CHAPTER ONE
March 3
EVEN FROM THOUSANDS OF MILES AWAY, I can feel my husband. I feel his thoughts brushing against my skin, the beating of his heart in rhythm with mine. I feel him in the world, a powerful, unyielding presence who will forever be my source of safety and warmth. And because of that, the distance between us doesn’t seem quite so vast, and my aloneness not quite so alone.
Mirror Lake is beginning to wake from the hibernation of winter. Colorful, adhesive tulips, butterflies, and robins plaster the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. The frozen surface of the lake is starting to crack, ice floes melting under the increasingly warm sun. Piles of snow still cap the surrounding mountains and line the streets of town, but the promise of spring clings to the air.
I put a coat on over my jeans and T-shirt and pull my long brown hair into a ponytail before heading outside. I stop at a coffeehouse to get two takeout coffees, then walk to Emerald Street and the Happy Booker bookstore. Big signs in the windows read Going Out of Business Sale.
I push open the door, deflecting a pang of regret. I’d offered to try and help my friend Allie Lyons save her bookstore by applying for a small business loan, but my loan application was denied, and we couldn’t bring in enough revenue to afford the raised rent on the building.
“Welcome to… oh, hi, Liv.” Allie straightens from a pile of books and pushes a tumble of red curls off her forehead. Twenty-seven years old and possessing an undaunted, boundless energy, Allie hasn’t let the loss of her business get her down.
“Morning, Allie.” I indicate that one of the coffees is for her and place the tray on the front counter. “What can I do?”
“I haven’t gotten to the children’s section yet,” she tells me. “The toys and stuff need to be packed up too, but let’s wait at least another week or so. Brent will be here in about half an hour with his truck to load some boxes.”
After taking off my coat, I head to the back of the store where the children’s section is located. The bookstore is closing for good at the end of the month, and we’ve started packing up returnable inventory and organizing sale tables and bins. I pick up an inventory sheet and get to work.
“Hey, Liv, there’s a bunch of freebies in the bin by the windows,” Allie calls. “I’m going to leave them outside starting tomorrow, so take what you want now. There’s something in there about medieval history that Professor Hottie might like.”
“Thanks.” I put a few picture books into a box and go to the bin filled with paperbacks.
I look through the books and set aside the one on medieval literature even though Dean probably already has it. I put a few more paperback novels in the stack.
“When’s he coming back?” Allie asks.
“Not sure yet. This phase of the job lasts until the end of July.” I try to ignore the clenching of my heart at the reminder that Dean is gone.
No, I remind myself. He’s not gone. He’s just away.
He had refused to leave, at first. It seemed as if nothing—not the dictate that he had to stay away from King’s University, not the threat to his career, not the sexual harassment accusation of a vindictive student—could force my husband to leave my side.
He’d spent the few weeks after the miscarriage hovering around me, desperate to do something to make it better. I soon realized that being there for me was his way of coping with the loss and his own anger, even though I held to the belief that he needed to be away from Mirror Lake. The opportunity to serve as an advisor on an archeological dig in Italy for the next six months was waiting for him, but he wouldn’t accept it, not if it meant being away from me.
Then one afternoon in mid-February, Dean went to King’s University to return some books. He saw Maggie Hamilton, the girl making the false harassment claim, at the library. Though they didn’t speak to each other, Frances Hunter, chairperson of the history department, came to our apartment later that day.
Frances was livid that Dean had dared set foot on campus when he’d been unofficially suspended. And she was even more upset by the fact that Maggie Hamilton’s father had contacted her with threats about obtaining a restraining order against Dean if he didn’t stop “stalking” Maggie.
“If you’re not careful, things are going to get worse than they already are,” Frances warned him. “A restraining order, Dean, for God’s sake. You won’t need a suspension from the university if Edward Hamilton hits you with a legal order forbidding you from going anywhere near King’s University. Do you think for one second we could keep that quiet?”
