Love in the Time of Cynicism (29 page)

“Sure it does,” I reply with a raised eyebrow. “But I don’t need a ride. Sky’s taking me out.”

He takes my hand, fingers warm and inviting, as we trot down the steps in perfectly synchronized motion. “What for?”

I play coy and drop my voice low, “A present for you, if you still agree to come over tonight.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” When I kiss him briefly on the neck simply because I’ve been thinking about his skin on mine for hours, he goes on, “Seriously. Never. Meeting at Ebony’s?”

I bump into him as I catch Sky’s wave in the corner of my vision. “Are you reading something for me?”

“Would it serve to further your painfully obvious lust?”

I joke and untangle our fingers, “Don’t objectify me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. See you at seven?”

I nod. “Love you.”

“More than the world,” he agrees. When I grin wildly, he says, “I swear, I could spend hours looking at you and your smile.” That only makes me smile wider, so he kisses my cheek lightly. “See you then.”

I jog energetically toward Sky, throw one more look over my shoulder to see Rhett waiting for me to get in her car to leave. We slide into the seats and Rhett and I wave once more before turning to Sky.

She’s chock-full of excitement. I told her my plan to go bra shopping last night and why, then it was all downhill from there. Now she’s committed not to going to our local mall but a boutique in the upper class part of Lightfoot where Sky buys
lingerie
instead of underwear like the rest of us normal girls and her mom gets Botox injections for her lips.

“I’m
so
excited!” She squeals and reverses out of the parking lot.

We pull out into traffic, Rhett zips by on his motorcycle, and I laugh, “I don’t see why.”

“Hard to explain,” she replies, “but I’m very excited for you two deciding to finally vote your hymen off the island.”

“I think you have a basic lack of understanding on the topic of female anatomy,” I laugh, for once unembarrassed at her profound knowledge of sexual euphemisms.

“That may be true,” she concedes, “but I know more about the anatomy of stopping at the fornication station than you will ever understand.”

“Oh my god!” I giggle and cover my mouth, “Seriously?”

“It was better than gyration fixation or oral vibration preceding gestation creation.” She shrugs as I howl in laughter, doubled over with my forehead against the dash, and she turns into the nicer area of town, where the houses are bigger than mine and Sky’s and the people consist of more than one major ethnicity. Tan women with fake everything and dogs in purses chatter aimlessly on huge phones while men in expensively tailored suits power by, briefcases swinging at their sides. It’s exactly the sort of place mom would shop and Michael would go for hair care. “And, for God’s sake, Del, now that we’re on the topic, don’t be virginal about the whole sex thing.”

“Meaning?”

She rolls her eyes. “Here’s the thing. When I lost my V card, I was so scared and nervous that it ended up being weird. Missionary with a lot of eye contact weird. I don’t want that to happen to my best friend. Let your freak flag fly, sister, and take charge for once in your life.”

I nod as we stop outside of a glass-windowed store with mannequins in shades of skin coated in tiny triangles of lace barely covering their point plastic boobs. Above the door, the sign reads
Less is More
in bold, red curlicue script. Fear strikes deep to my core as Sky leads me excitedly through the door and into a cloud of orangey scent released by motion sensors inside the doorframe. My eyes sting at the intensity of citrus and we continue deeper through the store.

The walls are lined with clear torsos sporting bras in a thousand different styles and colors, atop drawers arranged by size and style. The back wall is dressing rooms behind deep purple curtains and in front of them is a large white couch. There are mirrors and perky girls everywhere, being sized and helped by atypically busty middle aged women with big hair and itsy-bitsy waists. The whole scene is horribly intimidating for someone in a white Walmart bra purchased nearly four years ago.

A woman with reddish brown hair the size of Texas itself and a smile stretching full of bubblegum pink collagen dashes up to us, her shall we say heavily endowed breasts jumping with each step. Dear god, what have I gotten myself into?

The woman embraces Sky like they’re old friends and exclaims, “Hey, Skylar! You here for another intimates set?”

