With Michael's assurance that he'd clear my absence with HR, I booked an appointment at an independent tuxedo shop that Friday and left work early to get fitted for my suit. I still hadn't called Scott back, though that was largely out of cowardice more so than anything else. My phone weighed heavily in my back pocket while I walked through the rental place's parking lot, reminding me of how guilty I felt for ignoring my friend's last twenty calls. The springtime sunshine shone down relentlessly, warming the back of my neck to a steady boil as I hurried across the asphalt towards a sliver of shade. I neared the tuxedo store's entrance but stopped in my tracks when my phone came to life with a pulsating buzz. I pulled my cell out past my belt loop and grimaced when I saw the name that popped up on the screen, knowing that it was time to face the inevitable.

"Hello?" I answered, dread coursing through me when Scott grunted impatiently on the other end of the line.

"Finally," he muttered, and I could tell from that single word that I was in for it. "Thanks for never calling me back, asshole."

"Hey, man," I said, reaching up and running my hand through my hair. Sweat was collecting on my brow and I brushed it away, though not before making a mental note to get my hair trimmed before Armada's party. "Sorry I didn't answer earlier; I got swamped at work today."

"Oh, yeah? And yesterday? You've been blowing me off all week!"

I hesitated as I tried to come up with an excuse and then realized none existed. "You're right, I'm sorry. What's up?"

"What's up?" I cringed when I heard the burning irritation in Scott's tone. I'd hoped that giving him time would lessen his fury but it seemed like that plan had backfired spectacularly. "What's up is that my life completely sucks and my best friend doesn't give a shit."

"Aw, come on, Scott," I said, wiping off the unyielding perspiration that was now collecting on my forehead. "Do you want to get together tomorrow or something? I'll come to campus, we can go for a couple of beers and catch the game."

"Oh, well, fantastic." The sarcasm in Scott's voice was scathing. "To what do I owe the tremendous honor of your presence? You gonna ignore me the entire time we're out, too?"

"Dude, calm down." I fiddled with the collar of my shirt. "I said I was sorry, alright? I told you, I've been busy... You know, with Sophie and stuff. I meant to call you back and forgot. No need to be so pissed off."

"Are you kidd—no need to be pissed off?" Scott repeated, the words coming out strangled. I could picture the vein in his neck pulsing wildly as he breathed in deeply and a loud crackling noise came over the receiver with each agitated huff. Caught in a stalemate, neither of us spoke until Scott eventually sighed.

"Alright, whatever, man," he said, relenting. "It's fine. I'm not even really mad at you. Just stressed, I guess."

That threw me. "Huh?"

"Yeah, you could've given me a heads-up that you were planning on going AWOL but I get it. Girlfriends get priority - it's cool."

"It's not like that," I protested, despite feeling like I'd dodged a very large bullet. Still, I couldn't accept my luck without pushing it a little bit further. "Did you say you're not mad at me?"

"Nah, sorry for biting your head off. It's not your fault that Dylan sold me out."

I blinked. "I missed that. What'd you say?"

"Freaking Dylan told Michael that I'm failing geology and now my parents are threatening not to pay my dues," Scott said with a defeated groan. "I'm going to miss Vegas unless I pull my grade up to a C in the next month."

Maybe it was selfish but I couldn't stop my heart from soaring when I heard the news. Looking up at the sky, I silently mouthed my thanks that Michael had left me out of whatever story he'd told his parents about how he discovered the dire state of Scott's grades. "Did you hear me?" Scott asked when I didn't respond right away.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, man, that sucks. What are you going to do?"

"Get a job, probably. Not go to Vegas," Scott answered bitterly. "Honestly, the only way I'm passing is if the professor has some sort of seizure when he's grading my next few tests and accidentally gives me an A on all of them."

I stifled a snicker and Scott grumbled, "It's not funny."

"No, it's not." I frowned. The fraternity's annual spring trip to Las Vegas always cost an additional several hundred dollars on top of our regular membership and housing dues. Even if he skipped Vegas entirely, with seven or eight weeks left before the end of the semester, my best guess was that Scott still owed the house about two thousand bucks; there was no way that a part-time job was going to cover that. "Do you think your parents are serious?"

"My dad definitely is," Scott replied and I nodded to myself, figuring that was true. "My mom's... I don't know."

"Do you need me to lend you some money or something?" I asked, mentally crunching numbers to see how much cash I could part with. I bit the inside of my cheek when I realized the answer was not very much.

To my wallet's immense relief, Scott said, "Don't be stupid. You're even more broke than I am."

I rubbed an eye with my free hand and wished I had some profound words of wisdom to share. "I'm sorry, man."

"Hey," Scott said with a forced lightheartedness, "it's not your fault that I'm dumb."

