Silver Stilettos

10 | teen hearts beating faster, faster

There was no shortage of malls in Chicago. Drive five minutes in any direction and you'd come across a high-end department store or cluster of outlet malls. And that wasn't even considering the upscale Michigan Avenue, Chicago's version of New York's Fifth Avenue or Beverly Hill's Rodeo Drive. Dubbed as the Magnificent Mile, the luxury hotels and stores were a thirty minute walk from end to end, assuming you could weave your way through the crowds without too much trouble. I'd divided my time pretty equally between power walking with my Mom—going early in the day to avoid the swarms of buzzing tourists, of course—and browsing stores with my friends.

My girls and I used to go with fresh-scrubbed faces to MAC Cosmetics, swatch eyeshadow and lipstick on the back of our hands, and emerge thirty minutes later done up like one of the Kardashians. If it was me on a solo shopping trip, I'd usually adhere myself to Eataly's coffee section, picking up packs of Lavazza beans in bulk, before window shopping at Crate & Barrel, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton.

The mall in Andersville was nothing like that. Dingy and half-empty, the mall boasted no great crowds, lights, or attractions. It was the tepid tan of most malls, bland in every way. In a horror movie, it would be the place where the photogenic blond girl got chased by a creepy clown.

The inside was little better. The place hadn't been remodeled since the seventies and though the shops tried to dress up the window displays, the overall result reminded me of putting a tuxedo on a goat. At the end of the day, it was still a goat.

Hiding my yawn with the flat of my hand, I locked the car and headed for the entrance of the mall. Two preteen boys, jeans slung low on their hips, came out the doors. Their caps angled to the side and the brassy chains on their neck screamed rapper wannabe. They didn't hold the door open for me, too occupied with fumbling in their pockets for a packet of Marlboros that they didn't look old enough to buy legally.

Frowning at their backs, I caught the door handle just before it closed. I slipped inside, blasted by cold air. It was fall, but retail stores still had their air conditioning turned on high for some reason.

My eyes sought out Reed, roving over the hordes of prepubescent kids milling around the pretzel place and coming out of the athletic shoe store. I spotted him leaning against the glass window of a "Retail Space Available" sign, narrowly covering the bright yellow "Going out of Business Sale" poster below.

His eyes showed recognition when he saw me. They sharpened into chips of ice and he raised his hand, long fingers splayed wide.

"Hey," I said, hoping he didn't notice how breathless I sounded. It had more to do with anxiety than with his attractiveness, but from the way his smile lit up, I could tell he thought it was the latter.

"Hey," he drawled, voice a little huskier than I remembered. "You're right on time."

I quirked an eyebrow at him. "Shouldn't I have been?"

He shrugged, the gesture more eloquent than his next words. "Most girls aren't."

"Fashionably late," I murmured and he nodded in agreement.

"You're a refreshing change," he said, pushing himself away.

I fought the urge to grin, biting back the silly, girlish impulse to preen at his words. My name may have meant peacock but I definitely wasn't going to embody one.

"We match," I said instead, pulling the cord of his hoodie.

I'd seen his house—not that I had I had needed further convincing about his wealth—so I knew he could probably afford to wear something other than the hoodie, but he never did.

He shot me a lazy smile, pulling his zipper down enough for me to see a plain white tee. "You wanna grab lunch?"

"Sure."