Page 25 of Unbound
"Just the past week or so, he recognized me in one of our classes."
Rebecca nodded slowly. "Just be careful, okay? Sometimes people like that—people with very different worldviews—they can be... persuasive. In ways that aren't always healthy."
My throat felt dry. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Just... promise me you won't let him shake your faith? You've worked so hard to stay strong."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. But as I buried my face in my textbook, all I could think about was the look on Adrian's face when Rebecca mentioned our engagement, and the wrapped package now resting in my bag.
And the uncomfortable realization that I felt more guilt about that revelation than I did about any of Adrian's questions about my faith.
I took a sip of my coffee, trying to ground myself in something familiar and safe. The bitter, burnt taste hit my tongue, and I grimaced involuntarily. It was awful—harsh and metallic, like drinking liquid disappointment.
Radioactive,I thought, and immediately heard Adrian's voice in my head from that first morning:The coffee here is radioactive.
He'd been right. Of course he'd been right. About the coffee, anyway.
I stared down at the cup, wondering what else he might be right about that I'd been too stubborn—or too afraid—to see.
The box sat on my kitchen counter for two hours after I got home.
I circled it like a wild animal, making tea I didn't drink, organizing textbooks that didn't need organizing, checking my phone for messages that hadn't arrived.
It was just a box.
I should open it.
I absolutely should not open it.
I opened it.
The navy wrapping paper tore easily, revealing a plain white box beneath. No branding. No labels. Just a cream-coloured card on top with my name written in confident, slanting handwriting.
Life's too short for boring underwear. Consider this an educational expense. Constitutional law requires proper foundation garments. –A
My face went nuclear.
He didn't.
He wouldn't.
I lifted the card with shaking hands.
He absolutely did.
Four individual boxes, each one containing a pair of men's underwear that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I could tell they were expensive from the packaging alone—matte black boxes with silver lettering. Claude & Stone. The kind of brand I'd seen in magazine advertisements and assumed only existed for people with personal shoppers.
Not white cotton briefs in plastic six-packs from Target.
Charcoal grey. Black. Navy. Burgundy.
I lifted the grey pair out of its box, the fabric sliding through my fingers like water. Modal blend, the label said. Machine wash cold. As if I'd ever actually wash them, as if I'd keep them long enough to wash them.
As if I wasn't already imagining what they'd feel like.
They were beautiful in a way underwear had no right to be. Sleek lines, modern cut, the kind of thing that would actually fit instead of hanging loose or riding up or doing any of the other things my current underwear did.
The kind of thing someone chose for themselves.
