Just for Buying You Clothes, Do You Have to Divorce Me? novel · Chapter 1 of 16
Chapter 1: Wireless Bras
My husband asked me if wireless bras were more comfortable.
We were having breakfast on the apartment terrace, with the Santo Domingo sea behind the balcony and a plate of cold mangú between us.
Rhadames was checking his phone with one hand and spreading butter with the other.
He said it without looking up, like someone asking what time it is.
"Hey, Massiel. Do you think wireless bras are more comfortable?"
I froze with my fork in the air.
I'd been complaining for weeks about the red marks the underwires left on my ribs.
I'd told him twice, once in the car and another time while I took off my bra in the dark, with a sigh of relief.
He'd never said a word about it.
And suddenly, on a random Tuesday, he asked.
I laughed.
I laughed for real, heartily, with my hands on my stomach.
"What's gotten into you?"
"Nothing, just curious."
"Rhadames."
"Seriously. I remembered what you said."
"You're actually listening to me."
"I always listen to you."
"That's new."
He smiled sideways, with that smile that had always opened every door for him.
"Maybe I'm maturing."
I took his hand across the table.
I thought: finally.
Five years of marriage, and finally a man who listened.
The next day, at eleven in the morning, I was in my second-floor office, reviewing the quarterly close for Pichardo y Lantigua Exports, when I heard a shout from reception.
I stepped into the hallway.
A motorcycle courier, with a helmet and yellow vest, was holding a pink box with a satin ribbon in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
In front of him, my husband's assistant, a petite twenty-six-year-old with a crooked ponytail, was staring at him wide-eyed.
"It's for Mr. Lantigua," the courier said.
"Give me that."
"He has to sign for it."
"I'll sign."
"You can't..."
She snatched the box out of his hands.
"Wrong address!" she shrieked. "It's a mistake. It's not for here. Take it back. I'll return it."
I walked over slowly.
"Is something wrong?"
The assistant turned white as a sheet.
"Nothing, Mrs. Massiel. A delivery error."
"Who's it for?"
"For... another client."
"What is it?"
"Clothing."
"Clothing?"
"For an event."
I looked at the box.
It was pale pink, with gold lettering.
"Encanto Íntimo. Fine Lingerie."
I lifted my gaze.
The assistant had sweat on her forehead and was clutching the box with both hands against her chest, like a baby.
"Oh," I said. "How thoughtful."
And I went back to my office without another word.
That night, my husband came home late.
"Meeting with the Germans," he said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek that smelled like a hotel.
He ate quickly and locked himself in the bedroom to watch a series.
I stayed in the living room, barefoot, with a glass of wine and my phone, scrolling through my feeds.
I like to do it before bed.
Memes, recipes, photos of my nieces and nephews.
I swiped.
A new post.
A blonde woman, with long nails and glossy lips, sitting on a white sofa.
Open silk robe, a big mirror behind her, an unmade bed, a window with a view of the Malecón.
On the table, next to a champagne glass, a pale pink box with a satin ribbon.
"Encanto Íntimo."
The caption read:
"My boyfriend just bought this for me. What do you think?"
It was Yenny Soriano.
The marketing manager at my company.
The one Rhadames had hired a year ago, because "the brand image needed fresh blood."
I stared at the photo for a long time.
The robe.
The mirror.
The box.
I wanted to feel something violent: a scream, a broken glass, a door slammed shut.
What I felt instead was a strange clarity.
Like when a number that doesn't add up suddenly does.
Men don't mature late.
They choose who to mature for.
I liked the post.
Calmly.
With my thumb.
I took a screenshot.
I opened the chat with my husband.
He was ten feet away from me, behind a wall, with his headphones on.
I typed:
"If you buy the full set, you get 20% off. Such a cheapskate."
I sent it.
I set the glass down on the table.
I called my best friend.
Milady answered on the second ring.
"What's up?"
"Get ready."
"For what?"
"For a divorce."
A half-second of silence.
Then a burst of laughter.
"On my way. Should I bring a calculator?"
"And paper and pen."
The bedroom door flew open.
Rhadames came out with his phone in his hand and his face contorted.
Barefoot, his shirt untucked, his hair a mess.
He stopped in the hallway, breathing hard.
"Massiel."
"Tell me."
"That's not what you think."
"What do I think?"
"It's a misunderstanding."
"Uh-huh."
"It's a purchase, nothing more. A piece of clothing." He ran his hands through his hair. "Nothing's going to happen, right? You're not going to do something crazy, are you?"
I looked at him.
I looked at him from my armchair, legs crossed, my wine glass already empty.
"Rhadames."
"Tell me."
"I'm going to ask you to repeat what you're asking me. Slowly."
He swallowed.
He opened his arms with a mix of indignation and helplessness.
"Just for buying her clothes, is it necessary to divorce me?"
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