Page 37 of Twisted Control

The girl’s gaze flicks over me. “We do. In our Big Girl section.”

Big Girl.

Oh, perfect. Nothing makes a woman feel more elegant than being herded to the “Big Girl” section. She leads us to the sad little reject area at the back of the store—three lonely racks shoved in the corner like an afterthought. I try not to sigh too loudly. Tall women are basically walking billboards, yet we always get the leftover scraps. It’s absurd.

I flick through the hangers until I find a pair of straight-leg jeans in a soft light wash. They look fine. And more importantly, long enough.

“I’ll try these,” I say, heading for the fitting rooms.

Drew follows and leans against the wall outside.

I strip out of my yoga pants, tug the jeans on, and turn to study myself in the mirror. The waist fits fine and they actually hit right at my ankles instead of floating somewhere around mid-calf.

I take a deep breath and pull the curtain open.

“Well?” I ask, doing a small, reluctant spin.

Drew goes completely still. His eyes drag slowly down my body, taking their sweet time. When they finally return to my face, the look in them makes my stomach do a full cartwheel.

I interpret it as overwhelming appreciation.

I keep the jeans on while Drew attempts to sell me on a horrifying purple t-shirt with a giant cartoon bull in sunglasses on the front.

“Absolutely not,” I say, backing away.

After some intense negotiation (and a lot of eye-rolling on my part), I reluctantly settle for a plain black tank top. I never wear tank tops but Drew says thats the whole point.

We move on to the accessories aisle, where every single baseball cap says “Denim Warehouse” in loud, ugly lettering across the front. I hold one between two fingers like it might be contagious.

“I would usually charge at least ten thousand dollars to wear something branded,” I tell him.

Drew plucks the cap from my hand, steps behind me, and settles it on my head. He adjusts it with both hands, then turns me toward the mirror.

“Get over it,” he says, grinning at my reflection. “You look cute.”

I stare at myself and let out a long sigh.

“I’ve officially hit rock bottom.”

“Relax. You’re no where near rock bottom. Things could get a lot worse.”

I narrow my eyes at him in the mirror. “That’s not comforting.”

“Let’s go see if this worked,” Drew says, nodding toward the exit.

I drop my shoulders with a sigh. In theory it could work. In practice…who knows?

Drew insists on paying for everything. It’s strangely cute, and I don’t even argue. We head down to the food court, joining the slow-moving line at a pretzel stand.

I keep my head slightly lowered, heart hammering against my ribs. The only thing worse than being recognized as Grace Whitmore is being recognized as Grace Whitmore while wearing this. What if someone snaps a photo? What if it ends up online with some caption like What happened to her?

I tug the brim of my cap a little lower.

But…no one looks twice.

Not one single person. A mom with three kids walks right past me. A group of teenagers barely glance our way. I’m just another girl in jeans and a baseball cap waiting for a pretzel.

I feel completely invisible.