My Perfect Mistake (Over the Top Book 1)

By: Kelly Siskind

One





Shay


You can tell a lot about a woman by the type of bra she wears. For instance, the silky black number clutched in my hand as I swing my skis on the chairlift, the one that makes my girls look some kind of wonderful, this one says: classy, yet conservative.

“How far is it?” Lily asks, her white-blond hair almost camouflaged by the wisps of snow collecting on her lilac jacket.

March in Aspen and the snow is heavier than in midwinter, the evergreens lining the runs sagging under pillows of the white stuff. With each blink, the frosted tips of my eyelashes brush my cheeks. “It’s closer to the end of the lift. Trust me, you can’t miss it.”

“You sure this is a good idea? We could come back tomorrow, and you could wear a different bra and carry this one so you don’t, you know, have to ski down without…” Her pale gray eyes settle on my jacket, about midchest. The area housing my braless boobs.

Raven leans forward, her elbows resting on the safety bar, and she nudges Lily’s side. “What do you think’s going to happen? You think Shay’s bra-mando boobs will get caught under her skis and send her hurtling down the mountain?”

The snowboarder at the end of our four-pack chairlift snorts to himself while Lily sinks against the back of our seat, reverting to her quiet-as-a-mouse routine. Grown men have cowered in the face of Raven’s snark, but Lily’s backbone is lodged somewhere below her tailbone.

I lick the snowflakes from my lips, knowing it’s now or never. When we passed the bra tree on our last ride up the chairlift, its branches weighted down with lingerie, I knew what I had to do. It was instinctual. Visceral. My need to shed this bra and all it represented couldn’t wait another second. One run and a quick trip to the washroom later, we got in line for this fateful ride. “Thanks for the concern, Lil, but I’m pretty sure my skiing ability won’t be affected by my lack of undergarments. The bra tree will be getting another ornament.”

“You really want to go through with it, though?” she asks as Snowboarder Dude cranes his neck to check out the black silk gripped in my gloved hand. “I mean, it’s the bra.”

She’s right. It’s not every day a girl comes across the perfect balance of lift and shape, cleavage and support, no extra skin pushing out the sides or back. Since its purchase, this has been my go-to bra. I wore it the day Richard passed the bar. I bought a new red dress, slinky and clingy in all the right places, but Richard did his usual, “Put on the black one I bought for you last month. The one with the lacy sleeves. I like how it slims your hips.” I followed his backhanded compliment with my usual, “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

When it came to Richard, my backbone slipped even lower than Lily’s.

I tip my skis back and forth, remembering another “slimming” dress he picked out for me—a beaded black cut-out number—that I wore over this bra to celebrate Richard’s new job working for one of the top law firms in Toronto. It was the same day I was offered a promotion. The design firm I’d apprenticed at was closing shop to focus on their Montreal location, and I was asked to come along and help establish them as the front-runner of Canadian design. That night I wore my conservative bra under my doesn’t-make-my-hips-look-huge dress, agreeing with Richard as he spouted off all the reasons I needed to stay in Toronto to support him and his career.

My spine pretty much disintegrated.

But my favorite event, the moment that inspired this reality, this moment of truth, was the evening I donned the bra and a black dress expecting a proposal from Richard. After stumbling across an expensive Tiffany’s bill, I just knew. That was it. We were going to take that next step as partners—spouses in support of each other. His promises would be realized, and I’d finally quit my soul-sucking job designing retirement homes and stretch my wings. With his blessing, of course. What I got instead was: I think we’ve grown apart.

More to the point, his dick grew toward Deena Wanger.

For five years, I put him first. His wants. His needs. I wasn’t even second. A distant third, maybe. I dressed how he wanted, kept our apartment how he liked. The man had me on regular juice cleanses, for Christ’s sake. The brazen, confident girl who grew up in a small town got swallowed by the city. And Richard.

Such an appropriate name, really. Even from birth, his parents knew he’d be a Dick.

I huff out a breath, sending a cloud of vapor curling through the cool air. “Oh, I’m sure. This forever-tainted piece of lingerie will adorn that bra tree. It will be the crowning jewel.”

“You can’t just chuck that,” Snowboard Dude says, his mouth the only thing visible under his massive goggles and helmet. “There are rules.”

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