Chasing Crazy - Kelly Siskind Page 0,106

you know, have to ski down without…” Her pale gray eyes settle on my black 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 gonna happen? You think Shay’s bra-mmando 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. When Raven’s around, that’s often the safest course of action, especially considering 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 hundreds of undergarments, I knew what I had to do. It was instinctual. Visceral. My need to shed this bra and all it represents 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, cutout 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 frontrunner 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 one another. 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 had grown 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. Go-to bra or not, 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.”

Raven turns to him, her charcoal eyes likely squinting. “Rules? It’s an evergreen tree on a ski slope covered with a pile of colorful bras and tacky necklaces. She can launch it if she wants.”

He shakes his head and leans heavier on his elbows. “No way. Tradition is tradition. It’s gotta