Then Frances had looked at me. Dean saw that look. And I knew exactly what hard conclusion he’d reached in that one instant—if he left Mirror Lake, if he removed himself as a target for Maggie Hamilton and her father, he had a better chance of keeping the arrows from hitting me. Protecting me was the only thing that could force him to leave.
He left for the airport at dawn the following morning. I could feel the sadness and anger radiating from him, and I almost wavered in my insistence that I couldn’t go with him because of my own responsibilities in Mirror Lake.
But I didn’t waver. He had to leave, and I had to stay.
“I don’t know where we go from here,” Dean said, reaching out to touch my cheek as we stood by the front door.
“I don’t know either,” I admitted. “But why does either of us have to know? There doesn’t always have to be a plan.”
“Yes, there does.”
I turned to pick up his travel bag. I know my husband. He likes plans and schedules. He needs to be in control. He’s accustomed to getting what he wants. The avalanche of recent events—our separation last fall, the miscarriage, and now the threat to his career—hit us both with unimagined and heart-wrenching force.
And he hadn’t been able to prevent or stop any of it.
In that moment, I thought of something I’d written in my manifesto a couple of months ago.
I will remember how it was when we first met.
How I cherished those early months of slow exploration, learning all the spaces of each other’s bodies and hearts. Feeling as if the world had narrowed to us alone, as if nothing could invade our intimacy. The place of Liv and Dean.
I followed him downstairs and out into the cold, gray morning. He unlocked the trunk of his car and hefted his suitcase and travel bag inside.
I watched him—my tall, handsome husband with his dark, rumpled hair and strong features enhanced by thick-lashed, brown eyes. His powerful body and broad shoulders that looked as if they could bear any weight in the world.
“Dean?”
“Right here.” He slammed the trunk closed, his shoulders tight.
“Remember the first few months of our relationship and how good we were?”
“I’ll never forget.”
“Me either.” I stepped closer to him. “So I was thinking that when you get back, maybe we could just… date.”
“Date?”
“Like we did at the beginning,” I suggested. “Maybe you could court me a little.”
“Court you?”
He looked as if I were speaking a foreign language. I reached out to brush a speck of lint from the lapel of his peacoat.
“On our second date, you told me you’d loved the King Arthur tales when you were a boy,” I said. “Sir Galahad was your favorite. The greatest knight ever. You loved stories about the Holy Grail, Excalibur, Lancelot. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“In addition to all their adventures, I’m sure the knights did a great deal of wooing their ladies,” I continued. “Wasn’t that the basis of courtly love? You must know something about that.”
“I’ve done some research, yeah.”
“Well?”
I could almost see his mind shift to the comforting ground of scholarship. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.
“The idea of courtly love dates to about the eleventh century,” he explained. “In literature it was a concept of secret love usually between members of the nobility. A cross between erotic and spiritual desire. The knight has to prove himself worthy of the lady’s love by undergoing a series of trials while also accepting her independence. And he does indeed court her with rituals, songs, gifts, elaborate gestures.”
“Sounds promising,” I remarked. “For the lady, anyway.”
“The lady was called the domina,” Dean said. “She was the exalted, commanding mistress. The knight was the servus, her lowly but faithful servant.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
“This is sounding better and better.” I smiled.
“Yes, it is.” Dean looked at me, his eyes warming. “I haven’t seen that pretty smile in too long.”
Tenderness swirled through me. I brushed my hand over his chest again, feeling the heat of his muscles through his shirt. He bent to press his mouth against mine, a warm pressure that made my blood run like melted honey.
Oh, lovely pleasure.
“Good start, faithful servant,” I whispered.
“Thank you, exalted mistress.” And there it was—that crinkling at the corners of his eyes, the amused twinkle that never failed to lighten my heart.
“Knights often went off on long journeys and crusades, didn’t they?” I asked. “We can think of your trip like that. Except without all the pillaging or whatever.”
