Just One Look
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 12
My phone beeped, waking me up. I reached blindly across the bed, grabbed my phone, and blinked at the screen until I could make out the words.
Where are you? Are you okay?
It was from Rachel.
I checked the time.
Shit. 7:10.
I had slept through my alarm. I bolted upright and started getting dressed one-handed while thumbing a reply with the other.
Sorry, I overslept. Coming.
Fun night? she replied.
Kind of. Playing D&D with the Nerd Squad.
No worries.
I flew through my morning routine like a man on fire and walked into the gym half an hour later, slightly out of breath and still tugging my shirt straight.
“Here he is,” Derek said, cheerfully. “I was starting to think you bailed.”
Rachel was already on the treadmill, earbuds in and a grin on her face. “Must’ve been a good night.”
“It was,” I said, grabbing a towel and heading to the cardio machines, “but I went to bed way too late.”
I spent the next hour moving from the treadmill to the elliptical, then to the pulley machine. My muscles were still feeling the previous workout, but I pushed through. I even upped my weight by ten pounds—not a massive leap, but it felt like progress.
Afterward, while we stretched near the lockers, Rachel glanced over. “Are you still going gym clothes shopping? I need new jeans, so I thought I could tag along.”
“Sure. We can walk to the mall—unless you prefer Walmart?”
“The mall will do,” she said, tying her hair into a ponytail.
We met later at the Main Square and walked together toward the mall. Rachel’s hair was damp and smelled faintly of coconut, and she wore a simple lavender top that made her eyes stand out.
We chatted as we walked. I told her about my night rolling dice with the Nerd Squad, and she told me about a culinary experiment that involved zucchini, eggs, low-fat cream cheese and oat flour. It was weird, in a good way, how easy it was to talk to her. And how much I enjoyed walking, instead of driving. Middletown wasn’t huge and everything was within reach if you were up for the steps.
When we reached the mall, Rachel smiled that perfect smile, and asked, “Jeans, gym clothes, or coffee first?”
“Whichever shop we pass first.”
“Deal.”
The jeans store came up first. And shopping with Rachel wasn’t a hardship—except for the sales guy who nearly tripped over himself trying to impress her. Blond, skinny, and about as subtle as a Chihuahua in heat.
“Oh, you’d look amazing in these,” he said, handing her a pair of jeans and managing to stroke her hand a little too long.
Rachel took a small step back and looked at me with a ‘please help’ expression.
“Can you hold these for me, babe?” she said, sweetly.
Babe? My brain glitched for a second. Then I caught her meaningful look.
“Sure, honey,” I said, stepping up and taking the jeans from her hand. I gave Chihuahua boy a polite but firm smile. His face soured like he’d bitten into a lemon.
“If we need help, we’ll let you know,” Rachel said, waving him off with charm. She gathered a few more pairs of jeans, grabbed my hand, and led me to the changing rooms.
Once out of view, she let go and sighed. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” I said, still feeling the lingering tingle where our hands had been.
She rolled her eyes. “It pisses me off when guys do that.”
“Happens often?”
“More than you’d think. I guess they assume fat girls are easy targets with low self-esteem.”
I shook my head. “That Chihuahua had no clue who he was dealing with.”
Rachel snorted. “Chihuahua?”
“It’s the vibe,” I said, grinning. “Yappy and too eager.”
She laughed hard, and even kept chuckling as she tried on the jeans. When she stepped out of the change room, holding her shirt up to show the waistband, I forgot how to breathe.
“How do they feel?” I asked, trying not to ogle.
She stretched and hooked a thumb under the waistband. “Good.” Then she turned around. “How do they look?”
I almost said, ‘good enough to cause a traffic accident,’ but settled for, “Like they were made for you.”
She smiled. “Next pair.”
After a few rounds, she stepped out wearing a second option that I could tell she didn’t like, and neither did I. But Chihuahua boy had returned, and of course, he was drooling.
“Oh, those look great,” he said, voice full of phony confidence.
Rachel glanced at me, clearly uncomfortable.
“They don’t suit you,” I said. “They’re not your style. You’d never be comfortable in those.”
Rachel lit up. “You’re right.” She vanished back into the change room, calling, “Next pair!”
As she changed, I caught Chihuahua boy still staring. I gave him my best deadpan death stare—one Marisa once said could melt steel—and watched him retreat like a puppy denied his bone.
When Rachel came out again, I asked, “You’re not ... into him, are you?”
She looked genuinely horrified. “That guy?”
I nodded.
She let out a laugh. “No. Not even a little. He is not my type at all.”
“Good,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I mean, I gave him the death stare.”
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