Chapter Thirteen | Kiss Her You Fool

♫ Kiss Her You Fool by Kids That Fly

I'm not sure if I like it or hate it when people forget about my disability. Maybe it's a spectrum and I've only ever known the very ends of it: either someone babies me endlessly and makes me feel like crap, or they expect me to do things and be someone that I can't. I don't think either is a compliment.

It's always something I find I end up having to navigate. I have to discover whether someone is underestimating or overestimating me, then I have to figure out a way to either explain without minimizing myself or prove myself to them. And sometimes, it's just difficult to have someone see me as a whole person at all: my efforts don't erase what they see in me, and what they see in me is what inspires them to treat me like either end of the spectrum.

In any way, I carry the weight of it.

I know that I'm lucky to not experience that with Olivia, and it makes sense that I don't with the girls from Hyde's talk group. It's the reason I'm more comfortable today.

The girls go through the racks of the small clothing store they dragged me into at Hudson Yards, a mall in West Manhattan. They told me everything here was 'affordable', because I still don't want Atlas to spend thousands of dollars on me, but it's New York, so everything's still expensive.

I trail behind Olivia, who's rattling on and on to me about my body shape and what'll look good on it. "Do you know what shape you are?" She asks, in such a way it sounds like there's actually a name for each one.

Is there?

I look down at myself. "I just know that I'm shaped like a door."

"You're not shaped like a door," Olivia protests. "You're shaped like a friend. Let's keep looking."

I've never gone out shopping with girlfriends before. I mean, I've never even had girlfriends to go shopping with. Logan and I usually hung out on the beach with a few books, and if I needed new clothes back home my mom took me, or she went on her own and shopped for me like a child. I've only ever enjoyed online shopping, because it isn't as exhausting and there's no one to perceive (and judge) me.

Besides, I like being alone. It's the only time ever when I can physically relax.

When the girls told me we were going to go shopping yesterday, I fully expected a movie montage: I'd come out of the fitting room in fifteen different dresses and they'd either shake their heads and frown or cheer. And then, the night of the gala, I'd come out looking like someone different and Atlas' jaw would drop and I'd wow the entire world.

I already know it isn't going to be like that, because my thighs are aching and that definitely never happens in the movies.

We regroup in the center of the store, where I drop onto the couch, Emmy on my right side and Zahara on my left.

"Nobody found anything?" Anita asks, glancing around the group. She leans onto her cane, dropping her head.

"These are all prom dresses, or distant-cousin's-birthday-party-dresses," Isla emphasizes. She turns to me, her face apologetic. "Nova, I don't think this is the occasion for being humble and polite and declining Atlas' offer to pay for some high-end fashion brand."

Olivia gasps, expanding her arms before her as her eyes grow wide. "Girls. Is it time to hit fifth ave?"

They let me answer the question, but I can tell they're all sucking in excited breaths. Anita was right— I can't show up to a billionaire's (two billionaires!) much-anticipated event in the Chrysler building in a Macy's dress. I need to dress to impress. I can't assume no eyes will be on me because they will, inevitably, especially if I show up on Atlas Wilder's arm.

Who knew meeting that flannel-wearing guy in a party's maze would lead to this?

"Okay. Let's go to fifth—"

I can't even finish my sentence before they all erupt in excited chatters. Emmy and Zahara haul me off the sofa and then rush me out the store, onto the street. There's no more turning back, now.

"Someone, pull up the route!"

"Can't we just get a cab?"

"No, there's six of us."

"Also, do you know how expensive cabs are here?"

"We don't need a route, I know the way!"

Maybe they're all just excited to go shopping on fifth avenue and that's truly the only cause for their excitement (or their support, as they're literally almost carrying me down the street), but my heart flutters, anyway.

I like having people around me. Maybe I thought I liked online shopping because I just hated the idea of having no one to experience this with.

I feel like a different person, though. Things like shopping and getting dinner weren't things I did when I was home, because they were done for me. My parents always concerned themselves with me because they didn't want me to reach a breaking point, or hit a wall, not knowing what kind of effect that would have on me.

They've always known I had no friends in high school. It's another thing I felt guilty about. No parent wants to see their child friendless, just like no parent wants to see their child the way I turned out.

I'm not sure what attracts people to me now. Sofia kept telling me not to expect many friends from the get-go— because that's what Flynn and she went through when they just started college—, and I remember telling her that I didn't expect anything. When Logan told me that he'd be away during the introduction week, I thought that was it, that I'd be waiting around for him.

And now here I am, with five girls who want to help me and spend time with me, and it's not even because they feel bad.