“They did travel often,” Dean said. “And always with a token from their lady. So I’ll need something of yours to take with me.”
“A token like what?”
“A scarf or a glove.” He shrugged. “Your underwear, maybe.”
“I am not sending you off with a pair of my panties. What if the airport security agent finds them in your bag?”
He grinned. “Trust you to worry about something like that.”
“Hold on.” I hurried back upstairs to our apartment and into the bedroom. I grabbed an item from a shoebox inside the closet, then went back outside.
“Here.” I held out my hand toward Dean. “A proper token of my love and devotion.”
He took the metal disk attached to a silver chain and ran his finger over the engraved Latin quote: Fortes fortuna iuvat.
Fortune favors the brave.
“Keep it safe for me,” I said.
“I will.” He tucked the necklace into the pocket of his jeans.
“So that’s the plan,” I said. “You’ll court me long-distance. And when you get back, we can go to dinner, the movies, that kind of thing. Dating. It’ll be fun.”
Heaven knew that after the turmoil of recent months, my husband and I needed some fun.
“I would love to date you all over again, Olivia Rose.” Dean put his hand against the side of my neck.
“I’d love it too.”
He moved closer, his deep voice rolling over me. “Give me a kiss, beauty.”
I stood on tiptoe to press my lips against his, my whole being filling with love and the belief that we would soon find our way back to each other. Dean cupped my face in his hands, his lips moving over mine in that perfect way that was both familiar and always new. Then he took me in his arms and pulled me against him in an embrace so tight I felt his heart beating against mine.
When we parted, I took a reluctant step back toward the building. Although I knew he had to go, my soul still cracked a little at the realization that he was actually leaving.
We gazed at each other for a moment, an arc of energy resonating between us. I memorized the way my husband looked in that instant, standing beside the car with a slight breeze ruffling his hair, faded jeans hugging his long legs, that warm brown gaze containing a thousand thoughts meant for me alone. So different from five years ago when he’d stood on the sidewalk looking at me… and yet somehow exactly the same.
“Promise me you’ll unbend a little while you’re in Tuscany,” I said. “Get your hands dirty. Eat good food. Enjoy discussing all things medieval with your colleagues. Laugh. Remember why you love doing what you do. Promise.”
“I promise.” He reached into his coat pocket for his keys. “Say it for me.”
“I’m yours.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Say it back.”
“I’m yours. Always will be.”
He pressed his palm to his chest and lifted his hand to me. I gave him a little wave, then turned and went back inside so I wouldn’t have to watch him drive away.
He’s been in Italy for ten days now. And though I miss him terribly, I have things to do, goals to accomplish. I’ve been working at the bookstore every day, volunteering at the library, and helping organize a new exhibition at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum. And I need to find a new job, since Allie has lost the Happy Booker.
I go back to the children’s section and continue packing up picture books. I leaf through one about a boy and his pet dinosaur. Ever since the miscarriage, I’ve wondered at the aching sense of loss I feel, the realization that I’d started making plans. I’d even started imagining what it would be like—a baby wrapped up in a blanket, soft and warm as a muffin. Fuzzy tufts of hair, toothless smiles, tottering steps.
I’d pictured Dean cradling a newborn in his arms, and I’d felt that certain, bone-deep knowledge that he would love and protect our child with a fiercely devoted tenderness. That our child would be indescribably blessed to have Dean West as his or her father.
And while I hadn’t yet been able to imagine myself as a mother, I thought one day soon I’d be able to. I could at least see it on the horizon.
I still can.
“Liv, I’m going to label the boxes in the backroom,” Allie calls, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts. “Brent and I will get those loaded up first.”
I keep working on the picture books, pausing a couple of times to check my email. Dean and I exchange two or three emails a day, all wonderfully mundane messages about our work, a trip he took to Florence, a new sports shop that opened on Tulip Street, but we save most of our communication for our nightly phone calls.
