To his credit, Israel reacts quickly enough to catch me and keep us both from falling over. We still end up slamming into the checkout counter behind him in a jumble of tangled limbs. The magazine rack digs into my hip, my hand is crushed between Israel's back and the side of the conveyer belt, and I get a faceful of his t-shirt. Lovely.

Israel swears and tries to right himself while still holding me up by my waist. I struggle to get my feet back under me, my wheels spinning wildly. When I realize I'm digging my fingers into his shoulder, I hastily let go, but just end up faceplanting on his chest again. The smell of gasoline assaults my nose.

Unpinning my hand, Israel pulls me upright and sets me back on my feet.

"What are you—" I mistakenly believe I have stability and jerk away from him, and this time I fall flat on my back.

Okay that one really hurt.

Israel crosses his arms and stares down at me. "Who thought putting you on wheels was a good idea?"

"What are you doing here?" I hiss from the floor, ignoring his jab at me. "I said we'd talk after work! This is not the plan!"

He's going to blow the whole thing. We've had no time to come up with a plausible story, and if Laila starts interrogating us, we're done for.

He frowns in a way that tells me he has no idea what I'm talking about, and is also more than a little annoyed with me. "What plan? What are you talking about?"

"But then..." I open my mouth, and then close it again. I'm officially lost.

"Do you have a concussion?" He crouches down next to me, in all my pathetic glory, and holds up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two," I groan. "I don't have a concussion."

"Good." He switches to one finger.

"Very nice." I decide I'm just going to lie on this floor for the rest of my life.

"Iz?" Laila calls from somewhere behind me. "What happened to Sam?"

He raises a hand to alert her to our position, and soon they're both looking at me with that same "Sam's-done-it-again" expression that I know all too well: a little judgement, a little disappointment, and entirely unsurprised.

I flash them a very fake smile. "Laila, what is he doing here?"

"He's here to get a suit for the wedding," Laila answers in a duh voice. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Reconsidering my life choices."

Thankfully, Laila is not an "I told you so" kind of person. She leaves with an off-handed, "You know where the suits are, right?" and that's that.

"She's in a mood," Israel notes.

I sigh and stick my hand up. "If you would be so kind as to peel me off the floor, I can direct you towards our men's clothing section."

He grabs both my hands and hauls me up, but rather than releasing me, he switches his grip to my waist. Before I can react, he lifts me up and sits me on top of the conveyor belt like I'm a little kid.

"Skates." He snaps his fingers and points to the footwear in question. "Off."

"But I was just getting the hang of them," I protest. "I swear I won't run you over again probably."

He gives me a fed-up kind of look and begins unlacing them himself with a muttered, "I swear, Kent," under his breath. I consider putting up a fight, but it's becoming increasingly clear that I've lost this argument. Also Israel's eyes are super dark and he does this intense scary thing with them that really discourages opposition.

So I settle for a pleading, "Be careful with those," and let him de-skate me. His fingers work the laces with surprising deftness, and he's only a little rough when he pulls them off. After I've neatly wrapped them up and stuck them in a safe place under the counter, I hop down and give Israel my best customer service smile.

"Right this way, sir." I gesture grandly towards the menswear section.

He glances at my socks. "You're not gonna put on shoes?"

I shrug. "It's not like you're a real customer."

"Yeah good thing, 'cause a real customer would've sued you." He follows me into the clothing racks, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his utility jacket.

"I wouldn't have hit a real customer," I huff. "I was just surprised to see you. I thought you were going to blow the plan, which you clearly forgot about."

Israel flicks a tie in passing. "What's this plan you keep talking about?"

"You know." I spin around and widen my eyes theatrically. "The plan. Didn't you get any of my texts?"

"Might've forgotten to charge my phone," he admits. Then, "Wait, is that the thing where you're my date to Ollie's wedding?"

The "thing" where I'm his date to Ollie's wedding? My stomach sinks.

Here I was, daydreaming about it like an idiot all day, and he completely forgot. Clearly I've overestimated the solidity of this plan. Does he even realize what I'm really asking? Or is this just some silly prank to him?

"You know, don't worry about it," I hear myself saying. "Let's just forget this whole thing, it was stupid. What color suit do you need?"

I turn around and stalk through the aisle, trying to be as brisk and businesslike as possible. This is fine. Nothing to be upset about.

Israel all-too-easily catches up with me. "Samoa, I really don't mind taking you to the wedding. It's no big deal."

"No big deal?" I cry, whirling on him. It comes out much louder than I meant it to, so I have to check my volume before I continue. "Israel, I'm asking you to help me trick everyone we know. I'm talking about deceiving not only Will, but Laila, my parents, and your whole family. I am risking the delicate balance of my relationship with Laila, her relationship with you, and the previously uncomplicated co-existence slash semi-friendship you and I shared. I am doing all of this because I have been in love with that boy since I was eight years old and I—"

Should shut up before I say something stupid.

Israel raises an eyebrow at me. "Don't stop now."

