And not only did he buy me one pair, he bought me three in all different sizes.
This guy is the strangest mix of cliché and unpredictable that I’ve ever met, and he has me constantly guessing which version of him is the real one.
The box smells a little like him, like maybe it was sitting in his apartment for a few days before he wrapped it and sent it over.
I’m not going to lie, my heart flutters more than I want to admit. This is thoughtful as hell and as random as it may seem to an outsider looking in, it’s not. He’s given me shit about my sweatpants ever since the first time I saw him off the airplane, and him not only remembering, but also picking something he knows I’ll be comfortable in, as much as he compliments when I show off my body, makes me feel…understood.
The crush I lied to my dad about earlier seems more and more unmistakable.
But just as bad of an idea.
There’s nothing that can come from this situation other than me eventually getting my feelings hurt, but I decide just for today, I’ll ignore that reminder and bask in Zanders’ thoughtful gift.
The material feels like straight-up butter as it glides over my thick thighs. And I shaved my legs this morning. Well, my lower legs because I’m too lazy to do the whole thing, so the soft fabric feels extra lovely and creamy.
I didn’t know you could feel bougie while wearing loungewear, but here I am, feeling bougie as hell.
Although he got me different sizes, I can make all three pairs work, so the other two get their own shelf in my closet, and Zanders’ note gets its own spot in the top drawer of my dresser where my brother won’t find it.
Ryan is protective as it is, but if he finds out that I slept with someone with Zanders’ reputation, he’ll be beyond disappointed.
“Who was it from?” my dad asks as I shuffle to the kitchen table wearing my brand-new fancy pants.
My eyes dart to Ryan, who seems just as curious.
“Uhh…a Christmas gift from someone I work with.”
Not a lie.
“That’s awesome, Vee. I’m so glad you’re making friends here.”
Yeah, that’s one way to describe Zanders.
Taking a seat at the dining room table, I fill my plate with a little bit of everything until you can barely see the white porcelain underneath all my food. Ryan and my dad pop up from their seats to grab themselves fresh beers, and my mother uses it as a prime opportunity.
“That’s an awful lot of food, Stevie. There’s so much added salt.” Her voice is hushed, quiet enough that my brother and dad can’t hear. As I mentioned before, Ryan is protective but rarely recognizes that the person I need protection from the most is our own mother.
As soon as my brother and dad come within hearing distance, her faux innocence is back as she brings her cloth napkin to her mouth, dabbing the corners of her perfectly lined lips.
“I’m glad you guys could all make it to the game.” Ryan takes a seat, clearly out of the loop to my mother’s antics, before putting a fresh beer in front of me. As soon as the glass touches the table, I grab it and chug half of it without taking a breath.
“Me too, Ryan. We are so proud of you.”
The beer is thick as it runs down my throat, but it’s my mother’s words that almost cause me to choke. Could it be any more obvious who her favorite child is? I swallow the cold liquid, but I do so with an exaggerated eye roll.
“Do you have something you want to say, Stevie?” My mother places her hands in her lap, cocking her head while looking at me, testing me to speak up.
Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas. Don’t ruin Christmas.
“Nope.” Pushing my food around my plate with my chopsticks, I keep my focus away from the judgmental woman sitting across the table from me.
“Do you not think we’re proud of you?”
Well, that sincere question is a little shocking. My eyes dart across to my mom’s blue-green ones, expecting her to keep surprising me by telling me she is proud of me.
“We are so proud of you, Vee,” my dad cuts in, but I already know he feels that way. I want to hear my mother say it.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, which sounds a lot more like a disagreeing hum than an agreeable one.
Dinner continues, and I stay quiet. Anything I want to talk about—the shelter or the funky little thrift store I stumbled upon last week, are all going to be met with my mother’s disapproval, and I don’t want her to taint the things I love. She can hate on my body or my job that I’m not all that passionate about, but the things that bring real joy to my life, I don’t want her to touch those.