Chapter 7

You hadn’t planned to go in.

That’s the thing. You’d been walking past — coffee in hand, no real destination, just one of those slow afternoons that doesn’t ask anything of you — and the window display had caught your eye. Something about the jumble of it, the old lampshade and the stack of mismatched frames and a truly spectacular faux fur coat draped over a mannequin with great confidence. You’d stopped. You’d looked.

And then you’d pushed the door open because why not, because you had nowhere to be, because sometimes that’s all it takes.

The shop is small and warm and smells like old fabric and something faintly woody, the kind of smell that means a place has been accumulating things for a long time and is quietly proud of it. Racks of clothes line both walls, a jumble of decades all pressed up against each other, and the whole place has that particular thrift store quality of feeling like a treasure hunt even when you’re not looking for anything specific.

You drift toward the nearest rack and start flicking through without any real purpose, just letting your fingers move through fabric, half looking, half just existing.

You’re somewhere between a corduroy blazer and a very optimistic sequined something when you hear it.

“No way.”

You look up.

Alysa is standing two racks away.

She’s in her element in a way that is immediately, obviously apparent — one hand already full of potential, a small pile of things draped over her forearm, striped hair slightly tousled like she’s been here a while and has not once thought about how she looks because she doesn’t need to. She’s wearing something layered and interesting and entirely her own and she is staring at you like you’ve just appeared out of thin air, which from her perspective you sort of have.

Then she grins.

That grin.

“[y/n].” She says your name like it’s a wonderful surprise, which is somehow both incredibly sweet and absolutely catastrophic for your ability to function. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say, and your coffee cup is suddenly something very important to hold onto.

She crosses to you in a few easy strides, the way she moves through the rink — like space just makes room for her — and comes to a stop at your rack with her armful of clothes and her bright eyes and you have had maybe three days to get used to the idea of her and it has not been enough time.

“Do you come here often?” she asks, and then immediately pulls a face at herself. “That sounded like a terrible chat up line. I meant genuinely.”

Did she—

Was that—

“First time actually,” you say, choosing to be a normal person. “I just wandered in.”

“Best way.” She nods seriously, like you’ve said something wise. “That’s how I find everything good. Okay—” she turns back to the rack beside you, falling into place next to you with the ease of someone who has decided you are now doing this together, and apparently you are, “—I need a second opinion on some of these because I’ve been in here forty minutes and I’ve lost all objectivity.”

You look at the pile on her arm.

“All of those?”

“Not all of them make the cut, that’s why I need you.” She holds the first one up — a little cropped knit in a deep burgundy, slightly oversized, the kind of thing that would look chaotic on a hanger and perfect on a person. “Yes or no.”

You look at it. You look at her. “Yes,” you say. “Definitely yes.”

She adds it to the keep pile with great satisfaction.

The next one is a sheer blouse in a dark floral print, slightly vintage, with little buttons up the front. She holds it up against herself without a trace of self-consciousness, just tilting her head and looking at you expectantly.

“Also yes,” you say.

“You’re very agreeable.”

“They’re genuinely good picks.”

“Okay but tell me if something’s bad,” she says, lowering the blouse and looking at you with that earnest directness that you are beginning to understand is just how she talks to people. No performance. Just actually asking. “I trust your eye. You always look really put together at the rink.”

She’s noticed how you dress at the rink.

She has been forming opinions about how you dress at the rink.

You wore your favourite pink set on Tuesday and she was—

“I’ll tell you,” you say.

The next one she holds up is a truly enormous plaid overshirt in colours that are fighting each other aggressively.

You look at it for a moment.

“No,” you say.

She bursts out laughing and drops it immediately back onto the rack. “Thank you. I knew it but I needed to hear it.”

And just like that you are browsing together, moving slowly down the rack, her holding things up and you giving your verdict and occasionally she’ll spot something and tilt her head at you thoughtfully like she’s considering it against you specifically and then seem to decide against mentioning it, which you notice but don’t ask about.

It’s easy in a way you hadn’t expected. The same ease as the bench, as the warm-up laps, as the car park in the golden afternoon light. Like something between you had already decided to be comfortable and your job is just to not get in its way.

“Can I ask you something?” Alysa says, after a while.

You’re holding a little beaded bag you’ve picked up from a display nearby, turning it over in your hands. “Sure.”

She’s flicking through the rack still, not quite looking at you, which somehow makes it feel more like a real question than a casual one. “The pin on your bag. The rainbow one.”

Your hands still slightly on the beading.

“Yeah?” you say, quietly.

She glances at you then, quick and soft, and there’s nothing in her expression except something careful and warm. “I just noticed it the other day. In the car park.” A small pause. “It’s really pretty.”

It’s not really about the pin and you both know that.

“I’ve had it a while,” you say, equally soft. “It kind of just lives there now.”

She nods, slow and easy, and turns back to the rack. The moment settles around you gently, like it knows it doesn’t need to be anything more than what it is right now.

“Good place for it,” she says simply.

And she holds up the next item — a tiny cropped cardigan in forest green with little daisy buttons — and looks at you with raised eyebrows, and just like that you’re back in it, easy and warm, and you say yes, absolutely yes, and she grins and drapes it over her arm with the others.

You stay in the shop for another half hour.

You don’t buy anything.

You don’t mind at all.