Red Thread Rebellion

I knew what was coming the second she opened the closet.

Noa stood there in nothing but her black lace panties, holding two dresses on wire hangers. The first one was the navy blue fitted number I’d picked out for her. Simple. Elegant. It would hug her curves without screaming for attention. The second was a pale pink thing I’d never seen before, something she must have bought without telling me. It looked two sizes too small.

“The blue one,” I said.

She smiled. That slow, knowing smile that meant she’d already decided.

“The pink one.”

“Noa, it’s barely a dress. It’s a handkerchief with straps.”

She dropped the blue dress on the bed and held the pink one against her body. The hem would land halfway up her thigh. Maybe higher. The fabric was thin, stretchy, the kind of material that showed every line and curve beneath it.

“I like it,” she said.

“You like the attention.”

She tilted her head, letting that chestnut hair fall over one eye. “Maybe I do. Is that a problem?”

It was. She knew it was. But saying it out loud would make me sound like a jealous boyfriend, the kind who clips wings instead of letting them fly. I’d learned the hard way that telling Noa what to do only made her dig in deeper. She wasn’t cruel about it. She just had this quiet stubbornness, a refusal to be managed.

“Wear the blue one,” I said. “Please.”

She turned and walked into the bathroom without answering. The door clicked shut.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my boots. We’d been together eighteen months. Eighteen months of learning her rhythms, her moods, the way she’d go distant when something bothered her and then come back warm, like nothing had happened. She worked at the bookstore on Harbor Street, surrounded by paper and silence, and I think she needed the nights out to balance it. To feel loud and seen and wanted.

I just didn’t want her to be wanted by everyone.

The bathroom door opened.

She stepped out and I forgot how to breathe.

The pink dress was worse than I’d imagined. It clung to her like it was painted on, riding high on her thighs, straining across her chest. The fabric was so thin I could see the outline of her nipples, dark and hard against the pale material. She’d taken off her bra. Of course she had.

“Noa.”

“What?”

“You’re not wearing a bra.”

She looked down at herself like she hadn’t noticed. “It doesn’t fit with the dress. The straps would show.”

“Then wear the blue one.”

She ignored me. She turned to the mirror and smoothed the dress over her hips, and that’s when I saw it. The red string peeking out from beneath the hem. A thin line of crimson against her pale skin.

“Is that the thong?”

She glanced back at me, eyes half-lidded. “The black one didn’t match.”

“Red doesn’t match pink either.”

“It’s a pop of color.”

I stood up. “Noa, that thong is basically dental floss. Everyone’s going to see it.”

“Then they’ll see it.” She shrugged. “It’s just underwear, Adrian. Everyone wears underwear.”

“Not like that they don’t.”

She turned to face me fully. The dress had ridden up in the front, and I could see the outline of the red fabric between her legs, a thin line that disappeared into the shadow of her body. Her breasts pushed against the neckline, soft and full, the fabric barely containing them. One wrong move and she’d spill out.

“I’m going out with the girls,” she said. “We’re getting drinks at The Rusty Anchor. That’s it. I’m not trying to start anything.”

“You’re not trying to stop anything either.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and sweet. She put her hand on my chest, over my heart.

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to.”

She kissed me. Soft, quick, a brush of lips that left me wanting more. Then she pulled back and grabbed her purse from the nightstand.

“I’ll be back by midnight.”

“Noa.”

She paused at the door.

“At least take a jacket.”

She laughed. That warm, easy laugh that always made me feel like I was being let in on a joke I didn’t quite understand. She grabbed my leather jacket from the hook by the door and slipped it on over the dress. It hung past her hips, covering everything.

“Better?” she asked.

“Better.”

She winked and was gone.

I stood in the empty apartment, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall. The door to the stairwell opened and closed. Then silence.

I walked to the window and watched her cross the street, my jacket swinging around her thighs. A group of guys on the corner turned to look. One of them whistled. She didn’t react. Just kept walking, head high, hair bouncing against her shoulders.

I wanted to trust her. I did. But trust wasn’t the problem. The problem was the world. The problem was every man who’d look at her and see something to take. The problem was the way she seemed to want them to look, even if she’d never admit it.

I grabbed my keys.

I told myself I was just going to get some air. That I’d walk down to the pier and clear my head. That I wasn’t following her.

But we both knew that was a lie.