“Actually,” Sky says as she blushes deeply, “I’m here for moral support. Lindsey, this is Del. She’s got a hot date tonight, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I
know
.” Lindsey grins. Then she turns her gaze to me, over my body in its flat glory, and her smile falters briefly. “Lord.”

“Yes, she’s a tough case,” Sky says knowingly and I shoot her an irked glance. She apologizes silently with a quick look. “But I think, with your expertise, we can get her sex-ready in the next two hours.”

Lindsey looks me over once more and nods. “Mmhm. I can see some potential. Skylar, you make yourself comfortable and I’ll take Del around the store.”

Sky grins, squeezes my hand as a gesture of confidence, and then she meets up with a group of consultants laughing about how huge their breasts are on the other side of the store. I’m struck by a deep self-consciousness at my less-than-average size and generally boyishly angular shape.

Lindsey catches my attention by stopping in front of a large selection of smaller than large bras. “To start things off…do you have a budget?”

I shuffle from foot to foot and try not to stare at the neon green, zebra striped bra I can see through her thin brown shirt. God, I hope she won’t try to set me up with something like that. My debit card’s wedged in my back pocket since I don’t exactly know how much this sort of thing costs, so I decide my answer is no.

Her smile widens and she asks, “Then have you been measure in the past six months?”

I narrow my eyes, frightful of what this may mean. “Measured?”

She laughs like I’m the funniest, most precious thing she’s ever seen. “Obviously not.” Then she wraps a pink string marked with inches over and under my boobs and it’s exceedingly uncomfortable as my face flushes pink. “Exactly what I thought; thirty six B. What are your wearing now?”

Aware that my face couldn’t possibly be more red than it is now, I admit stiffly, “Thirty four A.”

She clicks her tongue like she deals with many girls just like me every day. Probably does. “Common problem. You should be buying a new bra every six months at least. Now, tell me what the occasion is so I can pick out the
perfect
bra for you.” Her enthusiasm for bras is a bit weird and I’m taken aback by it. Seeing my awkwardness, she asks bluntly, “Is this your first time with him?”

I nod hesitantly.

“We won’t go for what Skylar would recommend, then.” Lindsey makes a mental note and elaborates for my sake, “She comes in here and heads straight for the Ultimate Push-Up Climactic Intimates section. Almost no fabric there and completely overpriced.”

My eyes widen as I ask, “What’s the plan for, ah, my situation?”

She goes through a mental catalogue of bra-guru knowledge. After a minute of deliberation, she comes to a personal consensus and says, “I think you should go with something from our demi bralette collection. They’re fresh from Paris and everyone’s dying to get their hands on them, especially the lucky boyfriends. But we can’t be sure until you get your clothes off and try some one.” She gives me a wink and leads me across the store, past Sky, who gives me an encouraging smile, and rifles through various drawers pulling out bra after bra after bra.

We reach the dressing rooms and Lindsey shoves the bras at me. “This is every style bra we carry. When you have one on, come out and show them to us so we can make a decision.”

Oh god. More embarrassment flushes over my face and I nod tightly before heading behind the purple curtain. Awkwardly, I peel off my  tee shirt and bra, then put on another.

For the next hour, I show Sky and Lindsey bras. Some push my boobs up to my chin like I’m a freaking harlot and others make them weird and saggy. At every one, the pair gives a vote of approval or a frown of condemnation. When I finish, there are two piles, one made up of about eight varieties and the other with only two.

I emerge from the dressing room back in my A cup and present the bras to Lindsey. “These two.”

Then it’s on to colors and material, which is much worse. Sky accompanies me for this portion, making comments on the various benefits to each color. She doesn’t approve of full lace because it’s the choice of ‘non-classy strippers’ and moms trying to save marriages. One the other hand, she doesn’t like patterns because they make you look like an inexperienced child. It’s complicated.

