Page 167 of Zach
“Why? You’re beautiful. You’re in your thirties. Why do you dress like that?” I resist the urge to
scoff at his assertion that I’m beautiful. Each and every time he says it, I feel the same way. Like he
made a mistake, or he’s half blind. But he’s right, I’m in my thirties. I’ve been out in the world, out
around men, and it’s just a fact; his attraction doesn’t make sense.
“You saw my skin, Zach. You know exactly why.”
“Bullshit. You’re in marketing. I’ve seen some of the campaigns you’ve handled. You’ve worked
for some of the best designers in the world. No fucking way did you believe the only clothing that
would work for you were those fucking dresses. So why? Why do you continue to wear them?”
“Because I’m tired of trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, and failing!”
Ok, so maybe he can get a rise out of me. I press a hand to my throat, shocked at my outburst.
His shoulders slump. “I don’t expect you to dress differently.” He holds up a hand, shutting me up.
“Yeah, at the charity event, I pushed. I already apologized for that. But now, this is not about
expectations.”
“That’s not true, but I can’t figure out if you’re trying to convince yourself or me.” He scowls at
me, and the little devil on my shoulder encourages me to push this. To go ahead and blow everything
up. “Appearances matter to you. A lot. That’s a fact.”
He softly pounds his fist on the back of the cushioned chair. “Appearances matter to everyone
Maya. Everyone. Our clothing choices say a lot about who we are. It’s not a bad thing to use that to
your advantage.”
“Is that what you do? Use it to your advantage. Or do you dress that way so people will think a
certain way about you?”
“They’re the same thing,” he says flatly. The twitch in the corner of his eye betrays his frustration
with me. It happens all the time around me. Maybe that’s a bad sign. What man wants to be with a
woman who annoys them?
For that matter, what woman wants to be with a man who’s always trying to fix them?
“No, I don’t think they are. I think you dress the way you do because you want people to see your
worth.”
“By that logic, what does that say about you and your clothing choices?”
That hurts. More than I’ll ever let him see. “I tried, you know,” I say quietly. “I wore what
everyone else was. And I was miserable. So my clothing choices now reflect me.”
