Lace Bodysuit
Sloane
There’s something sacred about the early-morning silence in my kitchen.
It smells like freshly ground coffee, lemony cleaning spray, and the kind of steady, comforting routine I’ve always associated with my parents.
Or… that’s how it used to feel.
This morning, something is off.
I watch my mom from across the marble island.
She’s wearing her usual champagne-colored silk robe, but instead of her double espresso, she’s holding a steaming mug of herbal tea.
Her hair is loose around her shoulders, her expression soft—almost dreamy—as she watches the swirl of steam rise from her cup.
There’s sweetness in her face that doesn’t match the tension humming in the air these past few weeks.
And there’s tiredness. So much tiredness.
“Mom?” I ask, setting my own mug down.
She lifts her head as if I’ve snapped her out of a trance. She smiles—warm, but edged with something careful and unfamiliar.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I was just thinking about Thanksgiving,” I say, spreading marmalade onto my toast while trying to read her expression.
“Is Dad taking the morning flight, or will he get here the night before? I wanted to make that pumpkin pie he loves. And I’m organizing the decorations for our annual party at The Snowed Inn… ”
Her hand freezes mid-air.
She sets her cup down with absurd delicacy, like she’s afraid the slightest movement might break something.
“Oh, Sloane…”
She sighs and adjusts the robe at her waist, smoothing the silk in a distracted, anxious gesture.
“Your father won’t be here for Thanksgiving. He can’t get away… you know how busy he is.”
The disappointment hits low and sharp.
But confusion hits harder.
“What do you mean he won’t be here?” My brows knit. “Mom, he told me himself he wanted to slow down. He said he planned to leave the club at the end of the season so he could spend more time with us. He seemed so sure.”
My mother looks down, worrying her bottom lip. She chooses her words like she’s tiptoeing through a minefield.
“He wants that, sweetheart. More than anything,” she says with surprising intensity. “But… big changes take time. And that’s why he has to finish things the right way. He needs to make sure… that we’re prepared for the future. He can’t walk away overnight.”
I stare at my toast.
Prepared for the future.
It sounds like a line.
Like the kind of excuse parents give a child right before announcing they’re separating and need to “figure things out financially” first.
My heart stutters.
I’ve seen them whispering in hallways.
I’ve seen Dad looking at her with worry before leaving for away games.
I’ve seen her like this—tired, distant, drinking tea instead of coffee.
What if this “future” she’s talking about doesn’t include the three of us together?
“Mom,” I say, my voice a little shaky, “are you and Dad… okay?”
Her eyes widen.
“What? Of course!” She leans across the counter and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Sloane, your father and I love each other more than anything. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”
Her eyes shimmer for a moment—raw, emotional, fragile.
“We’re just…” She hesitates, then brushes a hand against my cheek. “We’re just going through a delicate moment. We want to be sure about a few things before we make changes. But we’re fine. Truly.”
Do I believe her? I want to.
But the unspoken weight in the room sits heavy on my chest.
She sighs, sinks back into her chair, and takes a sip of her tea.
“Enough serious talk. I need a distraction. I’ve had a nause— a headache, an awful one, all morning.”
We fall quiet.
I try to shove away catastrophic thoughts.
Sloane, breathe. They said everything’s fine.
Needing something—anything—to shift my brain out of panic mode, I grab my tablet. I need frivolity. Chaos. Gossip. Something that doesn’t involve the emotional stability of my family.
I open the local press roundup from the Elm Hollow Gazette.
I was hoping for an apple pie recipe.
Instead, the universe bitch-slaps me across the face.
Coffee goes down the wrong pipe.
I choke violently.
“Sloane? Are you okay?” Mom stands quickly, alarmed—then curious once she realizes I’m not dying. “What happened? Did they cancel the pumpkin fair?”
I can’t speak.
I turn the screen toward her with a trembling finger.
The headline takes up half the page.
#ElmHollowSpotted
The Elm Hollow Gazette
?? Front Page Headline
“Weather Alert: Unseasonal Heatwave on Main Street”
brEAKING NEWS: The Testosterone Five spotted among lace and satin
My mother reads.
Then she sees the photo.
Then she looks at me.
And the melancholy mystery from five minutes ago evaporates—replaced by a wicked sparkle I know far too well.
“Oh,” she murmurs, lips curving. “Interesting shopping choice for your… ‘client.’”
“It’s a disaster!” I explode, snatching the tablet back. “What the hell is he doing? He’s supposed to be in image rehab! He’s supposed to keep a low profile! Not go lingerie shopping with the ‘Elm Hollow Beefcake Brigade’ like he’s in some kind of movie!”
My mother giggles softly.
She refills her tea without taking her eyes off me.
“Well, sweetheart, I admit that ‘easy to take off’ isn’t exactly monk-adjacent behavior. But you have to admit—he has good taste. That bodysuit is gorgeous.”
“That’s not the point!”
Heat rushes up my neck.
“The point is he’s ruining the strategy! And—”
My voice sharpens.
“And who is it for? Huh? Who the hell is he buying it for?”
That comes out more venomous than intended.
Mom rests her chin on her hand, studying me like I’m her favorite soap opera.
“Yes… who could it possibly be for?” she muses. “Maybe for a certain matchmaker who was watching him play the other day like she wanted to leap over the railing and tackle him?”
“MOM!”
My face ignites. “I was watching the game! I was focused on sports performance!”
“Of course. And I don’t match couples for a living.”
She lets out a crystal-clear laugh that wipes the gloom right off her.
“Sloane, sweetheart, that vein in your neck popped every time someone said something snarky about him. And when he scored? I thought you were going to faint. And now you’re here, red as a tomato, furious because he’s buying sexy lingerie.”
She leans in, dropping her voice conspiratorially.
“You’re jealous.”
“I am NOT jealous!” I nearly shout, springing to my feet. “I am professionally outraged. That’s different!”
“Sweetheart, professional outrage does not usually include wanting to strangle a man with your bare hands… or tear the lingerie off him with your teeth.”
“MOM!”
She raises her palms in surrender, still laughing.
“I’m just saying that bodysuit would look stunning on you. And something tells me he knows it.”
I grab my bag, sensing the battle is lost on all fronts.
“I need to go. I need to… yell at someone. And that someone has a first name, a last name, and a bag full of lingerie that I sincerely hope is for his grandmother.”
Mom blows me a kiss as I storm toward the door.
“Have fun, sweetheart! And if he gives it to you—pretend to be offended before you accept it!”
I slam the front door behind me, ears ringing, heart pounding.
I am not jealous.
Absolutely not.
But I am going to find out who that damn lingerie is for—even if it kills me.