[fic] What I Wore Today - 1
Mar. 30th, 2012 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saikouTitle: What I Wore Today
Chapter: 1 / ?
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
glitterati
Rating: PG
Fandom: Inspired by Muse
Disclaimer: This only exists in the realm of my imagination. No harm intended, so no need for harm to be done. :)
Pairing: Belldom
Words: 4000~
Beta: The inimitableshayunknown
Summary: A/U (set in the U.S. because I don’t want to risk anachronisms) – With fashion and with friendships, sometimes there’s no accounting for style. Dom is a fashion blogger living in a small island town off the East Coast. When a new face moves into town, he wastes no time in currying her professional favor. Unfortunately, there’s one big lie in the middle of this new friendship... and it’s one his best friend and roommate will need to help him through.
Author’s Notes: I can happily “blame” this onashamedbliss, who threw out the idea of Dom as a Fashion Blogger on Twitter and got my mind grapes squeezing on the thought. I’m really jazzed about this, let me tell you! And if you've never heard of Hannah Hart, Matt's fantasy wife, please check her out and make your life better.
Supplemental: To add to how much stupid fun I have with this story, I’m going to make Polyvore outfit collages for each chapter! Starting with Chapter One!
Chapter One
The knit tie. I have to have the knit tie. And it isn’t just a petty, inconsequential want the way you really want some pizza after a night of clubbing or the way you look at a GQ piece on an Audemars watch and think, “I want that, that would be nice.” No, you misunderstand. I need this knit tie, with its perfectly handmade look and its texture that suggests someone might have meant to felt it at some point in time but never found the energy. It’s navy blue and taupe, I can already envision it complementing the suede loafers I thrifted last week, and it’s simply necessary.
The problem is, it’s $30.00 off the shelf. I already have an armful of other finds, the lot of them totalling more than $40.00, and buying this tie will mean I can’t pay my Internet bill this week. Either that, or I won’t eat. The latter isn’t going to happen, because I happen to be a huge fan of macaroni and cheese. My roommate vlogs about cooking, though, which might give me a few leftovers to box up during the week. It’s not really a huge problem; I gauge the logic in my brain. I can pay next Wednesday. Our cable company never cuts us off so quickly. I’ll feel a bit shady, I know, to use my roommate’s share of the money to buy one more addition to my wardrobe, but it’s all in the name of business.
This is my life. I’m broke, nominally employed, love macaroni and cheese,and blog about style as a hobby. A hobby for now, mind. I aim to be as successful as my roommate, who has partner status on YouTube and actually does well enough to have no employment outside of vlogging, social media, and appearing at internet conventions. Ironically, he mostly hates people.
“Oh, you found that, did you? Just put it out today.” Debbie runs Ritz’s thrift store and should know me better by now. She’s eyeing the knit tie as I lay it first on the counter like a delicate thing, turning my attention then to my other pieces.
“I know.”
“Of course you do.” She smirks and gestures for me to hand over the rest. “What have you got today, then? I like the glasses, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I say curtly, touching the frames of my new eyeglasses. The rims are thick, but still appropriate enough for the season. I opted for an orangey yellow color “They’re new.”
“I love this shirt, too,” she remarks, running her knuckles lovingly over the front of a blue striped Ralph Lauren button-down. “But then, when don’t I love what you pick out? I should start a section of the store just for you, you know? Dom’s Closet or something.”
I sense an opportunity, and jump on it. “Well, if you’d like you could actually do that. Just set up a rack somewhere and I would fill it with my picks. In fact, you could advertise my blog along with it.” I laugh to give her the illusion that I’m not as serious as I actually am.
“Oh, you blog? My daughter has one of those.” I’ve told her a dozen times that I blog. Her daughter is ten.
“Yeah, it’s a style blog. I can write it down for you...” I reach for a business card from her counter and flip it over, vaguely conscious of the petite girl who’s been listening to our conversation. I only glimpse her out of the corner of my eye as I lean in to write down the address of my online presence. She’s got long, wavy brown hair, tanned olive skin that might be any ethnicity of many, and is wearing a wide-brimmed panama hat, a neutral dress, and some black creepers over some sheer black tights. I like it. Maybe I’ll catch her eye on the way out. “There you go!”
I present the card to Debbie between my index and middle finger, clicking the pen triumphantly.
She reads it out loud, pronouncing each word carefully. “Cardigan Brie dot com!”
“That’s me. It just redirects to my Tumblr, for now... soon I want to expand it a little, add a YouTube channel and maybe some other content. This would be a nice little thing for me, if you’d be interested in my input for the shop.”
“I’ll check it out! Maybe my son will, too. He needs some lessons on how to dress. We’ll talk about the personal picks section after I’ve got all the new consignment out... it’ll let me know if I’ve got the room.”
I tell her I understand, we smile about it, and she proceeds to ring me up. The petite girl is still listening, hovering longer than anyone would near the cheap jewelry rack dripping with gaudy plastic and rhinestone pieces. Someone with her obvious fashion sense should know better, and I have a feeling she does.
On my way out, I produce my iPhone and give it a once-over, throwing a blithe “cheers” at the girl when I pass. Matt’s texted me (that’s my roommate) and it looks like I’ve got quite a few notes to go through on today’s outfit, which I posted less than three hours ago before leaving to run my errands.
I open the door to excuse myself, critically eyeing the resort-style seersucker dress hanging near the entrance, and step onto the patio. I pause to make sure my debit card and iPhone are securely back in the appropriate pockets of my leather messenger bag. I don’t often leave the apartment without it. Everything fits inside, from my laptop to my car keys, and besides that the thing was probably made in the 1970’s and is still so gorgeous I can use it to add a vintage touch to every outfit. Not surprisingly, I always like to do that.