After Allie and Brent head to the storage garage, I stay to help customers. At five o’clock, I start to lock up the store when my friend Kelsey March comes in, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit and heels, the swath of blue in her blond hair almost glowing.
“Hi, Kels. What’re you doing here?”
“Thought I’d see if you want to have dinner. I’ll even agree to go to that tearoom you like so much.”
“Matilda’s Teapot is closed for good now.” I pull on my coat. “How about Abernathy’s?”
“Whatever you want.”
I steer the conversation to her atmospheric science work as we leave the bookstore and walk to Abernathy’s. After we’re seated and have placed our orders, Kelsey sits back and looks at me.
“And what about you and Professor Marvel?” she asks. “When is he getting back?”
“I don’t know yet.” Neither Dean nor I have told Kelsey about the miscarriage or the sexual harassment allegation. The pain of the miscarriage is still raw, and we’re not supposed to talk about the allegation to anyone.
“Hey, since the Happy Booker is closing, I’m looking for a job again,” I say. “Remember last year you said you could get me something in the atmospheric sciences department? Do you think there are any openings now?”
“Probably not, since it’s midyear, but I can ask around. Sometimes there’s administrative assistant stuff.”
“Well, I was fired from my last administrative job at the art gallery,” I admit. “I guess that’s not my thing anyway. But I’ve applied for a cashier’s position at a couple of places. I was thinking I’d like to do something with food, since I’ve learned how to cook.”
In addition to searching the classifieds and online ads for career possibilities, I’ve applied for jobs at a French patisserie on Dandelion Street and a pie shop called the Pied Piper.
Though I know I want something more than a cashier’s position, I need a job—any job—sooner rather than later. So I think it might be fun to work at a pastry shop for a while, especially since I know how to work a cash register, and I have a deep, abiding love for baked goods.
“There’s also an opening at a photography studio over on Ruby Street,” I continue. “They’re looking for a marketing agent, whatever that is. I don’t know anything about marketing or sales, though.”
“I think you’d be a great marketing agent or salesperson,” Kelsey remarks.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Kelsey sits back with a sigh of exasperation. “Liv, you’re such a… a mouse sometimes. It’s one of the reasons people love you, because you have this air of innocence and no guile whatsoever. You’re sweet. People want to take care of you. But sometimes you drive me nuts with your lack of confidence in your own abilities.”
“I know! I drive myself nuts. I’ve just never been able to figure out what my abilities even are, so how can I have confidence in them?”
“Well then, instead of assuming you can’t do anything, why don’t you assume you can do everything?”
“I’m starting to, Kelsey. I’m trying, anyway.”
“So make a list of things you like to do and can do well.”
“I like to read,” I say. “And garden. I can still make a great cappuccino.”
“What else?”
“I’m good at refurbishing things like old furniture. I’ve also always liked decorating and organizing stuff. I’m helping plan the museum exhibit and editing the catalog. I’m a good cook, and I’ve loved working at the bookstore with Allie. Oh, and I’m a decent artist.”
Saying all that aloud bolsters my ego. It’s not a bad list.
“So there you go,” Kelsey says.
“There I go what?”
“You’re good at lots of stuff, Liv. You just need to put it to use.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m looking for a job. But I’m scared it’ll end up like all my other jobs. Just something to do rather than something I really want.”
I push my plate away, no longer hungry. “My mother was always like that,” I say. “Odd jobs here and there.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
I stare at my plate, unable to confess even to Kelsey what I’ve discovered in the past couple of months—that my dependence on Dean and my lack of career or even job stability is downright frightening. Without Dean or my own financial security, it’s just a few short steps to a life of constant transition and uncertainty.
“Well… I don’t want to end up like my mother,” I admit. “I’ve never wanted that.”
“Does she have a ridiculously good marriage?” Kelsey asks. “Does she live in a great town and have a majestic friend named Kelsey who is willing to kick her ass when she needs it and then buy her a hot fudge sundae?”
