Ispent the entire Saturday trying to get Knox to talk about Lydia. You''d think I asked him to pry open Thanos''s list with a nail f.


    It''s exhausting. I feel like I''m dancing aroundndmines with every casual mention of his childhood. My curiosity


    is gnawing at me, but experience telle me to tread lightly. The few times her name has slipped into our conversations, Knox has either shut down or changed the subject.


    But I have questions. So many questions. Is Lydia their sister? A cousin? A foster kid who


    stayed too long? Was she a kid or older? What exactly happened that rtes to Finn being obsessed over a baby?


    I chew on these questions like they''re stale gum. And Knox, in all his maddening restraint, keeps dropping fragments. A reference here. A reference there. I bet he''s the kind of person who will tell you a friend is I''m slowlying to realize I''m dating a man who gives half-stories.


    So now I''m trying to figure out how to make my boyfriend talk. Does he have to get drunk first? Can he even get drunk?


    It''s hard to stay mad at him when you''re rewarded with sex. Really good sex. We spent Sunday morning cuddling under a shared nket while watching some sci-


    fi epic on Netflix about monsters and mutant heroes:


    Now it''s afternoon, and instead of lounging around some more, Knox has insisted we go shopping.


    Specifically: "You''re not wearing my clothes to a family dinner." That''s a direct quote. Apparently, his oversized T-


    shirt and boxers aren''t quite appropriate for witnessing Nathan''s proposal to my sister.


    And that''s how I find myself inside a boutique that smells like expensive perfume and soft leather, surrounded by racks of designer dresses with price tags that could fund a vacation. The sales associate is all smiles and cheekbones, dressed in a navy


    pantsuit that looks like it was tailored directly onto her body. She glides between racks, pulling out options with the grace of someone used to high- maintenance clients.


    She presents a small selection of cocktail dresses, all elegant, all terrifyingly expensive. I point to the one that looks remotely cheaper.


    "I''ll try that one," I say.


    The associate nods and moves to pull it off the rack. But from


    behind me, Knox''s voicees.


    "No."


    I turn around. "No, what?"


    He steps closer, arms crossed. "It''s too long. And are those sleeves?"


    I blink at him. "What''s wrong with sleeves? And what do you mean it''s long? That''s like... calf length."


    "Exactly," he says, as if I''ve just confirmed his diagnosis. "Why


    would you want to wear


    anything that isn''t above the knees?"


    "Why would I want to wear one that is?"


    "Because you have nice legs and should show them off."


    I shake my head, trying to hide the smile pulling at my mouth. There''s something disarming about how casual he is withpliments. But I''m not falling


    for his tricks.


    I walk toward him, trying not to grin too hard. "Knox, dear," I say sweetly, "I know


    for certain that you did not attend any fashion school. So why don''t you let me pick a dress in peace?"


    “I


    would," he replies, brushing past me toward the tack, "if you were picking it for the right reasons."


    "The right reasons?"


    He doesn''t respond. He''s already beside the associate, removing dresses from the rack like he owns the ce. He hands her a few options -no- which I noticed before, probably because my brain short-


    circuited when I saw the price tags.


    "Knox, I hiss, catching up to him and tugging lightly at his arm. "I don''t even like that color."


    "Peach?" he asks, holding it up. "Are you sure? It matches your skin. We''re taking it."


    "But that''s like... a couple of thousand dors," I whisper.


    *Aha," he says, smirking. "Just like I said. Wrong reasons." He turns to the associate. "We''ll try those out, And don''t listen to my girlfriend. She''s a miser. The associate nods like she''s watching a romanticedy unfold


    live and gestures toward the changing area.


    "Miser?" I whisper to him as he takes my


    arm. "That would imply I have money to hoard."


    "But you do," he says lightly.


    "I don''t."


    "What''s mine is yours," he replies. "I''ll talk to the bank first thing tomorrow about getting you your own card."


    I stop walking and stare at him. "Knox, stop it. I''m not a trophy girlfriend."


    "Who says you are?"


    "You."


    He turns me to face him and ces both hands gently on my shoulders.


    "There''s no reason to fight over this. It''s not like I have anything


    else to do with my money. Spend it. Stop trying to be difficult."


    "Knox-"


    He nudges me toward the fitting room with a yful shove. "Get your ass into that room and give me a much- needed fashion show, Sloane."


    "I see why you chose the short and open dresses," I mutter.


    "Oops," he says with a wink. "You''ve caught me."


    He ps my ass just as I step into the changing room, and I re at him over my


    shoulder before disappearing behind the curtain.


    It takes almost an hour.


    An hour of outfit changes, spinning, twirling, asking, "How does this look?" while Knox gives exaggerated nods and critiques like he''s judging a runway in Mn. He sits in the waiting area with one leg crossed over the other, looking far too smug for someone surrounded by


    shopping bags and tulle. asionally, he makes the associateugh with a one-liner about high fashion. At one point, he


    suggests a beret. I threaten to leave him there.


    Finally, finally, we''re done. I''m holding more bags than I can count-dresses, shoes, essories, didn''t even try on but Knox insisted I needed. I don''t know how he convinced me, He''s like a very


    persuasive hurricane.


    We step out into thete afternoon sunlight, arms weighed down by luxury. I''m still adjusting the strap of


    e of the bags when I see her.


    A woman in fur. Full fur. And dark


    sses that scream European wealth. Her hair is up in the kind of bun only rich grandmothers can get away with. If 1 hadn''t recognized her face, would''ve recognized that bun anywhere.


    June Mercer.


    My heart skips


    She''s halfway across the street, but her head tilts, just slightly, and her lips part in recognition.


    "Now this is a pleasant surprise," she says, removing her sses with a dramatic flick. "The first person I run into after returning to this goddamn city is my favorite grandchild." Hight up instantly, "Grandma!"