I’m staring at the bright blue, cloudless sky and cursing my eyeglasses, which are otherwise a personal style signature I adore. They keep me from wearing sunglasses. I fucking love sunglasses, but can’t afford a prescription pair on my current insurance. And by “current insurance”, don’t get me wrong: I mean “no insurance”. Before I can move my feet from the patio and face the glaring sun, the door opens behind me.
I know it’s the petite girl in the panama hat, and mostly because I can already smell her perfume. I’m not so good with identifying perfumes, but it’s a nice one, and I smelled it when I passed her.
“Are you from around here?” she asks, still from behind as she’s inching up to flank me.
Strange question. Interesting question. Few people elect to move to St. Lawrence Island, after all, but not because it’s not an absolutely lovely place to live. It’s more like people don’t even know it exists. We’re off the East Coast, a stone’s throw from North Carolina, connected by a four-lane bridge that becomes a highway leading to Wilmington. Imagine the South had to get a kidney transplant, and New England was the donor. That’s St. Lawrence Island, just a little island that thinks it’s Cape Cod, and far enough removed from the rural South that it can get away with it.
“I’ve lived here all my life.” I turn slightly and look down at her. That’s a shock for me, looking down at a lady. I’m not especially tall, nor am I exceedingly short, but I’m quite used to being nearly eye-to-eye with most people I meet, give or take an inch or three. It’s good for finding clothes that fit, but bad for the business of being a male model. I decided to start blogging about two years ago, when I hit 21 and realized I wasn’t growing past 5’8” and dreams of the fashion world were otherwise unlikely (I can’t sew, either).
Even with the hat, she’s possibly 5”2”, and that’s being generous. She reminds me of a wood nymph as she holds the brim and looks up to smile, showing off a very subtle application of pearly pink lip gloss. Her features are naturally dark, and she isn’t wearing much makeup besides this. Mascara, maybe, but it doesn’t seem like she really needs it. She looks strangely familiar, but I can’t place it. Sort of like a diminutive Sofia Vergara, maybe. Prettier, in my opinion.
“Cool. I just moved here a couple of months ago, myself.”
A moment of awkward silence fills in the gap as I wonder why she’s telling me this, and why she approached me to begin. She laughs brightly, a little deeply, and fills me in. “My sister is opening a new Starbucks here and didn’t have anyone to live with. I’m helping her get settled in, pay bills. Anyway, enough about me. I was just sort of surprised.”
“Surprised?” I lift my eyebrows, thin though they are, in a quick movement of curiosity. Before she can nod and respond, though, I mutter a follow-up: “Um, we’d better get off the porch before someone wants to come in or leave.”
Laughing, she shrugs. “Guess so, but I don’t know: I think we’re pretty good advertisement.”
It does make me wonder how the two of us look standing on the front porch of the cozy little thrift store in our stylish getups. A photograph would normally be in order. Sadly, I have no one at my disposal to operate the camera (which is also in my bag). Nonetheless, we’re already moving down the steps and onto the paved walkway. I can only assume the white Lexus in the parking lot is hers, and it makes me feel a bit self-conscious about my factory blue Kia.
“What’s your name?” I ask once we’re safely out of the path of egress.
“Sophie,” she says a with a tiny flip of her hair. “Yours?”
“Dom.”
“Really? Thought it might have been Cardigan.” She’s wry about the joke. I like her already.
“Cardigan Brie is only my stage name. Didn’t get into RuPaul’s Drag Race this season, though.”
I hope she knows that I’m joking, too. The way she laughs suggests it. “Good one, good one. Well, Dom... I happen to be a fellow blogger. That’s what surprised me. Didn’t think I’d find another one of us out here in the boondocks.”
Though I’m about to say she’s in luck and she actually found two, Matt included, I try to act ruffled by her last remark instead. “The boondocks? Excuse you.”
A smirking grin is her response. “Yeah, like St. Lawrence Island is a booming metropolis. I left New York City for this.”
At this, I’m the one who’s surprised. We end up between the two cars in the lot. As expected, she leans against the white Lexus and I’m left gaping at her. “Why would you leave New York for this?”
She shrugs. “Lived there all my life. I love my sister to bits and I’m not opposed to a change of scenery. She really needed the company and she wouldn’t get her own store to run if she wasn’t willing to relocate on her own dime. I make a living online, so it doesn’t matter to me.”
“You’re a fashion blogger?”
“Fashion and beauty, yup. Um, The February Experiment. I don’t know if--”
I’m already interrupting her. “Holy shit, that’s why you look familiar!” And she’s giggling at me.
Now, for those of you who live under a rock and don’t know, The February Experiment is a fashion blogging institution after only four years of existence. The eponymous experiment happened when a 19-year-old social sciences student at NYU decided to wear a different style of clothing each day for a month and see how it affected the way people treated her, even her established peers. Her completely unscientific but very interesting results were sewn up into a book that found a whirlwind bit of success in the mass media. What struck the style community the most was how incredibly well put-together her outfits were, and her flair for explaining why she chose them. The blog continued, unburdened by scientific analysis. Three years later, your average pop culture fiend might say “oh yeah, that girl”, but the fashion blogosphere at large would pour bleach on my favorite jeans for not recognizing her at first glance.
“So this explains the hiatus, then,” I start nodding like I’m just so clever. “It’s really an honor to meet you.”
“Oh, stop,” she waves a hand in the air, “I sort of can’t stand the celebrity status. Fame culture is such bullshit.”
“Spoken like a true social sciences major. Sorry for being a fanboy.”