Something might've happened. I think, if I hadn't accepted that there was a chance I'd be alone in college (friendless again), it would've been harder to find people. I would've tried too hard to fit into places that didn't fit me. I'd return to the girl I once was, who thought that it was better to surround myself with people who didn't care about me than to have no one around at all.

I've learned that the only thing that's more harmful than actually being alone, is my fear of it.

Fifth avenue is just one long straight walk from Hudson Yards, so we end up not taking a cab or even taking the subway. At one point, Anita sees me struggle and lets me borrow her cane. Which is awkward at first, but when I realize that this is New York and people have seen way weirder things than an eighteen-year-old with a cane, it gets more comfortable.

The girls and I pause at the street corner of fifth ave, sticking to the corner of Bryant Park. Even they seem like they don't know what to do. We peer down the avenue and people-watch, suddenly self-conscious. We probably look like tourists.

My phone rings loudly, cutting through our flabbergasted silence. I fish it from my bag to see Atlas' name on the screen.

"It's Atlas!" says Zahara, who was looking over my shoulder.

The others squeal at that, closing in on me and urging me to pick up quickly. I feel my face heat up as I do, pressing the phone to my ear with a trembling hand.

"Hey, Atlas," I say, motioning for the girls to back up a little, my cheeks still warm. "What's up?"

"I was about to ask you. You're hitting the stores today, right? You've still got my credit card?" he asks.

I glance over at Olivia, who nods and holds up the golden card. Atlas delivered it to our dorm last night and I was coincidentally in the shower at the time (read: hiding in embarrassment). He even left a note with it. It said,

'Carter,

I really really mean it when I tell you to please don't think you have to hold back on my account.

Get yourself a dress, shoes, a pedicure (manicure? I always forget which is which. Get both.), accessories and all else that'll make you feel comfortable and taken care of before Friday.

I want to treat you to something that makes you feel as beautiful as I think you are.

— AW

PS: I mean it! Ignore the price tags. Price tags no longer exist from now on.'

To Olivia, that meant: blow a hole in my finances and get yourself an apartment if you want one. To me, it (initially) felt like: please properly clean up before the gala, I beg of you. But then, I have to remind myself that he probably wouldn't have asked me to the gala if he truly saw me as an unhygienic hobo that needed that much cleaning up to begin with.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. "Mhm, we just got to fifth avenue."

"Oh, thank God," I hear Atlas mutter. "Listen, I'm at Armani right now and forgot you have my credit card. Can you meet me here? I just have to purchase this tux, then you guys can carry on."

"Of course, we'll head over there right now."

"Okay, thank you. See you in a bit."

I hang up the phone, relieved to at least have a destination in mind now. I don't know how much longer we could stand here before I'd cave under the pressure and give up altogether.

"He's at Armani?" Olivia exclaims, her voice pitched. She takes a hold of my arm and squeezes. "Nova, I'm so jealous of you right now."

I grin at her, my heart pounding. "Let's go."

The Armani store front is pretty much unmissable: in sleek black letters, 'Armani 5th Avenue' hangs over a shop window, illuminated gold. Behind the mannequins are white stairs swirling up the building's length in organic shapes and forms, and the floor is so clean it shines to the point where the height of the space reflects on it, and it seems like the building is as deep as it is tall.

We take a moment to take it all in, standing in a row across the street from the store.

"I heard they have VIP fitting rooms in here," Zahara says to us, and then emphasizes, "VIP fitting rooms! What even is that?"

"This is so crazy," Isla adds. "Do you think they allow wheelchairs in there?"

"They will." We look over at Olivia to see her determined face. She purses her lips resolutely and tosses her hair over her shoulder, giving us a charming, easy smile. "Follow my lead."

We rush across the street like they do in movies and get honked at numerous times, and follow a confident Olivia strutting into Armani in such a manner that nobody even dares to suggest we got in there by mistake.

It takes mere seconds before a store manager has approached us, dressed in a perfectly steamed Armani suit with a sneer etched onto his face.

Olivia inconspicuously (not) plays with Atlas' golden credit card, and before the store manager has even said anything she speaks up. "We're here to see Atlas Wilder in the VIP dressing room. Make it snappy, we have an appointment at Gucci in twenty minutes."

The store manager, whose name tag reads 'Giovanni', squints his eyes at her, and then us.

"Hello? Did I stutter? Should I call Atlas and have him pause his fitting to come and tell you to your face that he called for us? Because I will—"

"No! Wilder? Atlas Wilder? I'll have security escort you," the store manager interjects. He snaps his fingers, and a security guard sidles up to us, face blank. Giovanni continues, lowering his voice. "But if Atlas Wilder doesn't know you, we won't be gentle throwing you out," he warns.

