The Panty Project

By Danielle Torella

Imagine if you would.
A nearly thirty year old woman-girl on her couch, wrapped in an over-sized comforter from her bed, the blanket over her head like a hood.
No makeup. Bad hair. Stained night shirt.
Next to her on said couch, numerous candy wrappers, a few slices of two day old pizza in a box, but will probably still get eaten, even though it might be beyond edible.
Oh, and let’s not forget about the four wine bottles on the coffee table in front of her, but no glasses, because she just drank them straight from the bottle.
Not a pretty picture huh? Well, I don’t feel pretty about it and why am I here like this now?
Shall I rewind for you? Okay, thought so.
Here is the story about how a girl (that’s me) and how I had the job and the guy of my dreams...
Or so I thought.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Danielle Torella
• Release date: Mar 22, 2018

Danielle Torella

Danielle lives in Western New York with her husband and two sons. Never knew she had a dream to become a writer until she started becoming obsessed with reading in the last two years. The obsession began with Twilight and then matured to Fifty Shades. While used to reading mainstream best sellers, found a new love for indie authors. She loves to do paintings related to the books she reads and eventually turning into Pushy Girl Paintings and now does work for other indie writers and readers. Her first book idea started from a dream she had one night and became obsessed with the story and started writing. Now having arguments with the people in her head and loving every moment of it, even when they take control of the story.

Book preview

The Panty Project

Copyright © 2018 by Danielle Torella

Cover Designer: Christy Dilg

Formatted by: JT Formatting

Smashwords Edition

ISBN:

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Private Series:

Private Message – Private Show – Private Affair

Stand Alone Novels:

About Time – Lily’s Law

Facebook: Author Danielle Torella (https://www.facebook.com/authordanielletorella/)

Instagram: @PushyGirl_DanielleTorella (https://www.instagram.com/PushyGirl_DanielleTorella/)

Twitter: @DanielleTorella (https://twitter.com/danielletorella)

Blog: danielletorella.wordpress.com

Art Page on Facebook: Pushy Girl Paintings (https://www.facebook.com/PushyGirlPaintings/)

***

Table of Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Mentionables

Imagine if you would.

A nearly thirty-year-old woman-girl on her couch, wrapped in an oversized comforter from her bed, the blanket over her head like a hood.

No makeup. Bad hair. Stained nightshirt.

Next to her on said couch are many candy wrappers and a few slices of two-day-old pizza in a box. It will probably still get eaten even though it might be beyond edible.

Oh, and let’s not forget about the four empty wine bottles on the coffee table in front of her. But no glasses because she just drank straight from the bottle.

Not a pretty picture, huh? Well, I don’t feel pretty about it, so why am I here like this now?

Shall I rewind for you? Okay, thought so.

Here is the story about how a girl (that’s me) who had the job and the guy of my dreams… Or so I thought.

***

I look up from my small but modest desk at my pristinely framed degrees on the wall in front of me. I have certainly worked my way from the bottom to get where I am today. Sure, my degrees are practically opposites, considering I started with one thing and ended up doing another.

I finished my first four years in my hometown of Rochester, New York, and then decided I needed to go to a big state university. A place where I could really get to where I needed to. Just getting a so-so job was not what I was looking for. I wanted something worth living for. I mean, hell, this is my livelihood, my life’s ambition, and what I will be doing for the rest of my days.

So I moved to Colorado. Why Colorado? I’m not even one-hundred percent sure why I picked to come here today. I think the idea of the big openness sounded good, but it wasn’t until I started school and began my internship that I realized I wouldn’t have a single moment to enjoy said openness. Regardless, that is where I got a couple of internships, again in two different things, and completed my masters. First, I worked day and night to pay for school and get my foot in the door of journalism. Those consisted of fieldwork and bussing tables at the local pub. It’s not easy to be taken seriously as a woman in the field. Heck, on the first day of my first internship, the guy wanted to assign me to makeup reviews and what shoes would perk up your backside. I wanted to report on real issues, not how to contour.

