by Aven Ellis
I smile. “I’m so excited to be here. Dyslexia is in my family, so I’m thrilled to be a part of making a difference.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you want to help,” she says. “My son has it, too. That is what started me on this path.”
“Yvette is our sales and fundraising coordinator,” Addison says. “She is a wealth of information. If you need something, Yvette knows the answer.”
Yvette laughs. “I try. Well, I have to make some more sponsorship calls for the gala, so I’d better get back at it. Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure,” I say, happy that I’m meeting new people.
There is one office door open, and I can hear a woman’s voice on the phone.
“Mariah is on the phone, but I’ll at least show you her office,” Addison explains.
She pops her head in the doorway and waves. Mariah, a woman in her mid-thirties, smiles and waves at us without pausing her conversation.
“Mariah is swamped with the gala. Actually, we all are,” Addison explains. “We are excited to get additional communications help right now.”
“I would like to do some targeted social media posts,” I say as we walk back toward her cubicle, “and open accounts on Twitter, Connectivity, and Instagram.”
“Really?” Addison asks, her eyes widening. “Mariah has been asking for that for forever.”
“I want to develop new social media posts daily to push the gala as well as create awareness for Expanded World,” I explain, stopping as we reach her desk, “in addition to creating a fresh look for it on the website.”
“Mariah will send you flowers if you pull this off,” Addison says, pulling open a drawer on a file cabinet and rifling through it.
Hmm. I get the feeling Belinda has been less than helpful on this endeavor.
“I only want to help,” I say, speaking from my heart.
“I can tell you will be a great asset,” Addison says.
She retrieves a file and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from her.
“This is what we’ve done to date. There’s information about the venue, a sponsor list, and advertising reports. There’s also a history of the gala on the website.”
“I saw that,” I say, remembering how I studied it for my interview. “And all the proceeds are going into research and funding diagnostic services in underserved schools in the metro area.”
“Mariah is open door, so don’t hesitate to approach her with any questions,” Addison says. “You can ask me as well. If I don’t know the answer, I’ll find it. I’ve only been here two months longer than you, but I’ll help you any way I can.”
“Oh, really? Where did you come from?”
“I was looking for a job in fundraising or as a social chair for a non-profit since I graduated last summer,” she says, sinking down into her chair. “It was a long road, and I worked as a concierge at a hotel to support myself while I looked, but I finally landed here.”
I nod, realizing how lucky I am that I went from an internship to here in a matter of months. The job market is competitive in DC, very, very, competitive, and I don’t take my new position for granted.
“Congratulations,” I say.
“To you, too,” Addison says, smiling at me. “Maybe we can grab lunch soon?”
“I’d like that,” I say, smiling back at her.
“Great, I’ll email you,” Addison says, nodding.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”
As I head down the hall, I can’t stop the contagious feeling of optimism surging through me. I’ve created an opportunity for myself. I’ve met some nice coworkers. I’m going to make a difference in making this gala a success, I just know I can.
And then there’s Brody.
I will definitely write all about today in my journal. How my life is changing. How I’m changing. That I have opportunities to grow and learn and share them with a man that is unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered.
Everything feels positive.
And who knows? At this rate, I might just find some incredible underwear at lunch that makes me look sexy, too.
A girl can hope, right?
With that thought in my head, I sit back down at my cubicle and get to work.
And think of Brody’s reaction when he sees me in my new lingerie.
Chapter Thirteen
Oh. My. God.
I study my reflection in horror in the three-way mirror of the dressing room. I’ve stopped at Mon Cherie’s Secret, a posh lingerie boutique in DC. I’m stuffed into a demi-bra, which the saleswoman told me would “lift my breasts” and make me look “voluptuous,” but I feel like my boobs are about to spill over the top of the black sheer bra. And it is sheer. My nipples stare back at me in the mirror. How on earth can I wear a shirt over a bra that doesn’t function like a bra?
But that’s not even the worst part.
I cringe as my eyes go lower, to the sheer thong the saleswoman, Christina, insisted was sexy and appropriate for a woman my age. I stop at my stomach. To try it on, I had to put it over my underwear, and I folded over the nude control top so I could get a better look at myself.
Forget muffin top.
My issues in this dressing room go well beyond that.
Because I have bagel belly.
BAGEL BELLY!
How did this happen? How?
Okay, so I know how, my love of bread and cereal and not working out has resulted in my stomach now taking on the appearance of a bagel.