“Nah, you’re cool. Hey, are you heading anywhere in particular? I need some coffee, so I was going to go visit my sister and get a fix. Maybe we can talk style or something?” She’s cynically hopeful, like it doesn’t really matter to her whether I go. “I’m just bored and haven’t met anyone awesome here, yet. I’m lame, I know.”
“Quite all right. I do need to drop something off at my apartment, so maybe I’ll meet you at Starbucks?”
“Well,” she shrugs, “it takes about ten minutes to get anywhere here, so I’m sure I’ll still be working on my latte when you roll up.”
“Sure thing, sure thing. Hey, do you... want to exchange numbers, maybe? Just in case I get detained by my roommate. That way I can let you know.”
She pulls out a white iPhone that matches mine. At least we’re well-matched on something, luxury-wise. “Let me have it,” she prompts me, which is such a no-nonsense way of putting it that I can’t help grinning about as I give her my phone number.
“Cool, Dom. Thanks. That’s just D-O-M, right, no funky, weird spelling?”
“Nah, just regular type.”
“Short for what? Dominic?”
“Dom Perignon, actually. My parents are really, really pretentious.” She’s laughing already, but I feel the need to clarify: “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Dominic.”
“All right, all right, you had me for, like, a millisecond. See you soon?”
“Soon enough. Nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you, too.” Before we duck into our respective cars, she slides on a pair of Gucci sunglasses and says, “I love your brogues.”
They’re tassled red suede, and I took a chance by ordering them directly from a website. They’re French. They cost me a whole paycheck.
“Thank you.” I feel validated, I feel on top of the world. “I love your... everything.”
She gives me a saucy, kittenish expression, sort of to say “son, I know” before she closes the door.
I am no longer the most fashionable person on St. Lawrence Island, and I don’t really know how to take this. I drive the several blocks to my apartment turning over the pros and cons of befriending Sophie in my mind. On the one hand, she has the potential to give me publicity unheard of. We could grow close, become collaborators, and day trip to Atlanta or road trip to New York City for sample sales and shows. I’m getting ahead of myself, I know, but I’m really trying to look into the good. Because the bad is really bad.
The bad is “what if she likes me?” What if she took my natural flirtation as genuine flirtation? I don’t know how to make it obvious without being a dick about it and potentially throwing her off my professional scent for good, but it has to happen and it has to happen fast. Because the look she gave me before getting in the car suggested something I don’t have any finesse in talking about.
“Matt, I got your feta.”
“Cool, just leave it on the counter. Thanks.”
He’s cleaning the kitchen when I arrive, which I’m only willing to interrupt for particularly grave matters. He doesn’t clean anything, ever, under all circumstances. I can only assume, then, that he spilled something or something exploded in the oven. He doesn’t look too happy about being on his knees, on the tile, with rubber gloves on. I’m stood spread-eagle in the door of the room, looking down on him.
“I met Sophie What’s-her-name today from februaryexperiment.com. She lives here now. She lives on St. Lawrence Island.”
“Bullshit.” Matt’s a real charmer. Usually he’s actually quite receptive to my conversation, but maybe the bleach fumes are getting to his head.
“Actually not lying. Supposed to meet her at the new Starbucks in like two minutes. And I think she was flirting with me pretty hardcore.”
“”Cool story, bro. I met Hannah Hart yesterday and she’s going to go straight for me. The wedding’s in November. I believe mazel tov is in order.” That’s his more elaborate way of saying “bullshit” again.
“Would you mind if I tell Sophie you’re my boyfriend?”
“Um... yes. Yes, I would mind this.”
Matt isn’t exactly anywhere in particular on the Kinsey scale. He hasn’t had a girlfriend in years, due in large part to his personality, which as his best friend I can say is pretty shitty at times. More importantly, his type of girl - a type I’m convinced does not exist in nature - also happens to not inhabit St. Lawrence Island. Trust me, we’ve checked.
If he does have a type of man, he certainly won’t admit it. He’s pretty happy being alone, from what I can tell. I’ve tried to set him up before, even online, and he just found some excuse to say it would never work. However, that mentality could help me here.
“Please?”
“Why don’t you just tell her you’re gay?”
“Well that sounds shitty, doesn’t it?”
“Not when it’s the truth.”
“Ugh, it’ll just be so much more awkward.”
“Okay, Dom.” He leans back on his haunches and holds up a hand to quiet me for a moment. “I’m going to tell you exactly what is probably going to happen with this. You’re going to let her keep flirting with you because you’re, 1. thinking it’s going soooo well and that is due almost in full to her wanting to have sex with you, because you’re a jerk. 2. you’re too scared to just say you’re gay and even risk making someone think you don’t want to flirt anymore. And 3. you really just love people admiring you. She’s going to suddenly realize, after she does manage to think you’re pretty cool beans, that you’re gay. Either because the evidence just piles up, or she finally goes to give you a handy and you go nuts. Do you think that’s going to be good for your blog promotion? Just tell her. You’re delusional.”
He’s right. He’s super right. He’s so right that I’m just standing there sneering and twisting my toe against the tile while I slump into the doorjamb. However, he’s the one who had a casserole crack its dish and disintegrate in the oven and all over the kitchen floor when he tried to get it out (I find this out later when I see the sheer volume of paper towels he went through), so I’m willing to just take the hit. Besides, I can always say something snide like “well at least I don’t tuck my t-shirts into my jeans, speaking of delusional.” I’d only say this to myself, though. Matt doesn’t actually care.
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell her.”
“No you won’t!” He shouts after me, and I flip the bird at nothing as I leave.
Thirty minutes later, Sophie and I are sitting practically shoulder to shoulder and looking at the screen of my laptop. “I really dig that,” she interjects, and touches her finger to the screen as she points at one of my outfits from last Summer. I was wearing bow ties a lot that season, with thicker frames on my glasses. She’s pointing, however, at my white boat hat. “With the seersucker jacket it just works.”