I take a deep, controlled breath. "I wouldn't be considering this if it wasn't a huge, monumental deal. And I can't think of any sane reason really why you would want to do it, so I won't hold it against you if you say no. But it would be a really big favor to me and it would mean a lot and if you are going to help me I need you to take it seriously, okay?"

I want him to look mad or apologetic or anything remotely sincere, but he just looks amused.

"Look Kent, I said I'd do it, and I will. Won't forget again, scout's honor." He gives me a lazy two-fingered salute.

That doesn't instill any confidence that he heard me and is taking this seriously, but it feels wrong to keep yelling at him when he's technically helping me. I guess I'll have to take what I can get.

"Okay, well. Thank you." I brush my hair back from my face and—gross, out of my lip gloss. Must've gotten a little wild during my ranting. "So... what color suit do you need?"

"Ollie said black slacks, black jacket, white shirt," Israel answers. "Apparently Joanna is picking out the ties because she doesn't trust him to choose the right color."

We've reached the back now, and when I lead him to the wall of suits and tuxedos, he whistles appreciatively.

"Laila wasn't kidding. These look like they're brand-new." He leans over to one of them to examine it more closely, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"Well yeah, May is a big month for weddings, and rich people end up with a lot of extra suits." I narrow my eyes at a streak of mechanical grease on his jacket. "Hey, take the jacket off. No grease on the merchandise. Why are you even wearing that in eighty degree weather?"

"Oh. I came straight from Max's shop," He shrugs the jacket off and hangs it on a mannequin's head. "I'm technically on my lunch break so we'll have to make this quick."

"Well that explains the smell." I put a hand on each of his shoulders and square him off, trying to get a sense of his measurements. Maybe a 40 inch chest?

"What smell?" Israel's almost exactly a head taller than me, and this close to him, his exhales stir my hair against my forehead and skitter across my scalp. It's a very light sensation, but I'm ridiculously ticklish.

I do my best not to giggle as I lift his arm and use my hands to gauge his sleeve length. "It's like gasoline and cars and stuff. You know, machine shop smell."

"Oh. Sorry."

I glance up to see him looking down at me, so I take a step back. "I don't mind. Just like, don't get too close to anything hot, because I have a feeling you're very flammable right now."

The joke makes him laugh, which I didn't expect but gives me a sense of pride.

I turn around and start rifling through the outfits on the rack, checking sizes and materials. We used to split them off into jackets and slacks, but at my suggestion, Amy started keeping sets together, thank God. It was a nightmare before to try and find anything that matched.

"Sam, stop leaving your stuff lying all around the store," Laila yells from somewhere I can't see. "Your shoes almost killed me."

Whoops.

"How long's she been like that?" Israel asks.

"Since yesterday." I place a lovely Tommy Hilfiger back on the rack with a great amount of regret. Too small in the sleeves. "I don't know if it's the Will thing or a mom thing or a dad thing or a new thing that we don't even know about yet. But I better get used to it, because pretty soon she's going to think I've been secretly dating her cousin behind her back."

"Hey, at least it's not true." Israel pulls a fedora off one of the mannequins and sets it on his own head, at what I can only assume is a purposefully terrible angle. "I don't know why you wouldn't just tell her that."

It's not an unfair point. Yet somehow, it didn't occur to me up until this moment that I might clue Laila into this scheme. Guilt worms its way into my stomach and bounces around like a pinball, because I know exactly why that is.

"You're going to think I'm a terrible person," I say slowly. My eyes are fixed on a jacket cuff, paying a little more attention to the stitching than is strictly necessary. "It's just... if I told her, I know she'd shut down whatever weird mating dance she and Will have going on. But then he would only be with me because he couldn't have her. And I don't want that." I hesitate. "And also... I know Laila doesn't feel that way about Will, but I think she likes the way he feels about her."

I don't say the rest of it out loud. Deep in some dark corner of my mind where I can be truly honest with myself, I admit that the biggest reason I never told Laila is that I'm afraid once she knows I want him, she'll want him, too. It's such a horrible and traitorous thought to think about your best friend, but. It's there.

"Do you think I should tell her?" I look at Israel. "You think I'm an awful friend for lying to her, don't you."

"I have no opinion on the matter," he says dryly. "I just like pissing off Will."

His nonchalant attitude is strangely reassuring.

Will. That's why I'm doing this. I'm not trying to hurt Laila, I'm just... offering myself as an option.

"What's your problem with him anyway?" I force myself to go back to perusing, and bury that nasty feeling deep down inside where I can torture myself over it every night before I fall asleep.

"He's a tool." Israel offers no more explanation than this, and his tone clearly conveys he's not going to.

I kind of want to press the matter, but it would be a waste of time. Neither of them has ever told me what the source of their animosity is. It started when Laila got diagnosed, so I assume it has something to do with their different approaches towards her, but I don't know if it's a dumb boy territorial thing or if something actually happened. Either way, whenever I try to broach the subject, they just clam up.

Pulling another suit off the rack, I inspect the style, the cut, and the material, all of which pass with flying colors. Then, with a quick prayer, I hunt down the tag and read the measurements. Eureka.

