I capped the balm and put it back where he found it among the other random impulse gifts. Then I grabbed him by the jacket sleeve and tugged him after me until we were in the men’s attire section. The wall was dominated by floor-to-ceiling cubbies filled with jeans, most of which were Wranglers, but there were Levi’s and other brands, too.

Arthur stood before them all, arms crossed as if sizing up the situation. Then he looked around.

“Are there no people here to assist?”

“Mr. Liberati is by the checkout register.”

He looked over to the corner where Mr. Liberati, the store’s longtime manager, was leaning against the counter, staring intently up at the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall and clearly not planning to help anyone anytime soon.

Arthur turned back to me. “I thought you said people here were friendly.”

“They are. But there’s college football going on.” He stared at me, not understanding. “Football’s like a religion here,” I explained. “Especially college football.”

I pointed to the TV screen, where players from Alabama and Florida were visible. We were lucky it was an SEC conference game; if it had been the Sooners, chances were good Mr. Liberati would’ve closed the store early.

Arthur shook his head and muttered, “Sports.” Then turned back to the wall of jeans.

“What’s your size?” I asked, scanning the selections.

“You don’t have to help me,” he said, reverting back to the overly uptight boy I was used to seeing. “I know your grandmother is forcing you to be here.”

“Yeah, well. I’m here, so might as well make the most of it.”

He looked like he was about to object, so I grabbed a pair of neatly folded dark Wranglers that I guessed were his size and tossed them to him.

“Here,” I said, as he caught the jeans.

We loaded him up with options—light stretch, vintage, straight leg, relaxed, etc.—then he spent the next fifteen minutes in the changing room by himself. I heard him make noises of dissatisfaction, but he didn’t walk the catwalk for me. Not that I was disappointed, just bored. What I wouldn’t give for a good nap. When things grew quiet, I knocked on the door to the dressing room.

“How’s it going in there?” I asked.

To my surprise the door opened and Arthur stepped out, still wearing his green puffy jacket but no longer in black pants. Instead, he wore the faded, retro boot-cut Wranglers and I realized in that moment I had never seen him in jeans before. It was always pants. Always pressed. Always hitting the top of his burnished leather shoes, not too long, not too short.

But there he was, in jeans, and they looked good on him. Surprisingly good. Fitting all the right places.