“Yeah, my thought was to throw the destroyed jeans in and pull it back from the edge of total barbershop quartet meets Colonel Sanders.”
“It really works, though! See, I don’t see it working so much in New York, though. But here? Oh my God, it’s brilliant.”
“We have to invent our own style to fit our environment,” I say after a few moments of consideration.
“Sort of like personality. It’s all about culture.”
“Sadly I’m still in the minority here, though.” I sigh. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to inch us closer and closer to the topic of my sexuality, which is just plain awkward no matter how I look at it. I tell myself over and over again that I can just say it, even though she’s just so awesome that I start to doubt whether I’m gay at all. I remember she doesn’t have a penis, and re-orient myself to await her response.
“What, the style minority? And people don’t like that?”
We’re so close. I can still smell her perfume and figure it’s probably Prada or Gucci or something even more absurdly expensive. “People don’t tend to like anything that’s not status quo. They’re not judgey here or anything, but you can tell I’m an oddity.”
“I totally know that feeling. Sorry it’s the same everywhere. You have fun, though, right?”
“Yeah, the island’s not so bad once you’re used to it. A few cool bars to hang out at, and of course places like Ritz’s are pretty sweet.”
“I need someone to show me around, maybe I could tag along some evening.” She’s inching her chair back into its place now, respecting personal space now that we’re veering off of the blog topic.
“I would be totally up for that. I’ve got a few friends, hope they won’t be too lame and backwoodsy for you. Hope I’m not too lame and backwoodsy for you.” I chuckle uncomfortably, but she just rolls her eyes.
“Please, when people are cool, they’re cool all over. You have family here, then?”
I can vaguely sense where this is going, and brace myself.
“Yeah. Mom and dad, and my sister.”
“Oh, nice! Yeah, so I hope you can understand the loyalty to family thing that brought me here.” Sophie’s sister is darker-skinned and a bit taller than she is, but they both have the same basic build. For a moment I wonder if Matt would be interested in either of them, but then I remember his overwhelmingly particular set of girlfriend requirements and figure I don’t want to put either of the ladies through that.
“Always. My sister’s married and doing her own thing, now, though,” I say. Oh, lord, what have I done? I immediately think.
She swoops in, bending to sip from her latte straw while she subtly bats her eyes. “What about you, Dom? You have a girlfriend?”
I feel trapped, and much in the same way a porcupine might throw his spikes, I doff all logic and go with my first instinct of defense. I don’t even mean to say it, because I know it was a stupid idea and I had every intention not to even think about it as an option. However, I’m known to say some pretty ridiculous things when I feel intimidated by someone. It’s like a junior varsity basketball player sharing a table with Yao Ming. A Yao Ming who also maybe wants to be more than friends. A little intimidating, to say the least. “No, actually, I have a boyfriend!”
Shit.
Chapter: 1 / ?
Author:
glitteratiRating: PG
Fandom: Inspired by Muse
Disclaimer: This only exists in the realm of my imagination. No harm intended, so no need for harm to be done. :)
Pairing: Belldom
Words: 4000~
Beta: The inimitable
shayunknownSummary: A/U (set in the U.S. because I don’t want to risk anachronisms) – With fashion and with friendships, sometimes there’s no accounting for style. Dom is a fashion blogger living in a small island town off the East Coast. When a new face moves into town, he wastes no time in currying her professional favor. Unfortunately, there’s one big lie in the middle of this new friendship... and it’s one his best friend and roommate will need to help him through.
Author’s Notes: I can happily “blame” this on
ashamedbliss, who threw out the idea of Dom as a Fashion Blogger on Twitter and got my mind grapes squeezing on the thought. I’m really jazzed about this, let me tell you! And if you've never heard of Hannah Hart, Matt's fantasy wife, please check her out and make your life better.Supplemental: To add to how much stupid fun I have with this story, I’m going to make Polyvore outfit collages for each chapter! Starting with Chapter One!
Chapter One
The knit tie. I have to have the knit tie. And it isn’t just a petty, inconsequential want the way you really want some pizza after a night of clubbing or the way you look at a GQ piece on an Audemars watch and think, “I want that, that would be nice.” No, you misunderstand. I need this knit tie, with its perfectly handmade look and its texture that suggests someone might have meant to felt it at some point in time but never found the energy. It’s navy blue and taupe, I can already envision it complementing the suede loafers I thrifted last week, and it’s simply necessary.
The problem is, it’s $30.00 off the shelf. I already have an armful of other finds, the lot of them totalling more than $40.00, and buying this tie will mean I can’t pay my Internet bill this week. Either that, or I won’t eat. The latter isn’t going to happen, because I happen to be a huge fan of macaroni and cheese. My roommate vlogs about cooking, though, which might give me a few leftovers to box up during the week. It’s not really a huge problem; I gauge the logic in my brain. I can pay next Wednesday. Our cable company never cuts us off so quickly. I’ll feel a bit shady, I know, to use my roommate’s share of the money to buy one more addition to my wardrobe, but it’s all in the name of business.
This is my life. I’m broke, nominally employed, love macaroni and cheese,and blog about style as a hobby. A hobby for now, mind. I aim to be as successful as my roommate, who has partner status on YouTube and actually does well enough to have no employment outside of vlogging, social media, and appearing at internet conventions. Ironically, he mostly hates people.
“Oh, you found that, did you? Just put it out today.” Debbie runs Ritz’s thrift store and should know me better by now. She’s eyeing the knit tie as I lay it first on the counter like a delicate thing, turning my attention then to my other pieces.
