He pressed his mouth to my temple again — the same spot, the same pressure, like it had already become habit. “You’re a quick learner,” he whispered only for me to hear — and walked back toward the church. I remained standing in the overgrown garden, looking at those dead flower beds, trying to figure out how to fake the growth of lavenders.
By the end of the month Judah expected me to move in with him. I didn’t say no, which said more about me than it did about him. I write it off to the heat of Louisiana, and maybe the fact that I was starting to enjoy our unspoken challenges. And this was one of them.
The box was left on his side of the bed.
He was already gone.
It was matte black, no ribbon, no flourish. A card sitting on top of it.
Wear this.
My heart did that little flip before it started its quickened beat against my ribcage.
I sat up and opened it.
The lingerie set inside wasn’t soft. It was lace, sure, but it was something more than that, too. The deep crimson was threaded tight into patterns that felt almost…
Well.
Bondage came to mind, and, yes, this naïve little Christian girl knew what that was. There were lots and lots of straps that crisscrossed the lace, meant to run across the curve of the breasts, then in between them, loop around the neck, and then drop down between the breasts again, to circle the waist and thighs.
I know what I saw, I know what it presented — control, surrender.
The better, more important question was — how would I get it on?
I held it up in the morning light coming through the tall windows.
My father would have called it a garment of sin. He had a category for everything and a Bible verse to back it.
My father was a miserable man, I realized.
It took me a moment to figure it out and then — I put it on.
It fit perfectly.
I stood in front of the big mirror in the red lace and looked at myself for a long moment. Then I got dressed, which proved a considerable challenge given the collar that started around my neck and ran way down, between my breasts and even further. I decided in favor of a dusty-rose high-neck sleeveless shirt and a ribbed, tight-fitting skirt that reached well past the knee. Those were the clothes I would've worn any Monday. I put it all on, smoothed everything down, checked the mirror again.
You couldn't see anything.
That was the point. I understood that immediately, standing there looking at myself — a perfectly ordinary woman getting ready for a perfectly ordinary workday, with something that belonged to him pressed against her skin.
I picked up my bag and went to work.
Grace Eternal on a Monday morning had its own built-in rhythm. Darlene arrived, the printer made its personality known, the volunteer schedule needed three things fixed before nine. I fixed them. I made calls. I reorganized the August intake folders that had somehow migrated to September.
Normal. Ordinary. The fluorescent light above my desk stammered once and stabilized.
The lace sat against my skin all morning and I was aware of it every second of the day.
At ten-thirty I went to the staff room to make coffee.
The staff room was small — a table, four chairs, the ancient drip machine that Darlene treated like a dependent. I had the room to myself. I filled the machine, leaned against the counter and waited, and didn't notice the strap until I caught my own reflection in the window above the sink.
It had slipped down my shoulder, past the point the top could hide. Just slightly. Just enough that an inch of the crimson lace was visible at my shoulder.
I reached up to fix it.
“Leave it.”
