𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐬

♡︎6♡︎

She laughed like I was kidding but then threw me a striped shirt. I quickly snatched the flower top off tossing it towards Nemuri, as I placed the new striped shirt on.

"Let me ring this stuff up, then you can start work."

It felt like I had been hard at work for the last hour trying on those clothes. It was exhausting, and I hoped I never had to do it again. I checked myself out in the mirror again. I didn't look like me.

"You look great," monk assured me through a mouthful of noodles.

When I came out from behind the screens Nemuri smiled. "So nice." She sighed like she had just performed some miracle and was pleased with the results.

At least, until her gaze reached my face and hair. I could tell she wanted to say something, but it was one thing to tell someone to change her clothes: it was a whole other thing to tell someone her face could use some work.

She positioned herself behind the register, and I watched as the number on the tiny black screen for bigger and bigger.

"Momo," Nemuri called. "Some more hair products and a few packages came in today."

Momo leaped off her low stool and headed for the hutch in the corner. "My gel and hair ties! Yay! I'm coming back after closing so you can help me out with this and the rest of the stuff."

Nemuri helped her style her hair? Momo's parents must've been really laid-back. Well, Momo looked older than I was. Maybe she didn't live with her parents.

Nemuri tucked the receipt into her drawer, probably so she could deduct it from my paycheck later. "Sounds good," she said. "So scoot on out of here. I need to train Y/N now."

"Fine. Fine." Momo headed toward the back, and a thought suddenly occured to me.

"Are you and Momo related?"

"Oh, no. Her mother left when she was young." A look of pity passed over Nemuri's face as she gazed toward the back of the store where Momo had just left. "She just needs an extra helping of love. That's all."

My breath caught. Is that how Nemuri saw the motherless of the world? Lacking somehow? I didn't say anything, but I didn't need to. Nemuri filled the silence by showing me how to fold shirts, organize racks by sizes, and properly hang pants.

The two hours went by pretty fast, and I changed back into my normal clothes, then collected my bag of new clothes and car keys. Nemuri said, "So, I'll see you Saturday at ten a.m., Y/N." She paused, thoughtful. "Is that a nickname?"

"Short for (longer name if you have). But Y/N fits better."

"It does." She pointed to the bag of clothes. "You can wear them home, you know. They're completely machine-washable."

"Oh, yeah . . ." I shrugged my shoulders. "If my brothers saw me in these clothes, they'd never let me live it down."

"We live in our own minds, child."

Not in my house. In my house, we were always getting in each other's heads. It was hard enough keeping the guys out without giving them extra ammo. "I guess."

She had a set of keys in her hands and she followed me to the door, obviously about to lock up. "What about your mom? I'm sure she'd love to see you in those clothes."

That look of pity Nemuri had given when talking about Momo's motherless state flashed through my mind. I knew that look very well. I'd seen it many times before. It was the look that always cane after the line My mom died when I was six. That was my go-to line. That was usually followed by an apology from the listeners and then the look. Sometimes the look lingered for months, every time they saw me. It was hard to say which was worse: the look, or when the look finally went away, the memory of my story fading into the recesses of their minds. How could they forget when I couldn't?

I hadn't seen that look directed at me in a while. Most people just knew. We lived in the same house and went to the same schools pretty much my whole life.

I opened my mouth to avoid the question when "My mom's like me. She doesn't know a thing about fashion" came out. My face flushed hot and I stepped outside without turning back.

Did I really just pretend my mom's alive?

Not only that, I gave her my fashion sense. I knew that wasn't even true. I'd seen enough pictures of her to know she always looked gorgeous. The picture my mind always went to was my mom in a long yellow sundress, standing on the beach looking out at the waves.

But I didn't know much outside of pictures. I used to ask my dad questions about her but as I got older I noticed the sad looks that accompanied the answers and stopped asking. I stopped asking long before I could start asking questions that really mattered. I wondered if I'd ever get the motivation or courage to start asking again.