“I know.”
“Of course you do.” She smirks and gestures for me to hand over the rest. “What have you got today, then? I like the glasses, by the way.”
“Thank you,” I say curtly, touching the frames of my new eyeglasses. The rims are thick, but still appropriate enough for the season. I opted for an orangey yellow color “They’re new.”
“I love this shirt, too,” she remarks, running her knuckles lovingly over the front of a blue striped Ralph Lauren button-down. “But then, when don’t I love what you pick out? I should start a section of the store just for you, you know? Dom’s Closet or something.”
I sense an opportunity, and jump on it. “Well, if you’d like you could actually do that. Just set up a rack somewhere and I would fill it with my picks. In fact, you could advertise my blog along with it.” I laugh to give her the illusion that I’m not as serious as I actually am.
“Oh, you blog? My daughter has one of those.” I’ve told her a dozen times that I blog. Her daughter is ten.
“Yeah, it’s a style blog. I can write it down for you...” I reach for a business card from her counter and flip it over, vaguely conscious of the petite girl who’s been listening to our conversation. I only glimpse her out of the corner of my eye as I lean in to write down the address of my online presence. She’s got long, wavy brown hair, tanned olive skin that might be any ethnicity of many, and is wearing a wide-brimmed panama hat, a neutral dress, and some black creepers over some sheer black tights. I like it. Maybe I’ll catch her eye on the way out. “There you go!”
I present the card to Debbie between my index and middle finger, clicking the pen triumphantly.
She reads it out loud, pronouncing each word carefully. “Cardigan Brie dot com!”
“That’s me. It just redirects to my Tumblr, for now... soon I want to expand it a little, add a YouTube channel and maybe some other content. This would be a nice little thing for me, if you’d be interested in my input for the shop.”
“I’ll check it out! Maybe my son will, too. He needs some lessons on how to dress. We’ll talk about the personal picks section after I’ve got all the new consignment out... it’ll let me know if I’ve got the room.”
I tell her I understand, we smile about it, and she proceeds to ring me up. The petite girl is still listening, hovering longer than anyone would near the cheap jewelry rack dripping with gaudy plastic and rhinestone pieces. Someone with her obvious fashion sense should know better, and I have a feeling she does.
On my way out, I produce my iPhone and give it a once-over, throwing a blithe “cheers” at the girl when I pass. Matt’s texted me (that’s my roommate) and it looks like I’ve got quite a few notes to go through on today’s outfit, which I posted less than three hours ago before leaving to run my errands.
I open the door to excuse myself, critically eyeing the resort-style seersucker dress hanging near the entrance, and step onto the patio. I pause to make sure my debit card and iPhone are securely back in the appropriate pockets of my leather messenger bag. I don’t often leave the apartment without it. Everything fits inside, from my laptop to my car keys, and besides that the thing was probably made in the 1970’s and is still so gorgeous I can use it to add a vintage touch to every outfit. Not surprisingly, I always like to do that.
I’m staring at the bright blue, cloudless sky and cursing my eyeglasses, which are otherwise a personal style signature I adore. They keep me from wearing sunglasses. I fucking love sunglasses, but can’t afford a prescription pair on my current insurance. And by “current insurance”, don’t get me wrong: I mean “no insurance”. Before I can move my feet from the patio and face the glaring sun, the door opens behind me.
I know it’s the petite girl in the panama hat, and mostly because I can already smell her perfume. I’m not so good with identifying perfumes, but it’s a nice one, and I smelled it when I passed her.
“Are you from around here?” she asks, still from behind as she’s inching up to flank me.
Strange question. Interesting question. Few people elect to move to St. Lawrence Island, after all, but not because it’s not an absolutely lovely place to live. It’s more like people don’t even know it exists. We’re off the East Coast, a stone’s throw from North Carolina, connected by a four-lane bridge that becomes a highway leading to Wilmington. Imagine the South had to get a kidney transplant, and New England was the donor. That’s St. Lawrence Island, just a little island that thinks it’s Cape Cod, and far enough removed from the rural South that it can get away with it.
“I’ve lived here all my life.” I turn slightly and look down at her. That’s a shock for me, looking down at a lady. I’m not especially tall, nor am I exceedingly short, but I’m quite used to being nearly eye-to-eye with most people I meet, give or take an inch or three. It’s good for finding clothes that fit, but bad for the business of being a male model. I decided to start blogging about two years ago, when I hit 21 and realized I wasn’t growing past 5’8” and dreams of the fashion world were otherwise unlikely (I can’t sew, either).
Even with the hat, she’s possibly 5”2”, and that’s being generous. She reminds me of a wood nymph as she holds the brim and looks up to smile, showing off a very subtle application of pearly pink lip gloss. Her features are naturally dark, and she isn’t wearing much makeup besides this. Mascara, maybe, but it doesn’t seem like she really needs it. She looks strangely familiar, but I can’t place it. Sort of like a diminutive Sofia Vergara, maybe. Prettier, in my opinion.
“Cool. I just moved here a couple of months ago, myself.”
A moment of awkward silence fills in the gap as I wonder why she’s telling me this, and why she approached me to begin. She laughs brightly, a little deeply, and fills me in. “My sister is opening a new Starbucks here and didn’t have anyone to live with. I’m helping her get settled in, pay bills. Anyway, enough about me. I was just sort of surprised.”
“Surprised?” I lift my eyebrows, thin though they are, in a quick movement of curiosity. Before she can nod and respond, though, I mutter a follow-up: “Um, we’d better get off the porch before someone wants to come in or leave.”
Laughing, she shrugs. “Guess so, but I don’t know: I think we’re pretty good advertisement.”