“No.”
“Then stop using your mother as an excuse for not figuring yourself out.” Kelsey shakes her head. “Honestly, Liv, sometimes you have to put on your big girl panties and deal with shit.”
She waves the waitress over and places an order for two hot fudge sundaes.
As my majestic friend probably intended, her scolding echoes in my head after we’ve finished our ice cream and parted ways.
I walk back home to Avalon Street, making a mental list of career possibilities based on my skill set. When I get home, I settle into my routine of cleaning, job searching on the Internet, and working on the museum exhibition catalog.
As the clock nears ten, I go into the bedroom and change into one of Dean’s old San Francisco Giants T-shirts that I’ve been wearing to bed ever since he left. It’s comforting, all soft and worn, the faint scent of his shaving soap clinging to the cotton. I imagine I can still even feel the heat of his body. I brush my hair and return to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.
I go into Dean’s office, set the mug on the desk beside the computer, curl up in his big leather chair, and pull my ragged old quilt over my legs. This is a ritual I’ve come to love in the past ten days, as my whole body hums with anticipation.
It’s five in the morning in Tuscany, so Dean’s day is starting just as mine ends. The instant the clock strikes ten, the phone rings. I press the talk button.
“Hi, professor.”
“I’m Indiana Jones out here, baby.”
I smile. “You’re way sexier than Indiana Jones.”
“Glad you think so.”
“I know so.” I shift to tuck my legs underneath me. “What are you doing today?”
“Missing my girl.”
My chest tightens. “Your girl misses you too.”
“Yeah? You talked to her?”
I giggle as the ache eases a little. “Every day. And she says you’d better not be looking at any pretty Italian women.”
“You’re the only woman I want to look at, beauty.” His deep, affectionate voice warms me to my toes. “The only woman I can see.”
I let out a breath and rest my head against the back of the chair. Even though I know Dean needs to be away from Mirror Lake right now, even though I was the one who first told him to go, there’s no question that our separation still hurts. And it hurts because it shouldn’t have to be this way.
My husband should be stretched out on the sofa right now, winding a loop of string around his fingers. I should be tucking my body against his at night and sliding my hand over his chest. We should be having dinner, talking about our days, making summer plans. We should be together.
“So did you find anything interesting yesterday?” I ask.
“Few liturgical things.” Dean tells me about their findings, the scientific processes of the excavation, his work with another professor from Cambridge, the progress of the conference King’s University is hosting in July.
I press the phone close to my ear, feeling his voice wrap around me like one of his warm, protective embraces.
“What did you do today?” he asks me.
“Worked at the bookstore, then had dinner with Kelsey. She told me I was a mouse and scolded me for being wishy-washy.”
The instant the words are out of my mouth, I can almost feel Dean bristle with irritation.
“Why’d she do that?” he asks.
“For my own good. She’s right in some ways, I think.” I pause for a second. “Have you ever thought of me as a mouse?”
There’s a brief hesitation that speaks louder than words. My heart sinks a little.
“Really?” I ask. “You think I’m mousy?”
“I’ve never thought of you as weak or cowardly,” Dean says. “Just the opposite, in fact. But when we first met, I thought you were shy like a mouse, kind of skittish. Like you wanted to be brave, but were scared of what would happen if you let yourself. It was just one of the reasons I liked you so much.”
I consider that. Objectively, it makes sense. I’d been so drawn to Dean from the beginning because I knew I could take chances with him that I’d always been too scared to take before.
“Well, at least mice are cute,” I mutter.
“Maybe you could dress up as Minnie Mouse when I get back,” he suggests. “Short, ruffled skirt, bow in your hair, heels…”
I laugh, though the idea is rather appealing. “Your fantasies are getting creative, professor.”
“They’re all I’ve got without you here.”