"You're not," I insisted. "Your class is probably just filled with weirdos who spend their time collecting rocks for fun."

"Don't you do that?" Scott asked, and I knew from the dryness of his jab that he was already in a better mood than when he'd called.

I laughed but didn't bother denying the charge. "Yeah, well... I'll see you tomorrow."

Scott grumbled something that sounded like another apology and then said goodbye. Feeling like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders, I hung up and continued towards the door of the tuxedo shop, no longer afraid of hearing my phone ring. A faded sign in the store's front window featured large, loopy script that read, Tuxes by Chuck S. Bells jingled when I stepped into the air conditioned building and an elderly man with a curved back popped out from behind a rack of suits that stood to the side of the entranceway.

"Ah, you must be my three o'clock," he welcomed me with a smile before sliding a thin notebook from his shirt pocket and flipping through it. "Parker... Jennings?"

"That's me," I replied, rolling up my sleeves.

"Excellent. I'm Chuck."

Shuffling ahead, Chuck directed me to a stand on a podium in the center of the shop with my arms outstretched and feet spread slightly apart. It didn't take long before I realized that, despite his hunched posture, he had sharp eyes and steady hands that worked without hesitation. I stared at my reflection in the floor length mirrors that covered the walls while he brought his measuring tape across my shoulders and muttered numbers to himself.

Chuck looked up at me while he noted the length of my legs. "You're very tall," he remarked and I nodded, never knowing if that was a compliment or not.

"Uh, thank you."

"Very, very tall," he said again while bringing the tape around my waist. "But skinny." He frowned. "I'll have to order in special pants for you."

"Is that going to cost extra?" I asked, as he walked over to a clothing rack and stroked his chin.

"Not a penny," he replied, considering the coats hanging before him. He grabbed two by their hangers and turned to show them to me. "One hundred-and-fifty for the fitting, rental, and cost of dry cleaning, that's the deal. Now, which style do you prefer?"

I stared blankly at the nearly identical coats and felt like I'd been caught in a game of Spot the Difference. "They both look fine to me."

Chuck lifted the jacket on the right slightly. "This is a classic two-button single-breasted with a notched lapel." He gave the left coat a little wiggle. "Or, you can go with a six-button double-breasted-truly elegant."

The tailor smiled at me encouragingly and I could tell from the expression on his face that he genuinely believed I had a preference between the two options. Instead of deciding on one, I shrugged. "Which do you think is best?"

"Well," he said, thinking it over, "I'd probably go for the six-button myself but a more modern look might suit you better."

Chuck held the two-button jacket in front of my chest and nodded. "Yes, good choice," he murmured and I offered a weak grin, unsure if he was talking to me or simply thinking aloud. The man returned the jacket to the rack and pulled the same tattered notebook from his shirt pocket. I studied him while he began to scribble furiously across the page with a pen he'd kept tucked behind his ear.

"So, what's the occasion?" he asked, as he continued to write. "No offense, but you look a few years too old to be going to prom. Wedding?"

I shook my head. "Birthday party."

The old man's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. "Fancy birthday party," he said, finally looking up from the nearly filled sheet. He considered me through his rheumy eyes and asked, "You're not one of those Hollywood folks, are you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, reaching for my wallet and sliding out my debit card. I paused, a thought occurring to me as I considered the age of the store's owner. "You take card, right?"

The tailor nodded and took it from my hand. "Guess not, then, eh? It's hard to tell in this city. Everyone keeps getting younger and better looking - the lot of you - and here I am only getting balder."

Chuck waddled slowly towards the cash register and I trailed behind him, careful not to accidentally tread on the back of his well-worn loafers. "You from here?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at me.

I shook my head. "Massachusetts."

"Ah, back East. Figures, no one I meet is ever from L.A."

I watched while he lifted a receipt book out of a drawer and licked the tip of his pen. Carefully, he began to write in much neater cursive than he'd used to jot down my suit measurements. "You know," he continued, "I moved here from Minnesota in 1959 to open up this shop and it sure has seen some interesting people. Burt Reynolds even bought a suit from me, believe that?"

"Oh, wow," I said, and the old man pointed at a framed black and white photo hanging at the far side of the room. I took a few steps towards it and squinted; sure enough, the 1970s cinema idol stood posing for the camera beside a man who looked no older than I was now. It was hard to believe the guy in the photo had aged into the withered tailor standing in front of me. Without warning, the unwelcome image of what I might look like in sixty years flickered through my mind and sent shivers down my spine. "Cool."

"Good guy, that Burt Reynolds. Couldn't believe it when he came in but sure enough... Anyway, you seem like a nice kid. It's probably a good thing you're not mixed up in all that industry phooey. It changes people."

I nodded. From everything I'd seen so far, I had a feeling he was right. I paused for a moment and wondered if dating Sophie would change me at all... Or, if it already had. "So, when should I come to pick up my suit?"