But did I really have an option? No, of course not. Because I was an intern, I had to just go with it. And what really bugged me? I wasn’t the one writing it! I had to sit and read the articles and edit them! My inner monologue read them like a fake and baked valley girl. My eyeballs hurt from all the eye-rolling I had done during the time I was there.

I vowed to myself that after I got my degree, I would never, under any circumstances, succumb to beauty reports, diet pills, or what’s on point, or fleek.

I was just starting my last semester, two months into the internship with a newspaper, when I started thinking about my own life or, rather, my lack thereof. This job took everything out of me, and I only focused on what was going on out there, but not what was happening with me now. I was the person who strived for her education and then my career. Plan for plan, step for step. But what made me happy at the end of the day? I wasn’t sure. I was beginning to dislike being told what to write about. So I got to thinking about how to be my own boss in a way.

I decided to start with a business course in hospitality and marketing. Then came the second internship. I worked with a smaller wedding planning firm under a woman who was an amazing mentor. She didn’t take anyone’s crap, and she was straight up honest with her clients. A real go-getter. I looked up to Regina.

Upon graduation with a masters in the arts and a minor in business, Regina offered me a position as her personal assistant. I was floored and obviously took her up on her offer. I couldn’t believe I would get paid to help her make people’s special events a beautiful experience.

Two years later, I have my own office and my own business card. I am Maeve Bentsen, event planner.

***

Maeve, I hear from my office door. When I peer around my computer screen, I find Alison, one of the office girls. Her chin-length brown bob bounces as she swings into my modest office space, holding an armful of design books.

Hey, Alis … I start, and I stop immediately as she fumbles to set them down on my desk.

Sorry! She tries to tidy her mess.

I grasp her tanned wrist to get her to stop freaking out about the little mishap. I know Alison enough to tell she has anxiety issues, and I want her to feel at ease at work. I mean, come on, we’re in the business of precise planning, and we want everyone to feel relaxed and taken care of. Just as you’d want a first date to be stress-free and go off without a hitch even though they never do. That’s why people hire me for their big events … because life is a series of unfortunate mishaps. You’re fine, Alison! Breathe, I tell her with a smile, and she takes a deep breath with me. I snap my fingers. Now, what’s got you in such a jumpy mood? Alison holds up her left hand. Oh, my goodness! Patrick proposed!

She hugs her hand to her chest and grins from ear to ear. Her eyes begin to water, and I rush over to give her a huge hug. Thank you, Maeve! Yes, he proposed last night at the ballgame on that big screen thing. She sways side to side, causing her knee-length yellow dress with white polka dots to fan out and move with her in the way a metronome would. She always out dresses everyone in the office. Looking down to evaluate my own fashion choices for the day, I mentally shrug with approval at my sleeveless navy blouse and white wide-leg trousers.

I’m nodding along with every word she is saying, and I’m also apparently biting my lips together. Her excitement starts to vanish, and I see that familiar wave of panic start to fester. I toss my hands and shoot my eyebrows up in the air, grabbing her by the shoulders. No, Alison, sorry, I was just thinking about this caterer I need to deal with.

You think the proposal was tacky, don’t you? she asks me with a fallen expression. If the proposal isn’t good, then that has to mean something, right? I mean, if he truly loves me, he would … She runs her fingers over her forehead, and her eyes start to shift from side to side rapidly.

Alison, that’s not what I was getting at, at all. Do you remember what happened in that book we read in book club a few months back?

She sighs and laughs. "Right, Love in the Outfield."

I just had déjà vu when you were telling me about your exciting news! And I swear it’s very exciting, and I’m over the moon excited for you and Patrick. The truth is, I feel for Alison. I do kind of think it’s tacky because well, for one, she’s not a sports fan. Two, she’s a private person, who probably felt anxious rather than excited when she saw herself up on the JumboTron. I am willing to bet good money that she felt out of place and stressed out during a very special life event. But I’m happy for her. My job is to assure people, for crying out loud.

Thank you. She smiles. Those are the color swatches and vendor information you asked for. She points at the disheveled pile on my desk.