The security guard leads us to the elevator (all gold, of course) in the center of the store for Isla.

"How'd you do that?" Anita whispers to Olivia, who smiles at her.

"If you feign a ridiculous amount of confidence, there's no-one who sees the point in going in against you. It doesn't even have to be real." She looks around, then turns to me, placing a finger beneath my chin. "Raise your head. Shoulders back. There you go. You're all pretty girls. There's nothing you can't do."

We reach the second floor and pile out.

"Nova should go alone," Emmy says. The others nod at me as my eyes widen.

"What?" I say. "No. Come with me. Please."

Olivia presses Atlas' credit card into my hand, patting the back of it. "Was I speaking a foreign language just now? Nothing you can't do. Be charming and go."

The girls turn to the racks of clothing and several sofas scattered around the space as the security guard leads me around a corner that clearly had a 'VIP Fitting Rooms' sign nailed to the wall. I wait as the guard knocks on the door of the dressing room at the very end, pops his head in, and then pulls back to let me enter.

The room almost looks like a hotel room. Two walls are windows, looking out over fifth avenue, and the other walls are a stark black marble like the ones in Atlas' elevator. There's a wide mirror leaning against a window with a little circular platform in front of it, numerous racks with clothes (all suits) around the space and two couches that curve around a coffee table with magazines and pastries on top.

The room itself feels valuable, but not even the view compares to Atlas Wilder, being fitted and prodded and measured in front of the mirror. The sunlight drenches his profile in gold: the slope of his nose, the length of his eyelashes, the fullness of his lips, and his hands that are buttoning his cuffs and then stretching as he shrugs his shoulders and turns.

Our eyes lock and I suck in a breath. He looks like an ancient Greek God the way they're depicted in statues, with their sharp facial features and gentle poses.

"Thank you, Yolanda. I'll take it," he speaks, smiling at the woman who was previously measuring his hips.

"Always a pleasure, Atlas," replies the woman. She glances over at me and then motions for the others in the room to follow her out, which they do, until it's just Atlas and I left.

I roll my lips and step closer, extending the credit card. "Is that what you're wearing on Friday?" I ask, referring to his suit.

He takes the card and turns halfway to the mirror, and I take the opportunity to look him over again. The tuxedo is colored a deep, dark green and seems to be made of some sort of velvet. But I don't know that much about fashion, except that this looks good on him. Really good.

"Yes." He's smiling slightly when he looks back at me, pleased. "It's custom made. Have you found a dress yet?"

He moves to the coffee table, taking a seat on the couch, and I sit next to him (keeping a significant amount of distance between us, because I'm certain that I'll sneeze or spill a drink that doesn't exist yet or do something clumsy to ruin his expensive, custom-made suit two days before the gala).

"Not yet."

"You should get one with this green color, then," Atlas suggests. "Or black. So that we can match."

I brush my hair behind my ear, nervously playing with the end of my coat. It probably even still has chalk on it from yesterday, when I sat drawing on the street. What was he doing yesterday? Probably taxes, or something with stocks. He's so much more collected and mature than I am. Why would someone like him, ever even think about taking someone like me to something as amazing at the Wilder Macarevich unveiling?

"Are you okay?" Atlas asks, dipping his head to meet my downcast eyes. "Here, have a drink." He reaches for the water pitcher and fills a glass for me.

It ends up being so full that I know my trembling hands won't be able to pick it up without spilling, so I don't touch it.

"I just..." I trail off. "I'm just a little confused, I think."

"About what?"

I glance up at him. He looks at me with such sincerity that it makes me want to burst into tears, a gentle smile on his lips, waiting patiently.

"Why me?"

He frowns at that.

"I mean, I'm— I'm a little..." I look over the glass again, frustrated. "I can't even pick up that glass of water. I shake all the time. And, and I think that walking is really hard and sometimes even painful. And I think speaking is difficult and I sound weird and incomprehensible most of the time. I type everything because I get tired writing after like, two minutes or something. I've never even worn heels before. So, why in the world would you, private-VIP-dressing-room-you, want to take me to the gala?"

He inhales and I immediately regret everything I just said.

Claire and I talked about it, even. I planned how I'd explain to the people I'd meet at college. I had rehearsed lines and highlighted words and cues for when to smile and when to explain more and it was not supposed to be like this. Like some kind of confusing, depressing rambling.

