Abby
“Could you please help me find some shoes?” The voice was polite, and the slight English accent was familiar.
I turned around with a friendly smile that disappeared as soon as I saw who it was. Mr. Too-good-for-social-media himself. Maybe he didn’t have a social media account because there would be too many negative reviews.
“Mason raises arrogance to new heights.”
“Mason was so full of himself that that he had no room for dessert.”
“After mansplaining technology to me, he was shocked when I didn’t fall into bed with him.”
“I’m sorry, what part of ‘I never want to see you again’ did you not understand?” I asked.
“All I need is two minutes,” he pleaded, his eyes wide behind his dark-rimmed glasses. Like last night, he was wearing shapeless clothes that meant some soccer dad was running around naked. “I just want to explain and apologize.”
“I’m working right now. Please go away.”
“I'll only leave if you agree to meet me after work,” Mason said. Now he was adding stalking, an inability to listen, and stupidity to my long list of his flaws.
Tim, the store manager, peered at us, probably attracted by my death ray voice.
I sighed. “Let’s get this over with. But you need to pretend to be buying shoes.”
“I will buy shoes,” he said. “I, uh, recently came into a financial windfall.”
What young guy used the words financial windfall? With his phoney accent and pompous ways, Mason was a young gasbag.
“What kind of shoes are you looking for?” I asked. He had on a pair of hiking boots that might have been stylish back in the nineties.
“Expensive ones. You’re on commission, right?”
“Ugh. I paid you, and I don’t want anything back.” But I pulled a nice pair of Italian lace-ups down from the shelf. They were beautifully made and very expensive. I raised my voice, so my manager could hear. “Do you like these?”
“I do. You have exquisite taste.”
“Size, please.”
“Thirteen.”
Oh, big feet. I gave him a quick onceover. Mason was over six feet tall. Being tall myself, it was usually one of the first things I noticed about men. Not that it mattered in this case.
When I brought back the shoes, Mason was sitting in the corner farthest from my manager. Finally a smart move. I sat down beside him and began lacing up the new shoes.
Mason leaned towards me and began talking, “I never meant for you to feel pressured—not to pay for my opinion and definitely not to have to go out with me. In truth, I can be awkward with women, especially beautiful women.” Ugh. I hated being judged by my looks. And beautiful was an exaggeration.
“Take off your shoes,” was all I said in reply.
He began removing his shoes but kept talking. “Remember when I met you and almost made you cry right off the bat, and yet you were so nice. And smart and friendly. I felt like we connected, but obviously I was wrong, which wouldn’t be a shock if you knew me. Anyway, all I wanted to say was that you got the wrong impression of me. What happened to you before was awful, but not all tech guys are assholes. A lot of us are oblivious idiots like me. I’m so sorry about what happened. And if you’d consider forgiving me and taking back the money, that would be great. You don’t have to decide now. You can think about it and let me know. And either way, I promise I'll never bother you again.”
His socks were navy striped and had a sticker on one toe.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He peeled it off. “Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot to take that off. I bought new socks. And I, um, washed my feet. I didn’t want to offend you further.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. Most people didn’t care about the sensory sensitivity of shoe salespeople. I used my trusty shoehorn to ease Mason’s foot into the first shoe. There was an odd tingle of connection as I brushed against his ankle. And when I looked up, he was looking at the shoes and not down my top. Chalk up one point.
Mason stood up. He wasn’t that bad looking. I was so concerned with making my pitch last night that I hadn’t really checked him out in a guy/girl way. He had thick brown hair that was too long. His skin was fair and unblemished. And behind his glasses, he had eyelashes that looked like extensions. How unfair.
“Wow, these shoes are really comfortable,” Mason said. He walked a circuit of the store and returned to me. “What would I wear them with?”
This was a common condition: guys who were clueless about their shoes. Mason’s clothing, although dad-style and oversized, looked expensive, but his shoes were a disaster. Maybe he used a clothing consultant like Sophia but skipped the shoe part. Nobody could be well-dressed without a complete shoe wardrobe.
“What do you have already?” I asked.
“I have these hiking boots. A couple of pairs of running shoes.”
I bit my fingertip. “How dressed up do you get at work?”
“Pretty casual.”
“Okay, for you, I would recommend one pair of casual shoes: like an athletic lifestyle shoe or a board shoe. Not like the crappy ones you wore last night. One dressy shoe like the oxford you have on now, you could wear that with a suit or dress pants or even dressy jeans. And a nice lace-up boot, maybe something like that—” I motioned towards the Red Wings and Doc Martens we had. “They’re good for spring and fall, but given the weather we’ve been having, maybe a chukka boot with good traction for winter.”
Mason was busy writing down everything I said on his phone. He looked up. “This is great advice. You really know your stuff.”
“You can stop trying to compliment me. I’m only doing my job.”
He opened his mouth to say more, and then closed it. “Can I get all those shoes here?”
“We have the oxfords, the boots, and the casual shoes. But for the winter boots, The Bay or Mark’s Work Wearhouse might be a better bet.”
“Thanks for all the advice.”
I frowned. “But if you buy all these shoes, the $600 will be gone.”
“I have money. I’m not spending yours,” Mason said. “I’m going to segregate it in its own bank account. It’s probably cursed and anything I buy with it will boomerang back on me. It will accrue interest until you agree to take it back.”
Okay, now I was sure I’d forgive him. He wasn’t giving me any bad vibes today; in fact, he was being adorably dorky. But I’d let him sweat a while longer.
“Whatever,” I said, but I was having trouble getting the right tone of disdain.
“After last night, I could use a shoe with a self-kicking function,” Mason said.
“I have just the thing.” I pulled down a cowboy-style boot with a silver tipped toe-piece.
Mason winced, and I laughed. Then he smiled shyly.
“You’re forgiven,” I told him. Looking happy transformed his face into a nerdy handsomeness. I was reconsidering my first impression of him. And you know what they say about men with large feet.
