Page 70 of The Love Haters

“So am I your pet project or something?” I asked.

“Is that so terrible?”

“No,” I said. “It’s nice, actually.”

“Good,” Rue said. “Now go get changed.”

Next thing I knew, we were contemplating my reflection in the mirror as I adjusted to the exposure, and the temperature shift, and the feel of the bare floorboards under my feet.

Every time you have to be brave, you get to be a little braver next time.

The suits, without question, were fabulous. Any past chromophobia of Rue’s was fully conquered. She brought me one-pieces with vibrant stripes and plunging necklines, and two-pieces bursting with tropical flowers, and one hot-pink bikini with petal-shaped ruffles.

I got it. I could appreciate them.

But not one of those suits was in any way appropriate for SWET training.

Hence, the morning-of panic.

I finally just gave up and left the cottage wearing my usual black jeans.

When I showed up at the car, Hutch called through the window, “You’ve got a suit with you, right?”

“A bathing suit?” I asked, like I’d missed his message.

Hutch frowned. “Yes. A bathing suit.”

Of course I did. “But isn’t it to simulate a crash?”

“Yes,” Hutch replied cautiously.

“Well,” I said, looking down at my clothes. “This is what I’d be wearing in a crash.”

“We’re not simulating it that much.”

I felt like I was making a pretty good argument. I looked down at my outfit again.

Hutch didn’t wait for another protest. “You need a suit. Go change.”

I shot him a look like a cranky teenager but then turned back toward my cottage.

“And not one of those flowery ones!” Hutch called after me. “This isn’t the yacht club! Be professional!”

“Flowery ones are all I have!” I called back.

But that wasn’t entirely true. Rue had recently gifted me an all-black one-piece that she’d special-ordered.

“Fabulous,” she’d declared, after I put it on. Then she nodded approvingly. “It’s endlessly flattering. Even if it looks like a bathing suit for a funeral.”

“Do they make bathing suits for funerals?”

I’d squinted into the mirror as we both took in the visuals, but I found myself quietly agreeing with her. Whatever mathematics or geometry or optical illusions were going on… I approved.

It was a massive life milestone. To see myself in a bathing suit in a mirror and not all-out wince was unprecedented. But there was no getting around it. This suit was flattering.

Flattering, but racy.

It was a gathered halter top that connected to the body of the suit like two curtains falling from my shoulders. And let’s just say that everything I had going on in the chest area was nestled into those curtains, and something about the way the fabric arranged itself was somehow both perfectly modest and wildly lascivious at the same time. You know those ads inVogue, where the models’ clothes are totally legit and classy—and yet somehow mind-bendingly salacious all at once?

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