Thank you. I softly smile. So did you guys set a date yet? I smirk and nudge her arm.

Well, I’d like to have it outside in the spring. Flowers and birds chirping, you know?

I nod. This spring? I ask stunned.

If I can get it all together in time, but there’s so much to be done … She fidgets with her thin red belt on her dress.

I can already see her mental list. You know a lot of the stress can be loaded on a maid of honor, I remind her. Don’t you have a sister?

She waves me off. Oh, Vanessa? No way, no how! That girl has enough issues without managing my wedding. She laughs.

A close girlfriend? I ask, and I hope she has someone because if she doesn’t, then I don’t know what the poor girl is going to do.

No one well enough who I could really trust to put it all together, you know? I mean, I have a couple of cousins … I can see the gears in her head start to twist and turn. Oh, no. Would you …? She starts to smile.

I take a deep breath and smile.

I mean, I know you are probably swamped with all your accounts and events, and I know spring is a very busy season for you. She hugs herself. I don’t know why I asked. That was silly of me … She taps her forehead, a stress-reducing method I had read about and then passed along to her … and a handful of other stressed-out clients.

I can’t say no to that face. Alison has worked here as long as I have. No, we haven’t really hung out or gotten close on a personal level, but I feel for the girl, and I do care about her and her happiness. I would be happy to.

She claps her hands together. Oh, my God! Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out or add anything else to your plate. I’m more than happy to pay your rate.

I know her salary, and to be honest, she couldn’t afford me, but I’m not going to tell her that. Well, to be fair, she could afford me; she just wouldn’t have a place to live or food to eat after paying me. Not at all. I am more than happy to lend a hand. I flip the page in my planner and count the weeks. That leaves us … Well, what month are you thinking?

Early May?

Two months. Okay! We have some work to do!

After work, I suggest to Alison that we should get together to set a plan. I’m confident we can get this wedding done in a timely manner and make it the most beautiful wedding anyone could hope for.

I pull up to the restaurant in my white Jetta, my baby, as I call her, because she was my first major purchase once I got this job. I could afford a BMW or something fancy like that, but I’m a tad more modest than that. I see people around here with fancy cars all the time, and I can’t help but crinkle my nose. Clones. Sheep, they all graze together in their fancy cars, with their fancy clothes, and their fancy watches and earrings. I like my cheap jewelry because if I lose a piece, I won’t feel like I just flushed a couple of grand down the toilet.

I was raised to be modest. I came from little—not that we were poor, but I never took anything for granted. Once you start not cherishing what you have or receive, then you have lost a little part of your humanity. People go without every day, and those same fancy people, with their fancy objects, throw so much away; things that someone like me growing up would have looked at with a sparkle in my eye and hugged it every night before bed. And food … God forbid you leave anything to waste in my house growing up. I’ve planned so many events for the fancy people, and they always want more food than they will eat and so much gets tossed into the trash. I’ve started working solely with caterers who donate the untouched leftovers to the soup kitchens.

I park my car and text Alison that I’m here. She’s right behind me and tells me to go ahead and grab a table. I reach the entrance of the casual eatery and ask for a table for two. The hostess smiles and asks, Husband joining you this evening?

Really? Um, no … I smooth out my top.

She re-assembles her smile and tips her head. Oh sorry, boyfriend?

I laugh awkwardly and cringe. Sorry, wrong again … I look behind me for any sign of Alison. Fidgeting with the hem of my top, I sigh in relief when I see her walking up to the door. I open the large wooden door for her, and she joins me at the hostess stand.

Hi, sorry, I got stuck behind a run of traffic, Alison informs me with please forgive me eyes.

I look at the hostess, thinking maybe now she gets it. Table for two, please, I repeat myself.

The hostess, who is wearing all black and has long straight red hair, nods and grabs two menus. With a turn of her heel, she says, You and your partner can follow me this way. She smiles.

Alison goes to speak—I assume to correct her—but I put my hand on her shoulder and shake my head. I wouldn’t bother.

She gives me a confused smile and nods. We take our seats on opposite sides of the booth. The hostess sets down our menus and informs us that our server will be over shortly. She gives me a little wink and skips off. I need a drink.

