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I pick up a silky, peach-colored number and rub the soft dress against my face. The dainty piece costs more money than I would have made in a week at Draper Peabody, and I can’t help but feel both spoiled and embarrassed to own such a fine garment. I grab a hanger and carefully slide it through the spaghetti straps.
I grab another top – a cashmere sweater. I told Tom that I didn’t need a sweater in July, but he’d ignored me, claiming that it complimented my eyes and that he couldn’t risk it being gone by the time autumn arrived.
I roll my eyes and smile at the same time. These guys do not know how to take no for an answer.
I set the sweater to a side and stare at the pile in front of me.
How to organize? I ponder. By style? By color?
“First style, then color,” I decide and begin the arduous tasks sorting through clothes.
At first, when Tom and Gabriel gave me my own bank account, I’d felt somewhat shy. I didn’t touch a penny, save for a few necessities. But when they realized I wasn’t using the money, the men decided instead to hire a personal stylist and have her pick out suitable outfits for me.
I shake my head at their insistence and giggle. Now, I have a closet fit for a queen, complete with ball gowns, designer duds, and even an ostrich-feather shawl. It’s incredible. I spot my old duffel bag sitting unobtrusively in one corner of the giant closet and giggle again.
It’s strange to think that I came here with a handful of t-shirts and some dresses.
But now, standing among the beautiful clothes and thinking about my situation, I feel genuinely happy. Yes, it can sometimes feel like I’m playing dress-up when I wear one of the elaborate evening gowns or an absurdly expensive pair of jeans. But I am happy, and the designer denim hugs my booty in a way my lovers appreciate.
I touch one of the delicate evening dresses tenderly. The body of the dress is a smooth, deep green and it’s covered with dozens of hand-stitched bead designs. I sigh lovingly as I stroke the fabric.
I still remember my first dress-up dinner with Tom and Gabe. I’d been nervous in my absurdly expensive ball-gown with both Tom and Gabriel dashing in tuxedos. The meal, too, was elaborate, consisting of multiple courses and several different kinds of wine to match each item. I was completely embarrassed by my lack of knowledge on formal dining etiquette, and that particular night, I had sat down at the table and stared at the line of forks, knives, and spoons placed before me. I’d heard the old adage to start from one end and work your way to the middle of the set with each course, but no one said anything about which spoons to use and when.
I cringe a little then smile as I recall the moment I’d picked up what was supposed to be a coffee spoon and used it for dessert.
Upon seeing Tom reach for a different utensil, I immediately felt stupid and clumsily dropped the offending tableware on the floor.
But it was in that moment that I’d learned just how sweet both brothers are.
“Hmmm,” Tom had said, “I don’t know why we can’t just use what spoon fits in our mouths. I hate the sorbet spoon,” he had held it up for me to see. “It’s so tiny, I feel like I’m going to crush it.”
Gabriel held up the tablespoon. “And this monster. How the heck is someone supposed to fit this in their mouth?”
I remember that I’d smiled from brother to brother, knowing exactly what they were doing – trying to make me feel better for my blunder.
And from then on out, they’d taken special care to educate me about all things etiquette, while also admitting their own aversion to some of the snobbery that went along with it. They are compassionate and kind, and I sigh with a smile.
I’m really lucky, I think as I carefully hang up the fancy green dress.
Then, there’s the telltale ping of an alert of my phone, and reach to check it. Maybe it’s one of the guys!
To my disappointment, the message isn’t from either brother, and I’m irked that I haven’t had a single text from either of them the entire day.
They could just be really busy, I reason. Stop being so clingy, Michelle.
I glance idly at the article that popped up on my phone. Then, I look back to the mess that is my closet.
Time for a break…
I plop down on one of plush white benches. Casually, I scroll through the usual parade of the latest trends, wealthy fashionistas, and annoying gossip tidbits.
But upon spotting an image at the bottom of the article, I drop my phone on the ground, my whole body suddenly turning icy cold.