"Well," the tailor began, tapping his pen against his cheek, "ordinarily I'd say tomorrow but your suit will probably be in by next Wednesday."

"Really?" I asked, slightly worried that it wouldn't arrive in time for the party. "How come?"

"It may take me a while to find pants in your size, you see," the shriveled man lamented, as he tucked his pen behind his ear again. "You're just so tall."

———

"Sophie, where are you from?"

After leaving Chuck and his tuxes, I'd driven straight to Beverly Hills and ended up making it to Sophie's house with a few hours of daylight to spare. The temperature had cooled from earlier in the day and the sight of blossoming flowers in Sophie's garden had prompted her to suggest that we eat dinner at the glass patio table in her backyard. With Sophie's newfound insistence that she stick to a healthy diet at least five days out of the week, I'd been tasked with grilling two salmon fillets while she fixed a salad. Although a tad dry and slightly charred around the edges, the fish had come out better than I'd expected, though I still wished we could've ordered in Chinese food instead.

Halfway through munching on a giant bite of kale, a shadow fell over Sophie's face and she looked at me with surprise. She swallowed. "Here. Los Angeles."

"Really? Like, you were born here?"

"Oh," Sophie said, wrinkling her nose. "No, I wasn't."

"Right, so where are you from?"

"You don't know?"

I shook my head and Sophie twirled the ends of her ponytail around her index and middle fingers. "What kind of fan were you?" she asked, clucking her tongue. "I'm sure that information's on my website."

I rolled my eyes. "I didn't even know you had one," I said, although that was a lie; I'd been subscribed to her official fan page's mailing list until my first year of college.

"Barney."

"Huh?"

"I'm from Barney, Michigan," she said with a wry smile and I stared at her.

"Where the hell is that?" I asked, setting down my fork while I tried to think of cities in the Midwest. Other than Detroit and Chicago, I was drawing a total blank.

"Upper Peninsula," Sophie replied and her smile grew. She brought her hand to her cheek, feigning surprise. "Don't tell me you've never heard of it."

"I've never heard of it."

Sophie laughed and pushed her salad around her plate. "Yeah, it's small. Really, really small."

Even though it felt like I'd spent more time getting to know Sophie than any other girl I'd dated, learning that she wasn't originally from southern California like I'd assumed made me wonder what else I didn't know about her. "What's it like?"

Sophie shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't been back since I was, like, maybe three. We all came out here so I could go to auditions but I think my dad wants to move back now that he and my mom have split," she explained, mindlessly grabbing a tomato that had fallen onto the table and popping it into her mouth. She must have seen my expression because once she'd swallowed it, she gave me an apologetic grin. "That was gross, sorry."

I shook my head, still dumbfounded by her revelation. "What do your parents do again?"

"Well," Sophie said, grabbing an olive off my plate, "when we were living in Michigan, my dad owned a Christmas tree farm but he works in insurance sales now. No idea what my mom does other than ruin lives. I think she was an accountant before she met my dad but I'm pretty sure she never had a full-time job after I started working and she definitely hasn't had one since she got remarried." Sophie nibbled around the olive's pit and set the small stone onto my plate.

"Thanks," I said, and she offered a sweet smile before reaching for another. I rolled my eyes again but didn't bother swatting her hand away; I'd come to realize that Sophie viewed anything that I was eating as community property.

"Why do you want to know, anyway?" Sophie asked, without breaking my gaze.

"I'm just curious."

"About what?"

"You." I picked up my fork and attempted to stab a piece of salmon from Sophie's plate but she yanked it out of my reach before I could get it onto the tines. I shook my head. "You're unbelievable."

Sophie's expression was one of innocence. "I'm an only child."

"Yeah, so am I," I replied, making a second attempt to spear the fish and feeling triumphant when I did.

Sophie stuck her tongue out at me. "I'm not always very good at sharing."

"Trust me, I've noticed."

Sophie tilted her head to study me and licked her bottom lip. "What else do you want to know about me?" she asked and I shrugged.

"Whatever."

"Alright," Sophie said, tapping her chin while she thought about her answer. "Okay, ready? My favorite color's blue; I'm afraid of storm drains; I hate small dogs, peas, and pointy shoes; I don't have a favorite movie but The Catcher in the Rye has been my favorite book ever since one of my old tutors made me read it; I donate ten percent of every paycheck to the children's hospital on Sunset Boulevard; I think you have the nicest eyes in the entire world; and I failed my driver's license test three times, which probably explains why I almost killed you the first time that we met." Sophie had used a different finger to tick off each fact that she listed and now sat waggling all ten in my face. "There. That's everything that you could ever need in order to win a trivia quiz about me. Happy now?" she asked, as she lifted her glass to her lips.

