Saffron

"I still feel bad, Saffron," Zara tells me as she finishes making her bed.

"It's fine, really," I tell her, "and just call me Sofie, okay?"

"Sure, Sofie." Zara smiles. "I want to make this up to you."

"It's okay." I roll my eyes. It's not like any of this is her fault.

"No, seriously." Zara takes a few seconds to think. "Look, do you have anything else to wear?"

"Sure. Why?"

Zara walks over to my duffle bag and opens it. She rummages through my clothes and shakes her head. "We're about the same size. Why don't you take some of my clothes?"

"No, it's—" I begin, but Zara interrupts.

"It's not like I'll need... I mean... Well, I just have so many..." She shakes her head and walks over to her closet and gestures at the packed shelves. "I really don't need all of this. You can totally take whatever you want."

I try to argue, but Zara doesn't listen and starts pulling items from her closet. She tosses pants and shirts onto her bed—clothes I just spent hours washing and folding—but I keep my mouth shut. She's trying to do something nice for me. So what if she's a little messy? Well, a lot messy?

When she's done piling all her clothes on the bed, she starts handing me different outfits. I model them one by one, and Zara insists that I keep everything that looks good. I'd feel really bad about it if I was planning to stay, but I'm only borrowing the clothes for a day or two. I guess except for the outfit I happen to be wearing when I escape, but based on the amount of stuff Zara has—and how eager she is for me to take it off her hands—I doubt she'll really miss it.

When I'm done trying on everything Zara hands me, half her wardrobe is in my closet. No matter how many times I protest and tell her it's too much, she doesn't budge.

"I want you to have it," she argues. "If I need anything I gave you, I can just borrow it, right?"

"It's your stuff," I mumble. I can't believe Zara's just giving me half her clothes. I mean, I just met her. She can't possibly feel that bad just because I cleaned her room, can she? Maybe she's just a really nice person? Whatever the reason, it's not worth worrying over. She can just take all her stuff back when I'm gone.

I plop down on my bed. I never knew trying on clothes could be so exhausting.

"We're not done," Zara tells me.

"We're not?" I groan. What more could there be? I've tried on every pair of pants, every shirt and every sweater Zara owns. I've even tried on a bunch of skirts, dresses, jumpers, and some glittery tube top that looked super weird on me.

Zara better not ask me try on any of her lacy bras or panties. I look at her underwear drawer and feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. It's bad enough I had to wash and fold the stuff.

Zara turns to see where I'm looking and stifles a giggle. "Shoes! You need shoes," she tells me, grinning. "What's your size?"

"Nine," I tell her, still blushing.

"Perfect." Zara smiles and runs out of the room. Five minutes later, she's back with a huge pile of shoes. "Here, try these on," she tells me and rushes out again. I gape at the boots, heels and sneakers, and my eyes widen when she comes back a minute later with another equally large pile.

"Where did you get all those?" I demand. Zara's shoes are tiny, so I can't these don't belong to her. For a second, I wonder if she stole them and then push the thought aside as absurd.

"From my friend. She..." Zara pauses, "has way too many shoes. You're lucky you have the same shoe size. Mine are a six. They'd be way too small." Zara keeps up a steady stream of chatter about shoe size as she hands me pair after pair, kind of reminding me of her little sister.

When I'm done modeling footwear, I've managed to argue my way down to five pairs. Zara tried to insist I keep all of them—that her friend plans on donating them anyway—while I kept arguing I only really need one pair.

"Fine, I'll take back the rest." Zara sighs, grabbing a handful of shoes.

"Let me help," I run over, wobbling in the high heeled booties I'm wearing.

"No, I got it." Zara giggles when I have to grip the bed for balance, then heads out.

I take off the booties and admire my relatively new-looking flats, sneakers, pink flip flops, and cowboy boots—already regretting that I'll have to leave them behind when I run away—and then arrange them neatly in the middle of my closet. Maybe once I get a job, I'll save up for some nice shoes of my own.

When Zara returns, she sits down on her bed cross-legged and turns to face me. I try to sit cross-legged too, but I'm wearing a pair of low-rise skinny jeans, and I can feel my butt crack showing. I lie down instead and stare up at the ceiling.

As soon as I start to relax and let my mind wander, I think of Logan. All this shopping, or whatever you call trying on all your roommate's stuff and getting to keep half of it, was a great distraction. I've almost managed to forget Logan exists, but now I'm back to thinking about his lips. I wonder if his kisses would feel hard or soft. I imagine Logan climbing onto the bed next to me, throwing one of his thighs over mine and leaning down to kiss me.

"Are you going to miss your old school?" Zara asks.

Crap! I completely forgot she was here. This is so embarrassing! Why can't I stop thinking about Logan? 

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