Yes, it’s a legacy of panties, but it’s one the Valencia women love. My grandmother believed in female empowerment before it was cool, and hell if I’m going to break that chain.
Sometimes womanly strength comes from underthings. I want women to feel beautiful, to be their best selves, to ask for what they want in work, in love, in life.
And in bed.
I use underwear to deliver that message to the world.
Lately, though, the task has been tougher, as Harriet’s has slowly encroached upon my customer base. But the half-off sign is the last straw.
I could learn from Tristan.
I survey the familiar restaurant, admiring his establishment even after-hours. Tristan has run this place for a number of years, and it’s wildly successful. He rolls with the changes too. Operating as a wine and tapas bar at first, he expanded to a full bar recently, and the switch has ramped up sales. Plus, his place is a true neighborhood eatery, enjoying great word-of-mouth and fantastic reviews. He’s a whiz at social media, with his fifteen-second time-lapse videos of food prep proving quite a hit on Instagram.
I take another drink and gather my thoughts. “I need to do something to stand out. That’s the key.” I lower my voice to a confessional tone. “Because these last few months since Harriet’s moved in, I feel like Meg Ryan when Fox Books came to town.” I frown at the image of the character’s shuttered book shop in You’ve Got Mail.
Tristan leans onto his hands on the counter and levels me with a stare. He’s not an everything is going to be okay kind of guy, so I steel myself.
“This is 2020,” he says. “The world isn’t so enamored by big box stores anymore. And local business isn’t all about discounts. You already have to compete with Amazon and online shopping, so when you’re running a brick-and-mortar store, you can’t focus on the same things that Harriet’s and other big box stores do.”
I draw a deep, fueling breath, nodding. “You’re right. I need to remember it’s about connections. It’s about the customers.”
“And it’s about what you as a business owner can offer that’s special, that the others can’t. That’s how you need to face the competition.”
“I need to do something that stands out. Like what you do with your videos.”
He gives me a wry leer. “You could post fifteen seconds of you trying on lingerie.”
I grab my napkin, ball it up, and toss it at him. “Smart-ass.”
“Kidding, kidding. But seriously, you already have a successful social presence for the store. You’re always posting photos of the latest merch, of bras and teddies draped over that chaise lounge.” My heart skips down a garden path at finding out he actually pays attention to my social posts. It’s kind of endearing to think about him logging into Instagram and scrolling across a photo I snapped of a black lace bra draped on a pink cushion.
“Why not build off that?” he asks. “Or how about doing more on The Lingerie Devotee?” He pauses, tilting his head like he’s just realized the blog went the way of the dodo. “You only share photos there now. Why did you stop writing posts?”
I sigh with a pang of regret that’s chased by a full measure of annoyance. I study my toes while I think, then I meet his eyes, bracing myself to admit a truth I’m not proud of. “Because of Gage.”
He frowns like my answer doesn’t compute. “Seriously?”
I take another fueling sip of the pink concoction, owning my mistake, even if it made sense to me at the time. “Yes. At first, he thought it was fun. His girlfriend wrote about intimate undergarments, and all that. But when it started to take off, he was worried that my blog was too risqué for his conservative Wall Street world.”
My stomach churns with remembered embarrassment. On The Lingerie Devotee, I used to weave in tales of how the different items made me feel when I wore them out to dinner or even to the movies. That was too much for him. “Babe, I need you to cool the personal deets for a bit,” Gage had said. “When we go to John Fitzgerald’s home in Connecticut for dinner or to the Wentworths’ fundraising gala, I don’t want the partners looking at you and thinking about how you fill out a sheer nightie. That’s for me and only me to know. Can we keep it that way?”
Taking a sabbatical felt like one small thing I could do for him. I stopped writing and restricted myself to only posting pics of lingerie.
But since he’s no longer in the picture, perhaps I can bring the blog back for me.
“I do miss writing it,” I say, running my finger along the rim of the glass.
“Perform a resurrection, then. You don’t need to worry about what he has to say anymore.”
Rekindling the blog sounds like it’d be good for me, and potentially great for business. “True. And this is something I can do that Harriet’s can’t.”
“Let me know if I can help in any way.”
“I will. I promise you’ll be the first one I call on when the zipper from my bustier gets stuck on a tablecloth as I try on new items.”
An eyebrow lifts in question. “How did we get from the bustier to the table?”
I laugh, shrugging. “One of life’s many mysteries. Also, you’re a genius.”
I pop up from the stool, race around the counter, and throw my arms around him. He flinches for the barest of seconds, then wraps his arms around me, inhaling.
Let the record reflect that no one hugs better than this guy. His hugs are warm and comforting, maybe because he’s tall and broad, or maybe because he seems to put all of himself into the embrace.
When we separate, I sigh happily. “Have I told you how much I missed this when I was with him?”
“Missed what?” His voice is a little rough.
“You. Me. Hanging out like this. I wasn’t able to see you as much as I liked then.” I’m acknowledging aloud a truth we’re both aware of—we didn’t pal around as much when I was engaged.
“He didn’t like you hanging with me.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer it anyway.
“He never said as much, but whenever I was going to see you, he’d come up with something for us to do. In some ways, I can understand. It’s hard to accept that a man and woman can be such great friends. But you and I are, and I would be devastated if we weren’t, Tristan.” I haul him in for one more hug.
This man has been in my life since I started college, and we’ve seen each other through ups and downs over the years—the loss of his father then his mother, the loss of my grandma. We were meant to be friends, and we’ve only ever been friends.
That is, except for the night before winter break during our sophomore year of college, when he planted the most intense kiss I’d ever had on my lips. A kiss that made my toes curl, made my knees weak. One that haunted my late-night fantasies every single night over the holidays.
But then his father passed away during the break, and when he returned to school, he was understandably devastated. I’d sensed he needed my friendship more than a budding romance, and I offered that—my shoulder, my support. We reverted to the way we’d been before and never spoke of the kiss again.
Now, as we separate, the door swings open. Barrett takes his key from the lock, looks at Tristan, then at me, then back at his brother.