"No, not at all," Meara said. "Now open the box that was sent by your rich boyfriend and delivered straight from an ultra-exclusive boutique in Manhattan." She motioned to the logo embossed on the box. “Have you heard of this place?”
“No,” I replied suspiciously. “Should I have?”
“Everything is handmade and it’s outrageously expensive,” she said.
I passed the lid to Beth and pushed through layers of tissue paper to find— "What did he do?"
"We don't know, sugar. You have to tell us," Beth said.
I held up a pair of butter-soft panties. People liked to call things butter-soft all the time, but this was literal, cream-based butter. In fabric form. "I cannot believe he did this."
“He did it,” Meara said. “And he got them to deliver.”
I skimmed my fingers over each neatly folded pair. At least thirty of them, if I’d counted correctly.
“Is he replacing something he destroyed?” Muffy asked. “I hear that’s customary among his type.”
“He’s not,” I said, still too stunned to assemble complete thoughts. “Laundry. I told him I needed to do laundry. Or I’d be out. Of undies.”
“Awww,” Beth sighed. “Beck is too sweet.”
“Wait a second,” Meara said, plucking one pair after another out of the box. “Allof these are boy shorts? That’s a choice.”
“That’s what I wear,” I said to her.
She blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” We stared at each other for a second, both of us with fists full of underwear. “Why? What’s wrong with boy shorts?”
“It’s just—” She waved at my skirt. “There are better options.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Thongs, to start.”
“Oh, hell no.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I will not invite that kind of discomfort into my life.”
“They’re not uncomfortable,” she said.
“I can’t do a thong either,” Beth said, swirling her hands over her tiny denim shorts. “I need more containment. Hold me in, please.”
“And that’s what I like about boy shorts,” I said.
“But what about sweat?” Meara asked. “Bikinis and boy shorts are not going to help you when it’s ninety degrees and four hundred percent humidity.”
Beth shifted to face Meara. “Are you trying to tell me that you think athongis the answer to your below-decks sweat?”
Meara tossed one of her braids over her shoulder. “Yes, I am, and bikinis only make the matter worse.”
Beth threw her hands up. “What is this devilry?”
“I mean, I’d go without altogether,” Meara started, “but I run hot and things can get a little balmy.”
“Go without?” Beth cried. “How is that even an option?”
“I really don’t know how I got mixed in with you girls,” Muffy said, mostly to herself. “You’re like alley cats.”
“But the thong doesn’t solve that,” Beth insisted.