"Never mind." I stand up. "I'm looking forward to it. But the others are waiting, so I should probably head out." I want to turn, avoiding his gaze with a grimace, but feel a hand softly and gently enclose around my own.

I look down at where he's holding onto me, and then up at his face, his eyes soft, seeking out mine.

"Because I like you, Nova Carter," he says, and then releases my arm. "I don't think I'm better than you, or that you're less than me, or that there's any reason for me not to take the girl I like to a gala. I know there's plenty I still have to learn about you, but I'm planning to do just that. If there are any doubts left about my intentions, I really hope that's enough. That I like you, and I want to know you."

I think I can feel my heart beat in every inch of my body. My chest and my head and my throat and my stomach, beating so fast that I feel I might combust at any moment, like there's a ticking timebomb beneath my center that can explode any minute now— and wake me up.

"I— okay."

My eyes are wide and dry. I blink a few times, clear my throat and step back, eyes flitting from here to there but never him because I don't believe I'll be able to handle it.

He takes my hand and folds the credit card back in. "I'm looking forward to seeing you on Friday. You can give it back to me then."

"But you needed it, to pay for your tux?" I say, finally looking up.

"I already did. Beforehand."

Oh. So, this was another 'I really wanted to see you again' thing. Am I really certain all of this is real?

Tomorrow I'll wake up to my parents and my old bedroom and the car packed. Tomorrow I'll leave for college and have a miserable time, because things like this do not happen to me, ever.

I float back to the girls on what I'm pretty sure is a pink cloud, and let them take the reins. Emmy and Isla insist on going to the Dolce & Gabbana store, so we head there, giddy and excited. I think they can tell something happened, but I feel too intoxicated to tell them. Maybe after we've bought a couture dress I'll say it, over a slice of cheap pizza.

Olivia uses her (fake-)confidence again to get a group of people to help us find something for the gala in the Dolce & Gabbana store. I even end up on the kind of platform Atlas stood on before, in front of a mirror as I'm measured and two men discuss what color fits my complexion. I work up all my courage to ask for something green, but they seem to agree and usher me into a fitting room to wait for their selections.

I don't know what I expected, but it surprises me that this fifth avenue Dolce & Gabbana store isn't a browsing kind of shop. Rich people really do have people for everything, and as long as I have Atlas' credit card to wave around, they're here to cater to my every need.

This is the movie montage, I realize, and smile about it like a dork just as the ladies who just measured me slip into the fitting room with a silky green dress hanging over their shoulders in a see-through garment bag.

"You have a model's body," one of the ladies gushes. "Perfectly fit for an original."

"I do?" I ask, amazed, as they help me slip into it.

"Hm. Skinny and flat. It falls off of you exactly like it's supposed to," the other lady nods.

Nobody's ever told me I'm skinny and flat, much less this bluntly, but I try not to let it get to me. It's a compliment in the world of fashion.

The ladies explain that they call the dress a "tulle calf-length dress with sunray pleads and cape detail" and that it's one of the last green ones left. I have no idea what those words even mean, but the dress makes me feel like a princess and as someone who's not that into the latest fashion trends, I think that's more than enough.

I swirl my hair up into a bun to see the dress's neckline and the spot where the tulle of the sleeves tickle my shoulders. The ladies stand back and it makes my hands shake, but they don't exchange a glance, at least.

I walk out shyly, butterflies in my stomach, to show the girls. I feel good in the dress, even though it doesn't cover the lower parts of my legs. I've never had the courage to wear something that feels like it distracts from the way I walk, because I felt like whatever it would be would have to be too extravagant, and that it'd inevitably require that much.

I'm too nervous to look at the girls as I step onto the platform, but hear their gasps as I raise my head and see myself.

"Nova, you look beautiful!" Emmy says, the word 'beautiful' sounding like an exhale.

"You look like a ballerina," says Isla.

"So pretty..." Zahara mumbles, eyes glued on me like the rest.

"You'll be the best dressed person at the gala on Friday," Olivia muses, pressing her palms together and her fingers to her lips. She steps forward and places a pair of heels (not too high, which was very considerate) by my feet. "We found these while we were waiting. Try them on."

"Oh, thank you guys." I slip my feet into the shoes with a surprising amount of ease and turn to them, running my hands over the fabric of the skirt. "You haven't seen Atlas," I say. "He has this velvet, dark green tuxedo. He asked me to match." The thought makes me want to burst into a laughing fit, because it's so ridiculous that it's true, but I hold it in.

"He did?!" Anita exclaims, jumping to her feet. The others are quick to follow.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the women who helped me into the dress head back to the fitting rooms, so I know I can't take long. "He told me he liked me," I add quickly. "I'll tell you more later. This is the dress, right?"

