the ladies and ask, “So is that a ten?”

The shortest of the two ladies smirks and coos, “Honey, you get a twenty,” making everyone laugh. Good thing this store is empty or this would be bad for business. The employees are sitting down, staring at two complete strangers making fools of themselves trying on clothes and having a fashion show.

We go back to our changing rooms, and although more laughter fills the air as we get ready to head out again, I hear a sharp, frustrated curse from Cara’s dressing room, followed by a loud thud that echoes against the walls.

I frown, my heart skipping a beat. “Cara, are you okay?” I call out, straining to catch any hint of her tone over the noise.

“Yup! Perfect!” she replies too quickly, her voice a pitch higher than usual, tinged with something that doesn’t quite match her words.

I get out of my own dressing room and step closer to her door, the faint sound of her shuffling and a muffled sigh reaching my ears, layered beneath the chatter from the store. It’s a struggle, the kind that seems to reverberate in the air—her breath hitching as she tries to keep it together while she mumbles something under her breath.

“Are you sure? It sounds a little... chaotic in there,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, but concern lingers just beneath the surface.

“Just a minor wardrobe malfunction!” she calls back, though I can hear the strain in her words, the way they crack like thin ice.

I take a deep breath. “Do you need help? I can come in.” Do I want to go in there? Do I want to be close to Cara in this enclosed space? Yes. Should I? Probably not. If self-preservation was a gift, I have none.

“Nope. Absolutely not. Definitely not!” she shoots back, but I can hear her moving around again, the rustle of fabric and the scrape of something heavy hitting the floor.

“Cara,” I press, leaning against the doorframe, my voice softer. “Just open up, alright? I’m right here.”

There’s a pause, the silence thick with unspoken words. I can almost hear her weighing her options, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Finally, she exhales slowly. “Fine! Just give me a second!” She opens the door and lets me see what’s going on.

I try my hardest not to laugh, but Cara seems to be stuck in one of the dresses I grabbed for her. This particular one seems to be fitted, which means she’s currently wearing a piece of fabric that is practically painted on her body except for the top part. That is tilted sideways halfway through her chest. She’s covering her breast with one hand while the other is twisted, trying to grab the zipper.

My unreleased laughter dies on my throat because Cara’s perfect body is in full display in front of me and her cheeks are rosy from the exertion of trying to get the dress on or off. I swallow hard, my eyes roaming her whole body until her words snap me out of it.

“Well don’t just stand there, take this dress off!” she cries, turning around and showing the culprit. The zipper is stuck halfway through her back. It got hooked on some fabric, making it impossible to move.

“Alright, alright,” I reply and when I get close to her, I bring my hands to her shoulders. Leaning down, I add, “Don’t move.”

Cara tenses under my touch and at the sound of my husky voice; I both love and hate how affected and responsive she is to me. The way her body reacts to my change in tone, to my subtle touches, and to my cologne. I’ve noticed it even when she tries to hide it. Whoever said forced proximity brings out feelings that are not usually there was right. Not for me, of course since I’ve been gone for this girl for over a decade but surely for her .

I bring one hand to hold the top of the dress while the other one yanks the zipper down in one quick and hard pull. Her breath hitches at the same time the zipper makes it to her tailbone, right above her perfect round ass.

Now that the dress is open, her whole smooth back is on display, showing a trail of tiny almost imperceptible freckles that lead to her neck. I get the sudden urge to trace them, and before I can stop myself, I do. I trace them softly with my knuckles and her velvety skin prickles under my touch. The air is thick around us and Cara’s skin is so perfect all I want to do is run my hands all over her. My tongue all over her. I bring my gaze up to the mirror in front of us and I catch Cara’s eyes on mine.

It’s getting harder every day to ignore the way I feel about her. Hell, the way I’ve always felt. And maybe, just maybe, I should act on this—maybe get it out of my system. But I don’t know how I could taste her, touch her, once and not want more. I don’t drop my gaze and neither does she, her cheeks warm by the seconds the same way that my hands itch with the need to touch her. It’s not a want anymore but a need.

“Everything okay over there?!” someone shouts from outside, breaking the spell we were both in.

“Yes. Just a moment,” I call loudly before lowering my voice and telling Cara, “You’re unstuck.” My breath blows gently on her back and I can see her tense immediately backing up.

“Thanks,” she murmurs as her eyes finally leave mine and she pulls the dress up to cover both her breasts.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I add, stepping out of her dressing room and back to the front to wait for her and do our next runway strut.

We repeat the same process a couple more rounds until we’re both happy with what we got. We leave the store wearing our derby clothes, leaving the clothes we brought in behind. We promise to come get them tomorrow but the ladies are more excited about our fun date than anything else. They said that romance isn’t dead if a young couple of newlyweds could have this much fun. And damn what I wouldn’t give for that statement to be true.

“Are you ready for this party?” Cara asks, looking out the taxicab window before turning to me and returning my smile. I’m not the only one. Everyone who meets her ends up smiling too. Her energy helps everyone be in a better mood.

“I am. Did you figure out who you want to be?”

“No, who do you want to be? I can adapt,” she offers.

“No; thank you for entertaining me with this whole outfit experience but now, you pick, and I will adapt,” I insist, and I can see her physically shrink. Seeing her shoulders sag or her brows frown when she has to make any decisions is bizarre, especially for this girl, who oozes enough self-confidence to affect others. I can’t put my finger on why it bothers her, but I will figure it out. Maybe that’s what should go on my bucket list for this trip—lift Cara up the same way she does for others.

“Manny, I don’t know! You’re the one who wants to play this game. You pick,” she pleads.

I don’t have time to say anything before the taxi pulls over in front of a venue filled with people and music so loud that we can hear it even from inside the car. I don’t know why she wants to pretend something different—I can pretend to be hers forever.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, handing him cash to pay and tip. “No need for change.” I open my door, stepping out of the car and extending Cara my hand to help her step out of the car. When she does, I lower my head and whisper in her ear, “If I’m picking, then you’ll be Mrs. Zabana tonight, just like the rest of the day. Would you be okay with that? With me calling you my wife tonight? ”

Cara catches a breath at that, her body tensing under my touch. I look at her and see her swallow hard before she whispers, “Sure thing, Mr. Zabana.” Her voice comes out shaky and she clears her throat before saying, “Now let’s go party like newlyweds.”