Warmth tingles through me at the thought of him fantasizing about us. Though we did a lot of touching and holding in the days before his departure, this has been the longest Dean and I have ever gone without some form of sexual intimacy. Even during our nightly phone calls, neither of us has yet shifted the conversation to overtly sexy talk.
But I’m not foolish enough to think Dean hasn’t wanted it. Our sex life has always been so good because, frankly, we turn each other on. Whatever animal magnetism or chemistry is responsible for driving our attraction, we have it in truckloads.
Sex is an explosive, overwhelming pleasure for me and my husband. It’s an intense craving, an unabashed joy, the place where we can forget everything but each other, where everything is right and pure. It’s the one place where I can surrender without fear.
I want all that again as much as Dean does. And just within the past few days, I’ve finally felt the awakening of my arousal again. I’ve even started having some rather lusty and imaginative dreams about us, and the sheer enjoyment of such dreams is most welcome.
And though I’m already anticipating getting sexy with Dean again, I can’t help believing that a little bit more restraint right now will help put us back into balance, reminding us why we just like each other.
I close my eyes and picture my husband sitting in the chair, me in his lap, his arms strong and tight around my waist. I can smell the delicious, woodsy scent of his shaving soap, feel the scrape of his whiskers against my cheek.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“Are you okay with us putting that on hold for just a little longer?”
“As long as you’re okay with me imagining you naked and sweaty most of the time.”
“I’m not only okay with that, I encourage it. Except for when you’re digging up a medieval skeleton or something.”
“Don’t worry, I’m discreet.” He pauses. “And it’s not the only thing I’m thinking about.”
“I know.”
“Abstinence is actually part of the philosophy of courtly love,” he tells me. “The knight suppresses his erotic longing in favor of exalting his lady’s soul and spirit.”
“Really? You think you can do that?”
“I’ll exalt your spirit, but there’s no chance in hell I’m suppressing my erotic longing for your body.”
I smile. “I love that you love me, professor.”
“I love loving you, beauty.”
An intense, rich adoration floods my heart. Once upon a time, I didn’t know men like Dean West existed. I certainly never believed I’d ever have someone like him in my life, and our separation only intensifies my gratitude.
“So I have a poem for you,” Dean says.
“A poem?”
“Written by Guillaume de Machaut, a fourteenth-century composer of love poetry. Want to hear it?”
“Of course.”
“Okay.” He clears his throat.
I want to stay faithful, protect your honor,
Seek peace, obey,
Fear, serve and honor you,
Until death, peerless Lady.
For I love you so much, truly,
that one could sooner dry up
the deep sea and hold back its waves
than I could restrain myself
from loving you.
“Wow,” I whisper. “That was something.”
“Want to hear it in French?”
“You need to ask?” I love hearing Dean speak French.
“Je veux vous demeurer fidèle, protéger votre honneur,” he murmurs in that baritone voice that I feel pulsing in my blood, “assurer votre paix, vous obéir, vous craindre, vous servir et vous honorer, jusqu’à la mort, gente dame…”
By the time he’s finished, I’m melting. “That was the kind of poem a knight would use to woo his lady?”
“Better than ‘roses are red,’ huh?”
“I’ll say.” I smile into the receiver. “Thanks.”
“Just trying to get a start on courting you.”
“That’s a lovely start. And you’ll call me tomorrow?”
“When the clock strikes ten, my peerless lady.”
We say goodbye and hang up. I sit in his chair for a while longer, then get up to tend to my houseplants that are arranged on a rack near the balcony. As I’m plucking dried leaves from the stems, I notice my peace lily has bloomed, the creamy white flower turning its face toward the sun.
I do not think I have ever owned big girl panties. So after cashing my last paycheck from Allie, I go to the store to buy some. Old Liv is whispering that this is a complete waste of money, but New Liv is tackling life again, and new panties seems like an unexpectedly good place to start.
