I open the box to find delicate pieces of lace and satin separated by rose-colored tissue paper.
“The first two sets are your usual push-up bustier with matching Italian thong,” she says in a language barely coherent to me. My idea of undergarments is thermals under hockey uniforms.
“There’s a nationality for thongs?” I croak.
She guffaws like I’ve missed another crucial memo for aspiring wives.
“No, silly. It’s a style between a thong and a G-string.”
The material feels like butter between my fingertips. The first set is a shade so close to my skin tone, I’ll probably look like I’m wearing patches of lace. The other set is the color of Dex’s eyes: blue hydrangeas at the height of summer.
“Julia, they’re beautiful,” I say in all sincerity. I’ve never owned anything this intricate. “Thank you so much.”
“Keep going! There’s more.”
I remove the next layer to find what she calls a “babydoll.” That’s a misnomer because there’s nothing babyish or dollish about it. The cups are completely sheer except for wires hidden under lace. The flowing bottom half is likewise a mix of sheer and lace in fiery red.
“This is adjustable,” she says while pointing at a strap and standing up. “You want the hem to end right here.” Her hand makes a sawing motion on her backside, right under her ass.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I mumble like I know what I’m talking about. Heat spreads up my neck when I lay the flimsy material on the bed alongside the lacy sets.
“I’ll walk you through the last one,” she says, making a hand gesture that encourages me to hurry. “This is our best-selling teddy.”
Why are lingerie names so darn cute when there’s nothing cute about this web of black straps? I hold it up for careful scrutiny.
Seriously, what goes where?
Julia instructs me enthusiastically. “This is a three-point binding underwear with hollow webbing that you can adjust once we put it on.”
“The only words I recognize are put it on. Everything else sounds terrifying.”
She laughs. “The thing to remember is that when you step into it, make sure this clasp is up and behind you.”
I’m about to write down instructions when we hear Maxine roaming the hallway.
“Where is everybody?” she calls.
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you later,” Julia promises. “We should go before she barges in.”
The thought of Dexter’s mom seeing the lingerie is so embarrassing, my eyes water a little. I repackage them in the box as quickly as possible.
It might be risqué for some people, but I see Julia’s offering for what it is. Clothes—or in this case, the sexy scarcity of clothes—is her love language.
In a unique and thoughtful way, she’s welcoming me to the family as her sister. Although I can’t imagine wearing this in front of anyone, especially my fake husband and platonic friend, I’m eager to try them on and experience why Julia loves them so much.
“Thank you. These are extravagant and beautiful things I couldn’t begin to choose for myself. I’m so grateful.”
“That’s what sisters are for,” Julia says when we hug.
Once again, irony rears its joker’s head. Except now it isn’t funny or harmless.
Dex and I ironed out paperwork, timeline, and living arrangements. What we didn’t do is take into account how others will process the breakup.
When we divorce next year, how will people like Logan or Julia take it?
Maxine and Charles are already giddy at the thought of grandkids. Will they feel betrayed? Angry?
Will this negatively affect Dex’s relationship with his friends and family?