"Here it is." I turn back towards Israel and brandish my discovery. "This is the one."

"Shouldn't I try a couple on?" he asks, taking it from me with a skeptical expression.

"Nope. That'll fit." I toss my hair back and pose with my hand on my hip. "I'm kind of a genius when it comes to these things."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't try to argue with me. I show him to the dressing rooms and sprawl out in one of the plush armchairs I'd dragged over here ages ago, going sideways so my legs dangle over one armrest and my head is over the other.

I kick to the rhythm of "The Piña Colada Song" from my playlist and examine my nails while I wait. I'd painted them each a different color last night while we watched Mulan; pastel yellow and glittery white and cobalt blue and the prettiest shade of lilac, and peach pink and cherry red and pale mint and deep fuschia, and my thumbnails colored metallic green and bright orange respectively. Laila said it clashed horribly, and honestly, she's right. But it makes me feel whimsical.

Just as I'm wondering if I should check on her, Laila herself comes around the corner and plops onto the floor in front of my chair, my shoes in hand.

"Did you find one?" she asks.

In answer, Israel opens the changing room door and walks out in a suit that, as I'd predicted, fits perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.

"Whoever donated this must've had serious gorilla arms," Israel observes, holding up the sleeve that comes halfway down his palm.

I wave this away. "That's an easy hem job. Honestly I could finish it before my shift is done."

"You definitely need to get your hair cut before the wedding." Laila mimes an explosion over her head. "You're starting to 'fro out."

"I haven't had time," he defends, kicking her knee half-heartedly. "You know I hate it when it gets fluffy like this."

"Sit down, I'll do it right now." She gets to her feet and drops my shoes in my lap. "We've got hair scissors and a clipper in the back room."

"Not in the suit!" I object, pointing at Israel. "Back into the changing room, mister."

"Yeah yeah." He disappears into the stall, closing the door behind him.

By the time he's gotten his own clothes back on, Laila has returned with the hair kit that's been in the back for the entire time I've worked here, next to the blender and the tackle box for reasons none of the employees know.

I hang the suit up carefully, smoothing out any wrinkles, while Laila starts cutting. Neither of them talks, but it's a comfortable silence, the way it always is with those two. I end up back in my chair, watching Laila carefully work her way over his head. She's been cutting his hair since he was twelve, so she knows exactly how he likes it.

I consider the two of them, the ways they take care of each other. It makes me sad in a way I don't even want to think about.

"Hey Laila, don't we also have a bottle of hair bleach in the back?" I say, just to fill the silence. "Whaddya say, Iz, wanna go blonde?"

"That's not funny. Laila, make her stop laughing."

Later that night, back at my house, Laila has an epiphany somewhere between our second and third episode of Criminal Minds.

"I've been a total b-word today, haven't I?" She puts her head in my lap, her hair still a little damp from her shower.

"I don't like to use words that have historically degrading connotations towards women," I answer diplomatically.

"Just say it."

"Yes you have."

She nods. "Do you hate me yet?"

"What do you take me for, an amateur?" I scoff. "Give me at least another day."

Then she smiles at me, and I know her dark cloud has passed, at least for a little while.

"I'm sorry," she says, like she really means it. She takes my face in her hands and squishes my cheeks as if I'm a little kid or her cat. "You really are the best best friend ever."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." My voice comes out muffled from between her palms. "Is it your parents, or Will?"

"It's everything I guess." She lets go of me and sits up. "I mean... it's like..." She hesitates, and then it all comes pouring out in a long-winded word waterfall. "My mom marries her soulmate, and he runs off and leaves her for another woman, right? And then Izzy's mom has a one night stand with some guy who definitely isn't her soulmate, and because of that Israel doesn't even get that option. And Will's parents despise each other but they won't get divorced because they're soulmates, and it's just like, you're screwed if you do and screwed if you don't." She buries her head in her hands. "And then he says he loves me like it's some wonderful thing and I don't know how to tell him... it's not just that I don't love him. I don't even think I want to." She peeks out at me between her fingers. "Does that make me a bad person?"

There are so many things I could say in response to the conundrum of soulmates, the question of how much choice any of us really have when it comes to our happiness. But people have been trying to answer that for thousands of years and I have no earth-shattering revelations to offer. Besides, Laila doesn't really want a solution, she just wants to be heard.

I wrap my arms around her and lay my cheek on her head. My answer is not the least bit sympathetic. "Absolutely terrible."

"Oh, you're the worst," she gasps, shoving me off, but I'm laughing too hard to respond.

I love her, I really do. But I love Will too. And he deserves someone who wants him for keeps. Not for a moment of comfort or drunken mistakes that are taken back the next day.

I've thought this a thousand times since I saw him holding her in my room all those years ago, but for the first time, I'm actually doing something about it. For both of us.

Laila steals my ice cream, and I let her finish it. We don't end up even making it back to my room, because she falls asleep on the couch with her legs on top of me. Just as I'm drifting off, my phone buzzes with an alert. It's a text from Israel.

Suit fits. Pick you up tomorrow @11.