Hardball (16 page)

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Francine said. “My friend here has a date tonight with a rich, handsome, and smart man she has a ton in common with. She wants it to go well.”

The girl smiled, eyes lighting up like the Vegas strip. “We specialize in that.”

“I don’t want him to think I do this for everyone,” I said.

“He won’t think that. We’ll make sure. Do you have a budget in mind?”

“A hundred?”

The sales girl seemed undaunted, but Francine held up her hands. “More.”

“Francine!”

She pulled me aside, next to a Swarovski crystal-covered bra. “You have credit cards?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do you have a balance on any of them?”

“Well, no.”

“When was the last time you spent anything on yourself?”

“I’m not a stylist. I’m a teacher. We’re notoriously broke.”

“Once, Vivian. Once, you can carry a balance on the card for one thing for one guy. I’m not saying to get in over your head. I’m not saying to go into bankruptcy. I’m saying maybe you should trust yourself. Trust you’re spending too much just once and it’s not some downhill ride. Treat yourself as well as you treat everyone else.”

I looked around the store. If I was going to treat myself, it was going to be for more books and more things for the kids. But that little bra made the salesgirl’s chest look so nice, and the mannequin next to me with the black stockings and garter, the way the stockings stopped at the upper thigh, highlighting the tiny string of a bikini and the place he wanted to put his tongue… I shuddered.

“I want stockings like this,” I said. “And if I get this stuff, I’m pulling a dress out of my mom’s closet, even if it’s boring.”

“Perfect. The more boring, the better. He’ll die when he sees this underneath.”

I filled my lungs with confidence. “He may or may not, but I’m pretty sure I will.”

Francine put her fists in front of her mouth to hide her smile, but she couldn’t stop herself from stamping a foot in glee. “Let’s go!”

She pulled me back to the salesgirl, and I gulped down all my shame and followed her. I was giving myself a ton of mixed messages about what I expected from this evening. Poor guy. If he thought he was confused, he should have tried living in my brain for a few hours.

Vivian

I didn’t have long to get dressed. I ran past Dad, who was standing at the counter and cooking something that smelled wonderful, so he wouldn’t see the La Perla bag.

“Hey, peanut!”

“Hi, Dad!” I said as I walked by.

“You staying for dinner?”

“Um, no. I have a date,” I called from the den.

“What?”

Shit. I shouldn’t have told him. “A date, Dad!”

I rushed into Mom’s old room. I slipped into the closet and snapped the door shut.

A knock came soon after. “Vivian?”

“He’s coming at eight. I’m nervous. I’m going to have a stroke. Please don’t make it worse. Don’t even mention it. Just don’t even say anything.”

A moment of silence.

“All right. I’ll save you some dinner for later. Or tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He shuffled away. I heard the bedroom door click. Thank God. He was really leaving me alone.

I brought my stuff to Mom’s bathroom because it was next to the closet where my dress was. I always cleaned between my legs, but that night, I was extra thorough. I bent over to see my flattened blond hairs. Was I supposed to shave?

Of course I was supposed to shave. I soaped up and took my razor off the shelf. How old was it? Should I get a fresh one?

I was being silly. Razors didn’t have…

Expiration dates.

I had to stop myself to think about that. He’d agreed that we didn’t have an artificial end date. That worked for me. But why was I going into this with my legs open? If we were going into spring training and beyond, then there was no rush.

Right?

Could I trust him? Could I trust that he wasn’t going to use me and throw me away? Did it matter? I was a grown woman. Not terribly experienced, sure, but I was perfectly capable of enjoying sex when I wanted to. I didn’t need artificial timelines any more than he did.

I put down the razor.

I believed all of that, and I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even ready for what we’d already done on the kitchen bar stool. I needed to get to know him better. I lacked a very basic trust in our relationship, in him, even in myself.

Right. Okay.

I shut off the water as if the decision had nothing to do with my hair care choices and everything to do with the shower itself. But it was a punctuation at the end of the process.

Deep breath.

I toweled off and peeked in the bag. My new underwear was wrapped in gold tissue paper. I undid it carefully and folded it up. It was too nice to just throw away.

I laid out the black stockings and lace panties on the bed. The bra was the same as the salesgirl’s but had a star in the center.

“You wear this when you want to get laid. Not when you don’t.” I said it to myself because I was the one who needed clarity.

I wanted to wear it because I’d just sold the farm to get it.

As long as the dress covered it, I was okay. That was what I told myself as I chose a bra-hiding burgundy dress with long sleeves and a flouncy knee-length skirt. It was so chaste I would have worn it to work if it wasn’t so expensive and rare.

Done.

“Here goes,” I exhaled.

I got the stockings, panties, and garter on, and I was hooking the bra when the bed buzzed. I rifled around for my phone.

I can’t wait to see you

I smiled to the phone. Another text came before I could reply.

Wear something comfortable

Now was the time. This moment. If I was going to prepare him to be refused for tonight, then now was the time to warn him.

About that

I want to take it slow

Slow is my middle name

That’s not true

My middle name is Beaumont, but that’s a secret. If you tell another soul I’ll deny it

Dashiell Beaumont Wallace

It had a terrible ring to it, and I laughed to myself.

LOL

Next week I’ll cook you Mom’s Scotts/Norman specialty. We’ll see who laughs then

I bit my lip. He was planning something for next week. That was a good sign. I typed something polite into the phone then felt the skin of my hips goose-bump, and I looked down at my body. I was texting him in this getup, and I was going to see him in—

Wait. Are you driving? You shouldn’t text and drive

I’m out front. In the car. I got here early and didn’t want to crowd you

I saw myself in the closet mirror. I looked like the mannequin. A little less waxen. A little more human. A little like a sex kitten.

Holy shit. Was that me?

It was, and I was pretty hot.

Come in. I’m ready

I slipped on the black heels. Turned and looked at the seam down the backs of my legs. My ass cheeks stood firm and round in the warm lights, curving the back of the lace panties. I put my hand on my ass and felt the warmth of my own palm.

I’d just turned myself on.

Deep breath.

I put on the dress and a little mascara.

“Someone’s here for you, peanut,” Dad said from the other side of the door.

“Coming.” I stuck the ball in my little beaded bag. It bulged. I felt like the bag. Bigger on the inside. Too full. Ready to burst out of my casing.

Dad was at the front of the house with Dash, who wore a suit and carried flowers. They were laughing about something. Me? I had no idea. I was stuck on the bright bouquet of daisies.

He’d brought me flowers. No one had ever brought me flowers.

“Hi,” I said. Whispered. Breathed.

Dash’s eyes ate me alive, and my skin folded outward to the dark, raw parts where I wanted him to touch me.

“Hey,” he said. “Your dad was telling me you were a ball girl back in the day.”

“Dad!”

“Five more minutes and I’d get the pictures out.”

Mortifying. Me in my little ponytail and white pants, chasing after fouls.

“And what you guys did for game six last year,” Dash added.

I didn’t think I’d been gone that long, but Dad talked fast.