Eventually, two hours before the poetry reading, I walk out of the store with four new bras. Over two hundred dollars worth. The one I’ve chosen for tonight has matching ‘panties,’ a word I despise and have never used. The set is pale blue, the color of the ring Rhett gave me last night, and line with translucent white lace. I did end up with a ‘demi bralette’ or whatever and discovered that a bralette is basically a normal bra with extra lace on the bottom and demi means it pushes them together instead of up. There’s a small white bow where the cups meet and the straps are completely lace. It’s crazy feminine, but Sky insisted that’s what guys want the first time around. I trust her executive opinion on these matters, taking her vast experience into account.

Sky drives me home, bursting with excitement over my new frills.

When I get out of her car, trying to hide the deep red bag printed with some model from seeing the light of day, she grins madly and says, “Alright, slut, I’ll see you at the reading tonight.”

A question forms on my lips. “You’re going again?”

She blushes happily and tells me, “Brian said he’d write me a poem.”

“Wow.” I give her a smile of affirmation. “He must be crazy for you.”

“I know, right?” She’s ecstatic with the thought of it. “No guy has ever been this good to me. Like, Del, he called me last night to make sure I got home okay. How sweet is that?”

I refrain from mentioning that this is common courtesy for most boyfriend because she’s had a rough go with douchbaggy guys. “Can’t wait.”

She laughs excitedly, then turns serious and gives me a piece of best friend advice. “Pick out your sluttiest dress, good and tight, wear heels even though you’ll have to steal them from Amanda’s closet.”

“Sure, Sky, I’ll follow that advice,” I reply sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes. “Good luck, kid. Give ‘em hell. Should I give you a ride?”

“Yeah, but Rhett’s planning on taking me home.”

“Hot. Be here at six forty five on the nose.”

She drives off and I walk up the path to my house. I unlock the door, juggling my bags to get my key out, and remember that this weekend, the house is mine. It’s quiet. Completely silent. No air conditioning running, no shower going upstairs. It would be eerie if I weren’t pumped.

I fly up the steps, turn on the heating because it’s supposed to be record cold tonight, and rush to my bedroom. This is the place. Everything looks different and I’m suddenly thrown into a frenzy. Of nervousness. I make the bed swiftly, then undo it with the decision to wash the sheets and comforter and pillow cases for the first time in a few weeks. Then, I clean up clutter on my dresser until it’s lived in but not on the verge of hoarding. The dresser…ugh. I leave it the way it is because there’s no hope for that monstrosity. I vacuum the carpet (it takes me about eight years to find the ancient vacuum and drag it up the flight of stairs) and make sure everything is in order.

Once I absolve myself of neurosis by scrubbing the house nearly top to bottom, I strip and jump in the shower, where I allow myself to relax. I shave my legs, front and backs, calves and thighs, for the first time since the middle of summer. Until now, it’s seemed like a waste of time to spend fifteen minutes removing hair from my legs, but it occurs to me that the feel of Rhett’s fingers will be sharper on smooth skin. Then the armpits because I haven’t done that in a few days. I wash my face carefully and, as the water pours over my back, my fingers pick through the assortment of soaps and shampoos and body gels Amanda keeps on the three-tiered shower caddy. It’s ridiculous, frankly, how many different scents and varieties can be owned by one girl. I decide upon a cocktail of fruity smells: green apple shampoo and conditioner, pomegranate body wash, followed by a lemony lotion once I dry off.

Wrapped in my towel because habits developed from a life time of sharing a house with too many people don’t do away in an afternoon alone, I retreat to my bedroom and wriggle into my new bra and underwear combo. They’re coral blue against my fast-paling winter skin and matching the heart on my finger. The lace is soft instead of itchy against my shoulders.

Once chilly in the undergarments, I stare at myself in the full-length mirror from every angle. It’s hard to see myself the way Rhett sees me, sexy and driving him crazy and all-around touchable, but it comes easier now that I’m in something flattering. The set makes it seem like I’ve actually got curves to spare and I can’t help but appreciate the illusion.