The skies over Edinburgh, Indiana, were a brooding gray, the kind that made you question every decision you'd ever made — especially the one where you agreed to volunteer at a suburban outlet mall with your rage-fueled ex.
Inside the producers' SUV, the tension was thick. Rachel King sat in the backseat, legs crossed, sipping a flat Diet Dr. Pepper from a bottle like she was auditioning for a reality show reboot titled "America's Next Top Volunteer (Against Her Will)." Eric sat beside her, looking like he had been sentenced to community service in hell's own breakroom.
"So," Rachel said, batting her lashes, "we're just... going to do shipment? In an actual retail store? With like... plastic hangers and folding?"
A producer in the front seat turned slightly. "Yes. You're helping with stock, sensors, tagging — all back-of-house stuff. It's good for building patience."
"Oh, totally," Rachel said with a dazzling smile. "Because nothing says inner peace like labeling jeans for teenage girls going through identity crises."
Eric groaned beside her. "Looking forward to working with the bitch again."
SMACK.
Rachel lightly slapped his arm.
"HEY!" the driver barked. "No hitting in the vehicle!"
Rachel flipped her hair. "Tell him not to call me a bitch and I won't be forced to treat his bicep like a speed bag."
Eric rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his skull. "Oh my God, are we almost there? I'm allergic to your existence."
The SUV pulled into the Indiana Premium Outlets, and there it was: Abercrombie & Fitch, gleaming like a cologne-soaked temple to neutral tones and gender-neutral mannequins.
At the door stood Carina, the store manager, in a tailored blazer, dark skinny jeans, and platform sneakers. She had sharp eyeliner, a clipboard, and the energy of someone who once ran a sorority but now runs on oat milk and anxiety.
She clapped her hands together as Rachel and Eric stepped out.
"OH MY GOD, you must be Rachel and Eric! I'm SO excited you're here. Shipment days are chaotic. I love chaos."
Rachel grinned. "That makes one of us."
Eric, without skipping a beat, squinted at Carina's outfit. "Are you the manager or a bottle-service girl on her lunch break?"
Carina froze mid-smile.
Rachel gasped. "EXCUSE you! First of all, that is a structured jacket, not a corset. Second, if anyone here looks like they just wandered out of a gas station men's room, it's you, with those off-brand military boots and Walmart-core cargo pants."
Eric smirked. "Oh, praise the Lord! You found your sass again. Was worried you lost it somewhere between the nacho cheese and your overprocessed buzzwords."
Carina cleared her throat and clapped again. "Okay, team. Let's get you two in the backroom!"
They followed her through the pristine showroom — an aesthetic palette of minimalist wood fixtures, muted shirts, and scent diffusers pumping out something that smelled vaguely like 'lost boyfriend.' They reached the backroom, where hell awaited them in the form of mountains of boxes.
"Here's your box," Carina said, handing Rachel a stack that nearly hid her face. "And here's yours," she added, tossing another to Eric. "We're going to sensor and hang for the new collection. Follow me."
They marched out to the salesfloor where Carina showed them the "sensoring station," complete with plastic tags, those dangerous-looking sensor guns, and racks upon racks of overpriced basics.
"Just sensor and tag," Carina said brightly. "Nothing wild."
Rachel sat at the table and immediately began working with unnecessary flair.
"I LOVE this," she said. "It's like arts and crafts, but make it capitalist chic."
Eric rolled his eyes. "This is child labor for adults. This entire store smells like synthetic cotton and broken ambition."
Rachel snapped on a sensor. "Excuse you. Abercrombie is iconic. Their jeans are stitched with memories and heartbreak."
"I'd rather wear a burlap sack and cry into actual cardboard than wear anything here," Eric muttered, stabbing a sensor tag onto a hoodie like it had insulted him.
As if summoned by irony, the store speakers switched to Meghan Trainor's "Made You Look".
Rachel groaned. "Oh God. We're being auditorily waterboarded."
Eric grinned. "This? This is a bop. If you're gonna be tortured, at least let it have brass horns."
Rachel dropped her tagging gun. "You like this?"
"It slaps."
"This is what psychological warfare sounds like."
"I bet you unironically listen to elevator jazz."
Rachel stood suddenly, dusting her hands off.
"I need a break. Like a Rachel King Does Not Deserve This kind of break."
Carina looked up. "You only just started—"
Rachel turned and accidentally (read: very much on purpose) knocked Eric's entire box of shipment to the floor.
Sweatshirts and sensor tags exploded like fashion confetti.
Eric stood up like a volcano about to file an HR complaint. "I swear to God, Rachel—"
"I'll be back in thirty," she said sweetly, disappearing out the glass doors.
Across the way, like a glowing beacon of comfort, sat Auntie Anne's. But Rachel didn't go inside. She stood outside in the light drizzle, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
"Hey, producers," she said. "Yup. Me again."
She glanced over her shoulder at the Abercrombie storefront, where Eric could be seen aggressively stabbing a stack of tank tops.
"I'm done. This day is giving me nothing but cramps and secondhand Axe body spray rage. I want to go back to Jason and Salim's house."
A raindrop hit her nose.
"It's raining. It's poetic. I'm standing outside a pretzel store, and the only thing warm in my life right now is my own frustration."
Another pause.
"And Eric? He's not a man anymore. He's a walking derecho. Unpredictable. Destructive. Smells like fabric softener and ego."
More rain. Rachel didn't flinch. She was used to chaos. She practically moisturized in it.
"So, do me a favor. Send the car. And make sure it smells like lemon verbena and doesn't play Meghan Trainor."
She hung up.
And walked away.
Dry in spirit.
Drenched in drama.
Tagged out of Abercrombie.
Somewhere behind her, Eric swore at a sensor gun. And a Meghan Trainor horn section hit a high note that no one ever asked for.