I put my hands around it and squeeze, mortified by the appearance it’s making in the mirror. Panic grips me. How did I not notice this was happening?
Mortification fills me.
There’s no hiding this from Brody.
I want to cry. I know there’s no way in hell he’s ever slept with a woman who has a bagel belly. And muffin top.
I have more issues than a bread box.
Ding!
I hear my phone chime in my purse. I swallow down my mortification—and try to avoid looking in the mirror as I do have to see what I look like bent over in lingerie—and retrieve it. I have a message from Katie, who knew I would be out shopping.
How’s it going? Did you find something sweet and sexy to wear for Brody?
Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
I text her back:
I have bagel belly and muffin top. I need to stop dating him IMMEDIATELY. Brody Jensen will not be turned-on by my bakery shop stomach of horrors.
I look again in the mirror. This ensemble does not work on me. I need more coverage. I know I can’t wear stomach-sucking panties, but I need more than this scrap to we–
Ding!
Shut up. You have sexy curves, which Brody likes, and there is NO WAY you have bagel belly.
Oh, she doubts the bagel belly?
Ding!
This time, it’s a message from Brody:
How are you, my Cherry Blossom?
My heart leaps. Brody called me Cherry Blossom!
Ding!
“Excuse me, Hayley?” Christina’s voice floats over the sound of classical music from the top of the door. “How are you doing in there? Can I get you another size?”
Ding!
“Um, can I see a panty with full coverage?” I call out. “Maybe something in pink? I also think the bra is too small.”
“May I come in?” Christina asks.
Eek! I don’t want her to come in!
But this is what adult women do, right? They have their lingerie adjusted by professionals?
“Um . . . Okay.”
Ding!
I need to send Katie a picture so she will believe me.
Christina, in her chic black skirt and flowy white blouse, enters the room, a tape measure draped around her neck.
“Oh, no, that is the wrong size bra,” she says, shaking her head. “Here, let me measure you. When is the last time you had a fitting? And I don’t mean at the mall.”
Ding!
�
��Never,” I admit.
“This is the problem. Did you know most women are wearing the wrong size?” she asks, turning me around and studying my boobs.
Ding!
I’m going to kill Katie for what is sure to be a string of texts telling me I’m crazy and my body is fine.
“Lift your arms,” Christina commands.
Before I know it, she’s whipping a tape measure around me.
“Ah-ha! You are not a 36C. You are a 34D.”
“What?” I gasp. “No, I can’t be a D.”
“The band supports your breasts,” she explains. “Your band is too big. I’m going to get some more for you to try. Don’t worry, they’ll still be sexy yet supportive.”
Ding!
As soon as she leaves, I take a selfie in the mirror and type a message to Katie:
This is what I have on right now. Take a careful look and then text me back your thoughts.
I hit send and exhale loudly. This is worse than swim suit shopping. At least with my pale skin, I can wear a rash guard with long sleeves and swim shorts and nobody blinks.
But there’s no hiding in a bra and panties.
Ding!
I glance down at my phone, knowing that has to be Katie coming to the same sad conclusion about my body.
But it’s a text from Brody:
DAMNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN GURLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
What?
Then I realize the picture of me in my underwear is in Brody’s message.
I gasp in horror. I drop my phone in mortification. My heart is roaring in my ears, and nausea attacks me.
Oh, no. No. No. No. Oh, mother of all that is holy, NO!
I texted Brody the picture I meant to send to Katie.
I can’t breathe. My face is on fire. I’m going to be sick.
Not only am I mortified he’s seen me in this horrible picture, nearly NAKED, but what does this say about me that I sent him a NEARLY NAKED PICTURE OF ME before we even had a second date?
I have to fix this. Fix it now.
My hands are shaking as I type back:
I’m SO embarrassed. That picture wasn’t for you. I’m so sorry. I don’t send pictures like this. I don’t. I was sending it to my roommate for another opinion on the fit.
I hit send.
I slump against the floral wallpaper and squeeze my eyes shut. I’ve made an absolute ass of myself with Brody by sending him a picture of me in skimpy lingerie. Ill-fitting skimpy lingerie, that is. Oh, and with a thong parked over my folded over nude grandma panties. I showed him how out of shape I am and that I have a bagel belly and there’s no way I’m recovering from this.
Ding!
Do I dare look? Do I?
It’s from Brody:
You can always ask me for advice on your underwear. I’m already checking for panty lines, so this isn’t a stretch for me. You know you have on two pairs of underwear, right?
