Today is Sunday, the last day I’ll be able to spend the whole day with Nolan. So today I dressed differently. Maybe Mayo is right and I’m too uptight about my clothes.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and even though this clothing doesn’t feel like mine — "Maybe Nolan will like it."

I had on a shirt with a neckline — maybe an A-cup, but according to Mayo, with a little padding and a push-up bra — "Maybe two" — they look better.

The wine-colored skirt barely covered my legs. She told me that to fix my embarrassment and keep Nolan from scolding me, she bought me a pair of tights — surprisingly — in my skin tone.

Looking at myself, with my waist accentuated, padded chest, legs practically bare. I could only keep my shoes — something that was still a part of me.

This clothing didn’t feel like mine. It had no history, no reason for me to love it. But if Nolan likes it, if he approves of me this way — "It will be worth it."

I tied my hair with a purple scarf, finishing the look with black lipstick.

I left my apartment, a little colder without my sweater. But the café is warm — I just have to endure the walk, and I’ll see his eyes, his approval, his love.

Chapter 29: Brown Shoes VI

When I arrived, I couldn’t hear anything. That unsettled me.

I stopped in front of the door and pushed it. It didn’t open. "Hadn’t Nolan arrived yet?" I thought, processing the absence.

There was no smell of spices from the kitchen. No violent banging of his craft. No light on inside. None of those small signs that Nolan leaves without knowing he leaves them.

Only the closed café and the morning cold hitting me like a punishment.

I took out my phone, sending a message with trembling fingers.

"Are you here yet?"

I waited.

The message marked as delivered, with those classic two checkmarks. I waited for them to turn blue — one minute, two. Nolan never takes longer.

But nothing. Nothing happened.

I leaned against the door with my arms wrapped around myself, trying to preserve warmth, counting the minutes, counting every second of absence.

At this hour Nolan had been in the kitchen for twenty to thirty minutes. At this hour the smell had already crossed the door.

"Five minutes," I whispered, continuing. "Ten" — nothing appeared.

At fifteen I heard an engine parking at the back of the café. It was his — nobody else parks there. With my last reserves of energy I ran, seeing his car as I turned the corner.

Then I saw both doors open at the same time.

I stood still, with a smile drawn in watercolors.

Nolan stepped out from the driver’s side. "Nolan," I said, eyes closed. "You’re here."

But when I opened them, the physical cold was replaced by an aggressive gust. Mayo, carefully, stepped out from the passenger side, her bag hanging from one shoulder and a full shopping bag on the other.

My hands began to burn.

Not like that day in the alley with the cat — that had been a clean, recognizable burning. This was different. This burned down to the bones, from somewhere beneath the bandages, rising up my forearms to my elbows without asking permission.

Nolan saw me from a distance and smiled, walking toward me with that stride of his I knew so well.

He hugged me, wrapping me in his warmth.

I received him with my arms, resting my face against his chest as every day, searching for that scent of his that belonged to me — that blend of woody cologne and market soap I had memorized without meaning to.

His scent was there, faded by time but present to me. But there was something different, something touched. A sweet, soft smell that reached your nose with a tailored care.

Mayo’s scent, embedded in his clothes.

"You look beautiful, Ryne," he told me in my ear, running his hands along my arms. "Aren’t you cold?"

I let go before he did.

His grey-green eyes moved over me with that warmth I loved, that I had memorized to imagine in front of the mirror. But I couldn’t stop noticing what he wasn’t saying.

I tried to pull down the skirt with a subtle movement, tugging the fabric toward my knees by a centimeter it couldn’t reach. I crossed my ankles, as if that helped. I adjusted my shirt, pulling its sleeves down to cover as much of my shoulders as possible.

Mayo, two steps away, did none of that.

Her outfit, even more provocative than my attempt at being so. She didn’t need to adjust anything because nothing about her apologized for being there. Her shirt accentuated the right curves; her skirt covered just enough to avoid looking desperate.

Nolan must think that — that I look like one.

Maybe his eyes weren’t saying it. But what kind of girlfriend gets the idea to dress like this in public?

I made myself a little smaller without deciding to.

It wasn’t fair to compare myself. I knew that. But something in my chest demanded it anyway, with that irrational insistence of things you know you shouldn’t do and do regardless.

And the conclusion was simple and cruel: if this were a competition, I had been losing since birth.

"I — I’m not cold, I’m fine," I murmured, looking into his eyes, while covering my insufficient body with my hands. "Why did you arrive late?"

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing at his car. "Something came up unexpectedly," he answered, pulling out the keys. "Yesterday Mayo asked me to pick up an apron."

From the bag, she pulled out a green apron just like mine, only longer. "Yesterday I realized this color suits me better," she said. "That’s why I wanted my own." From the car she took out the final accessory — a green cap with Nolan’s N. "Don’t I look ridiculous?"

"No," I said, looking at my fingers. "I think it’s time to get to work. We’re fifteen minutes late."

"You’re right," answered Mayo, tying her apron. "But with me here it’s no problem." She walked over to me, looking me up and down. "How cute you look, RyneRyne." She hugged me, shaking me from side to side. "You even padded yourself up, you little minx. Did you want everyone staring at you that badly?"

"I — I —" I tried to say, my face flushing. "I just wanted to see if I liked it."

She smiled, giving me a pat on the back. "Well the neckline doesn’t look bad on you, you little tease," she laughed. "Next time wear a shaper, to cinch your waist." She closed her eyes, stepping back with her hands open. "It’s late, don’t you think? Time to work, employee of the month."

I stood still for a moment, feeling the tingling from her pat. Nolan, beside me, smiled and extended his hand. "Mayo is right, Ryne."

"What, about the neckline?"

"No, no, no," Nolan interrupted, shaking his head and hands. "About the time." He extended his hand again, this time more ceremonially. It seemed as if the universe conspired at exactly that instant to make it more perfect, more singular, more mine.

"Nolan," I said, watching the breeze move his blond fringe and the sun light up his green pupils. I took his hand in a desperate movement, feeling his warmth.

With a smile painted in oil. "Time to work, my beautiful girlfriend," he finished.

I smiled, as if he had cast a happiness spell — my warlock. "Time to work. My beautiful warlock."