What was that all about? Alison asks.

Long story. Drink? I ask.

Alison nods eagerly, and the waitress takes our drink order. So … she starts.

So … I laugh. Like I said before, we aren’t close friends, but I suppose that’s going to change after this. I knew about her relationship with Patrick because we chatted during a small book club someone started in the office. I know we both like fun romance novels. So does Patrick know we’re planning this thing?

I called and told him, she affirms.

I open my menu, and I keep my eyes down when I ask, And he’s fine with doing everything so soon? I look up from my food choices. I find that both bride and groom need to be on the same page when dealing with a planner.

Her eyes are a little heavy, but she waves me off. He’s fine with it. Sure, he was shocked I wanted it to happen so soon, but he’s supportive of whatever we plan. I don’t know if she’s trying to convince herself or me.

Which means, we need to scare him. I twiddle my fingers and raise my eyebrow. I’ve always been a bit of a prankster growing up. My brother started it when we were young, and we always tried to outdo one another. As of now, I am reigning champion. My brother is eight minutes and forty-one seconds older than I am, and he never lets me forget that he’s the oldest, and I need to listen to him. Pfft. Yeah, right!

Alison chuckles. How do you mean?

Well, for starters, let’s find the most bogus-looking wedding setting picture we can find online and send it to him with the caption ‘THIS!’ on it.

She looks hesitant at first, but then I see her gaze change into a maniacal one. Okay! We both pull out our phones and start searching. Oh, my God! How about this one? She holds up her phone.

Impressive. It looks like Hubba Bubba threw up.

She shrugs. I was thinking wedding sponsored by Pepto-Bismol.

I start to smile. Yes … or Mr. Bubble blew up.

More like bust a nut! She spews out, and before I can cover my mouth, I spit out a little of my drink. I didn’t know she had that sort of humor in her. Way to go, Alison!

We laugh and drink as we go through some of the worst wedding photos we can find.

You must have had some crazy requests. She laughs as she takes a sip of her colorful drink. Just tell me honestly if anything I say is just awful. Deal? She holds her hand out to me.

Deal. But I offer my pinky finger. Pinky promise.

She takes her pinky and joins it with mine. Pinky promise.

"Now, let me show you some of the eclectic events I’ve done, but you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone."

She holds up her hand and tips her pinky finger back up and gives it a cute wiggle.

***

My loft. It’s modern meets rustic industrial. Weird combination, I know, but I just started collecting pieces, and I like what I like. If they go together, cool; if not, then that’s okay too. The floor is mostly concrete except for my bedroom, which is hardwood. The floor plan is wide open. I have most of my furniture up against the wall except for the couch, which is stuffed off to the side and not in the middle of the room. I don’t even have a dining area table like the space calls for. Nope. That spot’s wide open as well. Need to eat? There’s a breakfast bar or the couch.

I walk through the main room after entering my oversized wooden and steel door, which always slides closed with a clap of thunder. If any guy would have been here, I’d hate for him to try to escape in the late hours of the night because my door would yell HE WASN’T THAT INTERESTED. I’m so lame that I haven’t had a real boyfriend since leaving Rochester. When I got to Colorado, I just became engulfed in building my career. Well, check!

I love what I do, but it’d be nice to have someone to come home to. Someone who could deal with my hectic schedule. Maybe he would have one too. Wouldn’t that make our together time that much more romantic and appreciated? Sigh …

I’m not saying I need to find someone, but rather, it’s a want. I don’t need a man. You know feminism rule numero uno. But someone to tell me I have something on my nose. To sit at home with me to binge watch a TV series or movies. To fall asleep in one another’s arms. To be made to feel sexy when I normally wouldn’t, especially after that third or fourth slice of pizza.

That. That’s love.