They nod frantically. "Hurry up," Emmy says. "I want to know everything."

I smile at them and walk back to the fitting room. The heels aren't that hard to walk in, which is good. Even to functions and school dances I used to wear sneakers. Everyone figured heels wouldn't really favor me if I could barely even manage barefoot, so it's never been something I tried out or just started doing, either.

"Do you think they're joking?"

I halt in my step. The voices of the women who helped me get dressed drift from the fitting room, down the hallway.

"There's no way that girl is attending the unveiling on Friday. It's just them having fun in the spirit of Halloween. And they look like tourists to me." A short laugh. "She's pretty I suppose, but prettiness won't get you anywhere. Especially when it's paired with whatever's wrong with her. Did you see the way she pulled back her hair? Or walked– no, waddled out of here in that dress? It took all my might to not rip it off her and keep it for myself..."

"How old even is she? She and her friends are supposed to be over at H&M. With that face she'll sell some hoodies for a special needs charity, but this? I'm appalled she even has the guts to pretend all of this is up her alley. Ah, regardless, it's the job. And we get paid a fair sum to play along and pretend that dress is going home with her."

My stomach drops.

I look down at the dress and my legs beneath it. Even in my toes there's a twitch I can't get rid of. Am I really just playing dress-up? Is that what this is?

"If you feign a ridiculous amount of confidence, there's no-one who sees the point in going in against you. Raise your head. Shoulders back."

Olivia said it to us at Armani this afternoon, and it worked for her. It worked for all of us. I can't exactly run out or avoid the women now, no matter how shitty I feel. And I cannot forget about what Atlas said: he wants this for me, he wants me at his side at the gala, which matters more than what these women think of me—it has to.

I push my shoulders back and raise my chin like Olivia said, pretending to be anyone else as I strut into the room. "Thank you so much for this," I say, standing in front of the mirror again with my arms spread wide. They get the memo instantly and help me out of the dress again. I fish the credit card from my bag and hand it to them, my entire arm shaking. "Ring this up for me, will you? I'll be right out."

They exchange a glance now, mutter a 'of course', and then leave me alone in the room. I exhale instantly, but my body won't relax yet. Thinking back at what they said earlier, "skinny and flat" probably was meant as a jab at me, not as a compliment, even if she said it in a sickly-sweet voice.

I get dressed as quickly as my muscles will allow me, their tightness straining and hurting, and swallow the lump in my throat away a few times, to no avail. It takes a lot to not drop my head or let the façade slip away, but I manage it until the girls and I stand on the curbside again.

"Carter."

I turn at the sound of his voice.

Atlas stands beside the door, hands in his pockets as he pushes himself off the wall and approaches us. The girls suck in a breath as he reaches forward and takes the bags from me.

"All ready?" He asks, seeking out my gaze. "I hope it's okay I waited. Just thought maybe you girls would appreciate a ride home." He gestures to the curbside, where a sleek black car and a green old-timer are parked.

"We get to drive home in those?" Isla's the one to ask, eyes wide.

Atlas nods his head towards Michael, who emerges from the black Mercedes and offers me a friendly smile. "We don't all fit into one car, so you'll go with Michael here." He turns to me. "Are you okay riding with me?" he checks.

I nod, prompting Michael to usher the girls into his car. I wave them off. Even Olivia, who exaggeratedly mouths "tell me everything later" to me before the door shuts and she's hidden behind the blinded window.

Atlas and I wait until they've turned the corner before we enter his car, the green old-timer.

"I saw this on your Instagram," I tell him when we're both strapped in, running my hand over the car door as he starts the engine. "Is it yours?"

"Only to borrow," he replies. "I've always had a thing for old-timers. I thought it'd be fun to drive one to and from the gala with you."

In any other situation a comment like that would send my heart into overdrive, but instead it's calming to have Atlas sit next to me and be so kind after what just happened. I can't expect people, much less complete strangers, to understand. But it's still so shocking to me when they don't, and it hurts my feelings even though I don't want it to, and even though I know it shouldn't.

I bring my attention back to Atlas and his car. "It fits your middle name," I tease. "Gerald."

He groans, knocking his head back. "I forgot I told you that. I never should've given you that piece of information to hold over me."

"It would've surfaced eventually," I shrug.

He looks over at me. "I know," he says with a shake of his head, and then puts the car in drive. "Ready to head home?"

I inhale deeply, letting my body slump back against the seat. "Yes," I say. "Ready to head home now."

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