It does make me wonder how the two of us look standing on the front porch of the cozy little thrift store in our stylish getups. A photograph would normally be in order. Sadly, I have no one at my disposal to operate the camera (which is also in my bag). Nonetheless, we’re already moving down the steps and onto the paved walkway. I can only assume the white Lexus in the parking lot is hers, and it makes me feel a bit self-conscious about my factory blue Kia.
“What’s your name?” I ask once we’re safely out of the path of egress.
“Sophie,” she says a with a tiny flip of her hair. “Yours?”
“Dom.”
“Really? Thought it might have been Cardigan.” She’s wry about the joke. I like her already.
“Cardigan Brie is only my stage name. Didn’t get into RuPaul’s Drag Race this season, though.”
I hope she knows that I’m joking, too. The way she laughs suggests it. “Good one, good one. Well, Dom... I happen to be a fellow blogger. That’s what surprised me. Didn’t think I’d find another one of us out here in the boondocks.”
Though I’m about to say she’s in luck and she actually found two, Matt included, I try to act ruffled by her last remark instead. “The boondocks? Excuse you.”
A smirking grin is her response. “Yeah, like St. Lawrence Island is a booming metropolis. I left New York City for this.”
At this, I’m the one who’s surprised. We end up between the two cars in the lot. As expected, she leans against the white Lexus and I’m left gaping at her. “Why would you leave New York for this?”
She shrugs. “Lived there all my life. I love my sister to bits and I’m not opposed to a change of scenery. She really needed the company and she wouldn’t get her own store to run if she wasn’t willing to relocate on her own dime. I make a living online, so it doesn’t matter to me.”
“You’re a fashion blogger?”
“Fashion and beauty, yup. Um, The February Experiment. I don’t know if--”
I’m already interrupting her. “Holy shit, that’s why you look familiar!” And she’s giggling at me.
Now, for those of you who live under a rock and don’t know, The February Experiment is a fashion blogging institution after only four years of existence. The eponymous experiment happened when a 19-year-old social sciences student at NYU decided to wear a different style of clothing each day for a month and see how it affected the way people treated her, even her established peers. Her completely unscientific but very interesting results were sewn up into a book that found a whirlwind bit of success in the mass media. What struck the style community the most was how incredibly well put-together her outfits were, and her flair for explaining why she chose them. The blog continued, unburdened by scientific analysis. Three years later, your average pop culture fiend might say “oh yeah, that girl”, but the fashion blogosphere at large would pour bleach on my favorite jeans for not recognizing her at first glance.
“So this explains the hiatus, then,” I start nodding like I’m just so clever. “It’s really an honor to meet you.”
“Oh, stop,” she waves a hand in the air, “I sort of can’t stand the celebrity status. Fame culture is such bullshit.”
“Spoken like a true social sciences major. Sorry for being a fanboy.”
“Nah, you’re cool. Hey, are you heading anywhere in particular? I need some coffee, so I was going to go visit my sister and get a fix. Maybe we can talk style or something?” She’s cynically hopeful, like it doesn’t really matter to her whether I go. “I’m just bored and haven’t met anyone awesome here, yet. I’m lame, I know.”
“Quite all right. I do need to drop something off at my apartment, so maybe I’ll meet you at Starbucks?”
“Well,” she shrugs, “it takes about ten minutes to get anywhere here, so I’m sure I’ll still be working on my latte when you roll up.”
“Sure thing, sure thing. Hey, do you... want to exchange numbers, maybe? Just in case I get detained by my roommate. That way I can let you know.”
She pulls out a white iPhone that matches mine. At least we’re well-matched on something, luxury-wise. “Let me have it,” she prompts me, which is such a no-nonsense way of putting it that I can’t help grinning about as I give her my phone number.
“Cool, Dom. Thanks. That’s just D-O-M, right, no funky, weird spelling?”
“Nah, just regular type.”
“Short for what? Dominic?”
“Dom Perignon, actually. My parents are really, really pretentious.” She’s laughing already, but I feel the need to clarify: “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Dominic.”
“All right, all right, you had me for, like, a millisecond. See you soon?”
“Soon enough. Nice to meet you.”
“Very nice to meet you, too.” Before we duck into our respective cars, she slides on a pair of Gucci sunglasses and says, “I love your brogues.”
They’re tassled red suede, and I took a chance by ordering them directly from a website. They’re French. They cost me a whole paycheck.
“Thank you.” I feel validated, I feel on top of the world. “I love your... everything.”
She gives me a saucy, kittenish expression, sort of to say “son, I know” before she closes the door.
I am no longer the most fashionable person on St. Lawrence Island, and I don’t really know how to take this. I drive the several blocks to my apartment turning over the pros and cons of befriending Sophie in my mind. On the one hand, she has the potential to give me publicity unheard of. We could grow close, become collaborators, and day trip to Atlanta or road trip to New York City for sample sales and shows. I’m getting ahead of myself, I know, but I’m really trying to look into the good. Because the bad is really bad.
The bad is “what if she likes me?” What if she took my natural flirtation as genuine flirtation? I don’t know how to make it obvious without being a dick about it and potentially throwing her off my professional scent for good, but it has to happen and it has to happen fast. Because the look she gave me before getting in the car suggested something I don’t have any finesse in talking about.
“Matt, I got your feta.”
“Cool, just leave it on the counter. Thanks.”
He’s cleaning the kitchen when I arrive, which I’m only willing to interrupt for particularly grave matters. He doesn’t clean anything, ever, under all circumstances. I can only assume, then, that he spilled something or something exploded in the oven. He doesn’t look too happy about being on his knees, on the tile, with rubber gloves on. I’m stood spread-eagle in the door of the room, looking down on him.
