“We’re here,” he says, and there’s amusement in his voice. “You can, um, get down.”
My cheeks flame. I slide off.
“Thanks for the ride.” My words are pitched too high.
“It was my pleasure.” His voice is rough—or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
I’m not looking at him, but I can feel him staring at me. I point at the store’s sliding doors. “I’ll just go—in there—and buy some—clean underwear,” I say.
Awesome, Eden. Awesome.
18
Eden
My face is hot as we part ways, agreeing to text and meet up when we’re both done with our shopping.
I grab a basket and start filling it. Clothes, toiletries, makeup, and a backpack to shove it all into. I find a pair of slip-on sneaks that look like they might be marginally better for my feet than the sandals. I have no idea how much longer this trip will last, but I want to be prepared.
Underwear is my last stop.
I should buy a six-pack of serviceable white cotton bikinis. Being practical will keep my head where it should be—not thinking about whether Rhys liked the look of my pale blue thong. Or whether he has imagined activities involving the thong. Twisting it to the side to make room for his tongue or, better yet, removing it wholesale with his teeth.
Clearly, I have imagined those things.
I set the Good Girl Undies back on their cardboard rack and turn toward a display of Bad Decision Panties.
These underthings are flimsy. Frothy.
They’re cheaply made and probably won’t last five washings.
They won’t feel nearly as comfy as the Good Girl Undies on a plane ride.
They’re pale pink and seafoam and bridal lace and fuck-me red. They’re thongs and cheeky bikinis and barely thereI’m pretending to be practical but you can see everything through meboy shorts.
I want to buy one of each color, but I restrain myself and pick out five pairs because there’s afive-forsale and it would be foolish not to take advantage of it, right?
I’m not buying them for Rhys. I’m buying them because everyone knows that how you feel begins with what you wear next to your skin. I’m doing it because every woman deserves pretty things. I’m doing it because I was jilted yesterday, and I should feel beautiful.
Jilted yesterday.
Except I haven’t been thinking about Paul. I haven’t been sad or angry.
I’ve been enjoying myself too much.
You’re on the rebound,a voice says.
But what if I’mnot?
How could younotbe?
There is an answer to that question. It’s been shoving at the back of my brain for the last twenty-four hours. And I haven’t wanted to look at it too closely, because I don’t like what it implies about me and my choices.
If I was never in love with Paul,that might be why it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.
I push it away again, and I resume choosing panties. I’m buying them because when Mari asks if I’m practicing self-care, I want to be able to say yes.
I pick out a robe—this time a practical one—and toss that into the basket on top of the undies.