The lingerie shop is a haven of lace and loveliness—flowered wallpaper, a glass chandelier, vintage chairs and vanities, open cabinets filled with neatly folded satin robes. The scent of vanilla spice wafts through the air, and a Mozart sonata plays on hidden speakers.
The saleswoman approaches me with a welcoming smile. Her nametag reads Sophia, and she’s an attractive woman in her forties who looks like she knows all about the importance of what you wear beneath your clothes. After I tell her I need new underwear, she gets me measured right and explains all the various styles of panties, which I had no idea existed.
“What kind do you usually wear?” she asks.
I’m a little embarrassed by my answer. “Just cotton briefs.”
“And you’re looking for something different?”
“I think so.” I dubiously eye the racks of V-strings and thongs, then pick up a pair of panties called “cheekies” which look like they’d give me an atomic wedgie.
I put the cheekies back. “But, uh, maybe not quite that different.”
I pick up a package of briefs and study the label. I can almost feel Sophia’s dismay.
“Well, briefs are comfortable,” she remarks, taking my arm and steering me toward another rack. “But you might want to try the hiphuggers. They’re a cross between boy shorts and bikinis, so they offer you good coverage without being… dowdy.”
“I don’t want to be dowdy,” I agree.
Kelsey did say big girl panties, not granny panties.
“Here, these are your size.” Sophia takes a few hiphuggers off the rack and hands them to me. “They’re sexy, flirty, and comfortable. Go try them on and let me know what you think. Would you like the matching bras too?”
I start to decline, but then figure I might as well try them on. Sophia gives me a pair of nylon panties to put on underneath and, with an armful of silky lingerie, I head to the dressing room.
After stripping down and putting on the nylon panties, I pull on a pair of lace-trimmed, floral hiphuggers and the matching push-up bra. I turn to look at myself in the mirror.
Well, damn.
I’ve never been thin and willowy, but… wow. My curves are a good thing. The bra pushes my breasts up into a bountiful cleavage that complements my tapered waist, and the panties look both pretty and sexy stretched around my hips and rear end.
After examining myself from all angles, I do a few squats and stretches to make sure the panties don’t ride up.
“How do those feel?” Sophia calls from outside the room. “Would you like to try on the boy shorts too?”
“Sure.”
“We also have baby dolls and cami sets on sale. They’re very comfortable. Shall I bring you a few?”
“Why not?”
I spend the next two hours trying on more bras, as well as silk slips, teddies, and camisoles with matching shorts or little skirts.
By the time I leave the store, I have a bag filled with three hiphuggers and matching bras (on sale, three for the price of two), and three pairs of boy shorts and matching bras (on sale, twenty-five percent off), plus a camisole top and shorts, two halter-style nighties with a matching robe, and three fitted lace slips. Though the splurge cost almost my entire paycheck, New Liv is off to a good start.
As I walk home, a rush of excitement goes through me as I think about Dean’s reaction when he sees me in the lacy bra and panties. And I wonder why I’ve never bothered buying pretty lingerie before, even for his sake.
The answer comes without any thought. Because he’s always loved me exactly the way I am. Cotton briefs, plain white bras and all. Never once has my husband wanted me to be different from what and who I am.
Just the opposite, in fact. He’s never wanted me to change.
But I have changed. I’m a different person than I was six months ago. Hell, one month ago. No, I still haven’t figured out what I want to do, or how to put to use all the things I’m good at, and maybe I’m still not all that confident about my abilities—
“You’re such a mouse, Liv.”
Kelsey’s voice in my head stops my self-defeating train of thought.
Before Dean left, I told him that I desperately wanted to find a way to prove myself to myself. To be self-reliant and find my own path.
I know I can do it.
I’m smart. Dedicated. Loyal. Organized. I always carry an extra pen. I’m hardworking. Reliable. I know how to get stuff done. I’ve made mistakes and learned from them. I’m a good student. I’ve been knocked down and gotten back up.
A mouse?
Fuck that.