I drop my bag on my sofa and plop my butt right next to it. I feel buzzed and stuffed. I shouldn’t have eaten that whole thing. I let my head rest back, and my eyes begin to close. Just when I reach nirvana and my eyelids touch … my phone rings. I don’t even jump; I just sigh. I’m used to clients calling me freaking out about some detail they just thought of or a change in head count. This happens at all hours of the day and night. I tell them they can contact me at any time. I mean, why not? It’s not like I have to worry about waking anyone up.

I look down at my phone and see it’s Alison. Her text reads, Thanks again. This means a lot. I can’t wait to do more planning. Night! I smile.

Too tired to reply, I raise my arms up to stretch and drop my phone on the sofa next to me. I slither out of my clothes and get ready for bed. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and remove my cheap earrings. I turn off the bathroom light as I walk through the doorway to my master. I take off my bra and scratch my sides where the band was all day. Ah, that feels good. I grab a loose-fitting tank top and slip it over my head. I rustle my hair and itch my scalp. There is nothing better than a good scalp scratch and massage.

I toss the decorative bed pillows to the floor and pull back my covers. Slinking into my periwinkle sheets, I breathe in the lavender scent from my fabric softener. I turn off my bedside light and roll over. Reaching over to the left side of my queen-size bed, I rub the empty space. My heart thuds hard once, and I let my heavy eyes close.

Good night. To no one.

I wake up with a headache. Well, duh, Maeve, what’d you expect? Well, at least it’s a Saturday, and I can work on stuff at my own pace. This weekend, I don’t have to be at any venues, so this is a treat for me. A typical Saturday for me would go something like this:

1. Wake up early and caffeinate.

2. Dress to impress.

3. Caffeinate again.

4. Beat a bride or client to said important venue and event.

5. Calm client, assure client.

6. Stay all day to make sure everything runs smoothly, all while staying hidden.

7. Get home late and pass out.

8. Wake and repeat on Sunday.

9. Office on Monday.

This morning, I’m thinking breakfast for once. I decide to dress casually, which only happens on a blue moon, considering I am dressed to the nines every other day. I shower, scrunch my hair, and let my naturally wavy blond hair go its own way as it air-dries. Mascara and matte lipstick. I decide on my blue and white plaid dress and denim jacket. I even forgo my heels for my tennis shoes.

I hop in my Jetta and drive to my favorite little diner. They have red and white tablecloths, old worn chairs, and mismatched plates and silverware. And if you don’t remember your childhood while drinking from a big red plastic faded cup with an even more faded soda company logo, then I feel bad for you.

Growing up in the country area of New York State, a lot of the restaurants were small and family owned. We would do breakfast, lunch, or dinner at least once a week. And every one of those restaurants had the red cups. One of my best friends growing up had them at her house too. I would go over there, and we’d make our own crazy Kool-Aid creations and fill our red cups with the sugary drink and go nuts outside. One afternoon, we thought it’d be a great idea to hold our own yard sale. Now, mind you, her house was out on a country road a couple of towns over. Not the best of towns, but we didn’t care. So we collected random stuff from her house that no one really used and old toys, and we brought them outside by the road. We worked on a sign and waited for cars to stop. Like I said, country road. Not many cars came, and the ones that did just sped by. We felt disappointed, and I could really see it on my friend’s face, and that killed me. So the crazy kid I was… stepped out into the road. I saw a truck coming, and I started waving my arms and jumping up and down. The truck slowed, but I didn’t move. The guy stopped, and I asked if he wanted to see our yard sale. Looking back, I know this was a dumb move. He was a middle-aged gentleman, or I hoped he was a gentleman at that point. Thankfully, he politely said no thank you and left. My heart was pounding. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. That put a scare in me to always plan ahead and look out for danger. We packed everything up and put it all back before any of the adults saw anything. We went back to the red cups.

I open the door with the greeting of bells over the door and the comforting aroma of bacon, butter, and pancakes. The sign reads as always to seat yourself, and I keep my fingers crossed that my favorite table is open. It’s a table for two, technically, but it’s in front of a large window, so I can watch people as they walk down the street, enjoying the beautiful morning.

I make a beeline for the table when I see an older couple standing to leave. I smile as I go to take one of the seats, and the older woman smiles. "Good morning, young lady.