"Wow," I said, leaning back in my chair, "I actually didn't know most of that."

Sophie filled her cheeks with water and swished it around before swallowing. "Yeah, but why would you? It's not exactly the type of stuff that gets published about me in Celebrity Scoop and it doesn't usually come up in daily conversation, either."

"I mean, no, like..." I paused, struggling to find the right words. "The fact you donate that much of your money is - it's amazing."

"Well, I'm not exactly short on cash and there are only so many handbags one girl can own. Besides," Sophie said gently, "I love kids."

"But why don't more people know things like that about you?" I asked, suddenly frustrated that Sophie's reputation was so incongruent with who she really was. "If they did, everyone would think that you're a saint."

Frowning, Sophie reached up to pull out her hair tie and thick golden strands tumbled down around her shoulders, framing her face like a halo. "But that's not why I do it."

The surge of emotion that flooded through me as she said that made me lightheaded and I reached across the table to take her hand. "You know, you're really beautiful."

"Thanks." Sophie gave my palm a quick squeeze and winked. "I wear a lot of make-up."

I shook my head and wished I knew how to explain to her that wasn't what I'd meant at all. I watched her take two more olives from my plate but didn't protest, too caught up with what I was feeling to care about the growing mound of pits sitting beside my salad. When I finally found my voice again, I asked, "What's up with the storm drains, though?"

Sophie gave me a look. "Clowns hide in them," she said, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh, right," I said, thinking of the film she was referencing. "It."

She shivered. "I hate that movie—hate it."

"Guessing you don't like clowns either, then?"

"Obviously not."

I chuckled and wiped my mouth on my napkin before setting it onto the tabletop. "Well, at least I know what I'm going as for Halloween this year," I teased and Sophie raised an eyebrow.

"I suppose if your goal is to be single then, sure, great idea."

She shook her head with mock annoyance and then returned her attention to her salad. She grazed wordlessly for a few minutes and then asked, "So, are you excited for Armada's party?"

"I guess," I said, scraping a puddle of dressing onto my fork and licking it off. Sophie made a face. "What?" I looked at the utensil in my hand and then back at her. "Oh, come on."

"I didn't say anything," Sophie said, poking at the leaves on her plate. "But maybe you should try the dressing with salad - I swear it tastes much better that way."

"Do you even realize how annoying you are?"

"It's why you love me," Sophie replied, and then froze when she realized she'd used the L-word we'd both been diligent in avoiding.

She glanced at me as we both silently reached for our glasses, knocking hands and mumbling apologies before beginning to sip at our drinks. After I'd drained the last of my water, I coughed. Sophie looked up from her lap and I noted that her cheeks had turned a faint shade of red. "Did I tell you I rented my tux for the party earlier?" I asked lamely, knowing that had been one of the first things out of my mouth when I'd arrived at her house.

"Yeah." Sophie nodded. "You said."

"Right."

There was another awkward pause and I covertly bit down on the corner of my thumbnail, wondering if this was a sign that Sophie was waiting for me to tell her that I loved her or something - and what she would do if I did say it now. I couldn't, could I? The breeze picked up while I sat thinking and I felt the wind ruffle my hair, lifting it in random directions. As I patted it back down, Sophie picked at an invisible piece of lint on her shirt and took a shot at breaking the lull. "So, you have your suit... Are you and Michael going to drive together to Armada's?"

"Oh, yeah, we are," I said, tapping my fork against my plate in time with an uncoordinated beat. "I think he's paying for a driver, too. It's all kind of crazy to me."

The tension in Sophie's face started to fade. "I don't blame him."

"Really?" I asked, surprised. "I mean, it's only a party, right?"

Sophie scoffed. "So naive," she murmured while shaking her head. "I'm pretty sure you'll understand where he's coming from once you get to the venue."

"Why?"

"Because everyone's going to be there." Sophie pushed her plate away with most of the food uneaten, though I noticed my plate had been nearly licked clean. "Agents, directors, actors, models - everyone. I'd even count on some reality TV stars sneaking their way in."

"And?"

"And people in this industry watch what you do, how you do it, and definitely how you show up to parties. Trust me," she said with authority, "I would know. If it seems like Michael's going over the top, that probably means he's going to fit in just fine."

I nodded to show I understood, though a small voice in the back of my head piped up with worry, But what about me?

———————————

A/N: Hello, friends! I realize this was a super long chapter but I hope you all made it to the end and that you enjoyed it. :) Thank you as always for reading, voting, commenting, and just generally supporting this story. You guys are the real MVPs. My updates will likely be sporadic for the rest of the month as I'm going to be traveling between coasts and may not take my laptop with me on those trips. :0 Hopefully I'll be able to post a few more chapters before the madness really starts. <33