“Meh.”
“What does yours smell like?” she asks.
I hand her back the one dripping with cologne and open the bag I’ve been holding. Yeah, this is still pretty weird, but it’s not nearly as creepy as I thought it would—“Okay,” I tell her. “This is one of the bad ones.”
I hand it to her, thinking she’s going to just put it back on the table, but even with my warning, she opens the bag back up.
“Shit, you weren’t joking.”
“I have no idea why you would think I was,” I tell her. “All right, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but the novelty’s starting to wear off. How much longer are we going to stay here and smell people’s clothes?”
“As long as it takes,” she says. “We are not going home alone tonight.”
“Is that what this is about?” I ask.
“What?” she asks, looking for another blue-tagged shirt to smell. She grabs one and hands it to me.
“Dane,” I say.
“Of course it’s about Dane,” she says. “You haven’t talked about anything else since you left.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“That’s good then,” she says. “So you should be open to meeting someone tonight.”
“Yeah,” I snicker. “Kids, did I ever tell you the story about how I met your dad? Well, I was at this shirt-smelling party and your dad’s sweat just got me right between the legs. It was love at first scent.”
“Hey, you never know,” she says. “People meet in some pretty strange ways sometimes.”
“You’re actually serious about getting me to hook up with someone here, aren’t you?”
She opens a bag.
“This one smells like beer and corn chips,” she says, putting it back on the table.
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re going to meet Mr. Right by smelling his sweaty shirt, but you might just find someone who can take you for a nice tumble and remind you that there are other fish to fuck.”
“That’s easily the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” I tell her.
“Just lighten up, will you? We’re here to have fun. Let it be fun.”
I open up a new bag, but it’s only a formality. After being smacked in the face by the garment whose owner never showered, I’m done putting my olfactory nerves in the line of fire.
Only, the smell wafting from the bag is a familiar one, even holding the bag open and nowhere near my face.
I close it up and walk to the picture line.
Annabeth’s behind me a second later.
“You changed your mind in a hurry,” she says. “What convinced you?”
“A long shot,” I tell her.
Of course the shirt smells like Dane.
The line moves fast, and before I know it, I’m trying to figure out what kind of expression says, “It’s not weird that I’m holding your dirty shirt because the smell gets me hot and bothered,” but it’s not that easy an expression to divine.