“I met Sophie What’s-her-name today from februaryexperiment.com. She lives here now. She lives on St. Lawrence Island.”
“Bullshit.” Matt’s a real charmer. Usually he’s actually quite receptive to my conversation, but maybe the bleach fumes are getting to his head.
“Actually not lying. Supposed to meet her at the new Starbucks in like two minutes. And I think she was flirting with me pretty hardcore.”
“”Cool story, bro. I met Hannah Hart yesterday and she’s going to go straight for me. The wedding’s in November. I believe mazel tov is in order.” That’s his more elaborate way of saying “bullshit” again.
“Would you mind if I tell Sophie you’re my boyfriend?”
“Um... yes. Yes, I would mind this.”
Matt isn’t exactly anywhere in particular on the Kinsey scale. He hasn’t had a girlfriend in years, due in large part to his personality, which as his best friend I can say is pretty shitty at times. More importantly, his type of girl - a type I’m convinced does not exist in nature - also happens to not inhabit St. Lawrence Island. Trust me, we’ve checked.
If he does have a type of man, he certainly won’t admit it. He’s pretty happy being alone, from what I can tell. I’ve tried to set him up before, even online, and he just found some excuse to say it would never work. However, that mentality could help me here.
“Please?”
“Why don’t you just tell her you’re gay?”
“Well that sounds shitty, doesn’t it?”
“Not when it’s the truth.”
“Ugh, it’ll just be so much more awkward.”
“Okay, Dom.” He leans back on his haunches and holds up a hand to quiet me for a moment. “I’m going to tell you exactly what is probably going to happen with this. You’re going to let her keep flirting with you because you’re, 1. thinking it’s going soooo well and that is due almost in full to her wanting to have sex with you, because you’re a jerk. 2. you’re too scared to just say you’re gay and even risk making someone think you don’t want to flirt anymore. And 3. you really just love people admiring you. She’s going to suddenly realize, after she does manage to think you’re pretty cool beans, that you’re gay. Either because the evidence just piles up, or she finally goes to give you a handy and you go nuts. Do you think that’s going to be good for your blog promotion? Just tell her. You’re delusional.”
He’s right. He’s super right. He’s so right that I’m just standing there sneering and twisting my toe against the tile while I slump into the doorjamb. However, he’s the one who had a casserole crack its dish and disintegrate in the oven and all over the kitchen floor when he tried to get it out (I find this out later when I see the sheer volume of paper towels he went through), so I’m willing to just take the hit. Besides, I can always say something snide like “well at least I don’t tuck my t-shirts into my jeans, speaking of delusional.” I’d only say this to myself, though. Matt doesn’t actually care.
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell her.”
“No you won’t!” He shouts after me, and I flip the bird at nothing as I leave.
Thirty minutes later, Sophie and I are sitting practically shoulder to shoulder and looking at the screen of my laptop. “I really dig that,” she interjects, and touches her finger to the screen as she points at one of my outfits from last Summer. I was wearing bow ties a lot that season, with thicker frames on my glasses. She’s pointing, however, at my white boat hat. “With the seersucker jacket it just works.”
“Yeah, my thought was to throw the destroyed jeans in and pull it back from the edge of total barbershop quartet meets Colonel Sanders.”
“It really works, though! See, I don’t see it working so much in New York, though. But here? Oh my God, it’s brilliant.”
“We have to invent our own style to fit our environment,” I say after a few moments of consideration.
“Sort of like personality. It’s all about culture.”
“Sadly I’m still in the minority here, though.” I sigh. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to inch us closer and closer to the topic of my sexuality, which is just plain awkward no matter how I look at it. I tell myself over and over again that I can just say it, even though she’s just so awesome that I start to doubt whether I’m gay at all. I remember she doesn’t have a penis, and re-orient myself to await her response.
“What, the style minority? And people don’t like that?”
We’re so close. I can still smell her perfume and figure it’s probably Prada or Gucci or something even more absurdly expensive. “People don’t tend to like anything that’s not status quo. They’re not judgey here or anything, but you can tell I’m an oddity.”
“I totally know that feeling. Sorry it’s the same everywhere. You have fun, though, right?”
“Yeah, the island’s not so bad once you’re used to it. A few cool bars to hang out at, and of course places like Ritz’s are pretty sweet.”
“I need someone to show me around, maybe I could tag along some evening.” She’s inching her chair back into its place now, respecting personal space now that we’re veering off of the blog topic.
“I would be totally up for that. I’ve got a few friends, hope they won’t be too lame and backwoodsy for you. Hope I’m not too lame and backwoodsy for you.” I chuckle uncomfortably, but she just rolls her eyes.
“Please, when people are cool, they’re cool all over. You have family here, then?”
I can vaguely sense where this is going, and brace myself.
“Yeah. Mom and dad, and my sister.”
“Oh, nice! Yeah, so I hope you can understand the loyalty to family thing that brought me here.” Sophie’s sister is darker-skinned and a bit taller than she is, but they both have the same basic build. For a moment I wonder if Matt would be interested in either of them, but then I remember his overwhelmingly particular set of girlfriend requirements and figure I don’t want to put either of the ladies through that.
“Always. My sister’s married and doing her own thing, now, though,” I say. Oh, lord, what have I done? I immediately think.
She swoops in, bending to sip from her latte straw while she subtly bats her eyes. “What about you, Dom? You have a girlfriend?”
I feel trapped, and much in the same way a porcupine might throw his spikes, I doff all logic and go with my first instinct of defense. I don’t even mean to say it, because I know it was a stupid idea and I had every intention not to even think about it as an option. However, I’m known to say some pretty ridiculous things when I feel intimidated by someone. It’s like a junior varsity basketball player sharing a table with Yao Ming. A Yao Ming who also maybe wants to be more than friends. A little intimidating, to say the least. “No, actually, I have a boyfriend!”
