Dating Makes Perfect - Pintip Dunn Page 0,45

it’s a good thing the car’s not moving. Mat’s a good-looking guy. I admit it. Doesn’t mean I liiiike him. Doesn’t mean I want to date him for real.

Which makes the khanom krok even more inexplicable.

I turn into the parking lot and wonder, not for the first time: did our friendship break apart so that we could come back together in a new and different way?

That’s precisely what I intend to find out.

After way too long in the lot, I finally find a parking space and rush, huffing and puffing, to a store in an isolated wing of the mall.

“Oh!” the salesperson behind the cash register exclaims. “It’s you.”

“You remember me?” I glance around, certain it’s because they don’t have many customers. And yet, several moms and daughters are surveying the new arrivals along the wall, and a group of teenagers is pawing through a pile of T-shirts. The place actually seems quite bustling for having such a terrible selection of clothes.

But I can hardly fault their taste when I’m a returning customer, too.

“Sure,” the salesperson says. Her name tag says “Anita,” and in spite of her blond dreads and light-blue eyes, she reminds me of Kavya. “You were here last week, trying on our ugly sweater collection with your boyfriend. Whew.” She fans herself. “If he were a few years older, I’d totally go for a hottie like him.”

“Arghuym.” The sound that exits my throat is barely human. Not even close to English.

“Don’t worry,” she continues, misinterpreting my reaction. “I wouldn’t make a play for him, even if I did see him again.”

Even nonsensical noises escape me now. Instead, I look around wildly—and suck in a breath. Because it’s not here. The item I was after. The hideous yellow sweater with the strategically placed loops.

“Oh no,” I whisper. “Don’t tell me someone bought it.”

“What?” The silver ball piercing in her brow twitches. “You mean the green dress you tried on? Sure was a stunner. Didn’t you already buy it?”

“I did. I meant the yellow sweater.”

“The yellow sweater,” she echoes. “The one with the picnic baskets. And the unfortunate ribbons?”

Her voice gets higher and more pitchy with each sentence. I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I nod.

She lets out a whoop. “I won! Lindsey, get out here,” she calls into the storage area. “And bring the yellow sweater.”

A girl, whom I assume is Lindsey, comes out, carrying an armful of loosely stitched yellow yarn. I wince. The sweater’s even more hideous than I remember.

“Please tell me this isn’t a false alarm,” Lindsey says.

Anita gestures impatiently. “Quick, ring her up before she changes her mind.”

Lindsey heads to the cash register, her movements quick and economical. “May I ask?” She pauses, as if searching for the least offensive wording. “Why on God’s green earth would you buy this?”

I blink. I mean, they stocked the sweater. “There’s this boy…” I begin.

“Always a good start,” Lindsey says enthusiastically.

“If it’s the same delicious guy who came in with her last week, sign me up,” Anita chimes in.

I let out a slow breath, trying to understand my own intentions. “Long story short, I bought the green dress to impress someone else. But now, I don’t know if he’s the right guy after all.”

Anita shrieks, clutching her heart. “So you’re buying the sweater to show the first guy that it was him all along? Oh, that’s so sweet. It must be the l-word.”

I blanch. No, not love. But definitely not loathe, either. Maybe something in the middle.

“That will be $55.13,” Lindsey says to me.

“Wha-at?” My mouth drops. “For this monstrosity? I thought we just agreed that it’s the ugliest sweater on the planet.”

“It is.” Anita smirks. “But we don’t set the prices. Corporate does. No idea what they were thinking, but we placed bets whether anyone would actually buy one. I can’t believe I won.”

“It was kinda a joke,” Lindsey adds. “I mean, what kind of fool would plunk down fifty bucks for that?”

Me, I guess. I’ll raise my hand. I’m the fool.

But it remains to be seen exactly how foolish I turn out to be.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Walking into Taran’s house is like walking into a wall of noise. Chatter roars around me, a dozen decibels higher than is comfortable. Rock music blares in the background, which makes people yell even louder.

Even the smell is loud. Human sweat, tinged with sweetness. The origin of the first is obvious. And the scent of berry-fruit syrup? Must be from the reddish liquid that everyone’s carrying around in purple