Shit.
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Date: 2012-03-31 02:58 am (UTC)I love Matt's bitchy attitude. He sounds more like a diva than Dom, and Dom is pretty diva-ish in this. I love, love that.
Your humor, as I have mentioned. The subtleness of it gets me every time. Subtle humor + dry humor = epic win.
I love all the references. I am already adoring Sophie. So looking forward to how Dom is going to convince Matt to go along with his little charade.
Okay, basically, I love this. Excited for more!
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:35 am (UTC)Matt's like an internet-shut-in diva, hahaha. Oh lord not that I know about that >__>
I guess I have equal parts "The Birdcage" and "Spaced" planned for this one :D
♥
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Date: 2012-04-02 01:50 am (UTC)seriously, if there's anything I can ever do, all you have to do is holler. I'd be happy to do whatever :)
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Date: 2012-03-31 03:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-31 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 12:37 am (UTC)Glad you like my little dynamic duo (and Matt, of course!) ♥ Thank you for reading!
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Date: 2012-03-31 05:10 am (UTC)YES! NEW FIC!
I legit cannot express with words how bloody perfect this is. This Dom is just... ugh, so much love. I love the way you've written him and his whole fashion sense and his little diva/sassy thing he's got going on. But, I think I may like Matt even more. He's a bitch in a kitchen.
But fuck, Dominic, look at what you have done. Matt's going to freak. XD Looking forward to the next chapter so, so much!
(And now I am addicted to Polyvore ajwreoiwjroijeiorew)
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:39 am (UTC)He's a bitch in a kitchen
Looooove this. Subversion, go!
Polyvore is the best and this fic wouldn't exist without it :B :B :B
Thanks for reading Tay! ♥
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Date: 2012-03-31 10:32 am (UTC)Can't wait for chapter 2
♥
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:40 am (UTC)And isn't Polyvore amazing?? omg I love it!
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Date: 2012-03-31 11:58 am (UTC)Ugh, your Matt is wicked! Difficult, rude, sassy and totally straight. I can tell this is going to be a very fun ride! Of course he'll have no choice but to play along with Dom's mistake, muahaha!
Dom is simply adorable. 'nuff said.
And even though I am dying to see you finish a couple of left-over fics, I know I'll be sucked right in to following your latest hype. :)
Thank you for sharing, as always!
x
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:43 am (UTC)Matt's not totally straight, though... hence why even Dom is sort of not sure, haha. ;) He's more like an internet shut-in who's never really had the chance to branch out.
Yeah, I've really tried with those leftover fics, but the passion is just not there. They end up feeling like work and then I know they won't be good :c Still trying, though!
Thank you so much for reading! ♥
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Date: 2012-03-31 12:20 pm (UTC)It's an amazing day outside where I am and the sun is shining and, to quote ELO, there ain't a cloud in sight, and I just feel like I'm there, sitting in the sunlight, perving on Dom and Sophie's conversation and I can already see where this is going and I am SO excited it should be criminal. Nobody can be this intelligent, this rhetorical and this damn witty, Vee. You should be put on some kind of list.
But honestly, the best thing about this is Matt. He hasn't made much of an appearance to be honest but I already love him. He's so cool and sarky and I'M SO EXCITED AND I JUST CAN'T HIDE IT ksjdhkjsdhhjkjhdfkhf hurry up with the next part already! :D
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:45 am (UTC)LOL, what kind of list should I put out? XD
Everyone loves Matt and that makes me so happy!!! Supporting character love! ♥ Can't wait to write more about him!
Thanks, hon! ♥
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Date: 2012-03-31 01:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 12:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-31 01:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 12:46 am (UTC)Thanks for reading ♥
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Date: 2012-03-31 01:35 pm (UTC)Vee, my fucking god I love you oh my god. This is brilliant and I will happily take the blame for this. The relationship with Matt is going to be fucking hilarious and this is such a breath of fresh air!!!!
Fabulous oh my god I love everything you write oh god.
oh my GOD just pictured trying to give this wonderfully stubborn and sarky Matt a styleover to meet Sophie with and oh my god tears. actual tears.
<3333333333
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:47 am (UTC)LOL I love you Emily, your enthusiasm makes my life, I want some of it! *jumps on*
♥
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:51 am (UTC)aw bless! haha have as much as you want (taaake, taaaake all you need)
<3333333
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Date: 2012-04-01 02:53 am (UTC)sophie is so sassy and awesome. for some reason i am envisioning her as looking like the girl who plays cece on new girl (who is also sassy and awesome). i'm simultaneously like... facepalming and yet so enjoying the mess he's gotten himself into. dumbass. xD
looking forward to the next chapter. :)
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:51 am (UTC)Have you ever seen "Spaced"? (if not omfg watch it) It's going to be the key inspiration for a lot of the ~emotional ~hijinks that come from Dom's big ol' lie. XD
Matt is everyone's favorite, I'm so glad! I usually hate my Matts (sometimes even Mr. Bellamy >___>) So I'll get it right with this one. :P
♥
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Date: 2012-04-02 02:02 am (UTC)i have not seen spaced but i will see if i can put it on my netflix queue. :D
<3333
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Date: 2012-04-01 05:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-02 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-03 01:44 pm (UTC)*snuggles*
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Date: 2012-04-03 11:12 pm (UTC)Really can't wait for more of this :D
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Date: 2012-04-12 08:33 am (UTC)Is Sophie based on Sophie Lopez? Because she is awesome! And her and Dom are like my secret otp haha.
Can't wait for the next update!!!!