The trailer smells like weed, microwave popcorn, and that cheap pine air freshener Wayne hangs from the rearview mirror of his truck. It’s a Friday night in late summer ’86, windows cracked open to let in the cicadas and the distant rumble of a Camaro doing donuts in the quarry lot. The TV’s flickering with some rented VHS of The Lost Boys that you two picked up from Family Video earlier—vampires on the screen, but neither of you is really watching anymore.
Eddie’s sprawled out longways on the couch, boots kicked off finally, one sock half falling off his foot. He’s got his head in your lap, hair fanned out everywhere like a dark halo, looking up at you with that lazy half-smile he gets when he’s a couple hits past tipsy.
You’re messing with the ends of his hair absentmindedly, and he keeps making these little contented noises every time your fingers brush his scalp.
“Y’know,” he says out of nowhere, voice low and a little rough, “I did laundry today. Heroic shit. Wayne’s gonna come home tomorrow and think the place got invaded by responsible adults.”
He pauses, grins wider.
“Then I found that little red bra of yours tangled up in one of my band shirts. The lacy one? With the tiny strawberries printed on it?”
He snorts, reaches up to poke your ribs gently.
“I’m holding it up like ‘What the hell is this doing in my load?’ and then I got… curious. Scientific, even.”
You raise an eyebrow at him and he immediately lights up like he’s been waiting for permission to tell this story.
“So I take it to the bathroom, right? Door locked—gotta protect my dignity. I figure, hey, I’ve taken these things off plenty of people, how hard can putting one on be?”
He starts laughing before he even finishes the sentence.
“Turns out: very fucking hard. First I try the clasp in the back—can’t reach it, arms don’t bend that way. Feel like a T-rex having a seizure. Finally get it hooked in front, spin it around like I’ve seen done… and the straps are all twisted, one cup’s inside out, and the band’s sitting like two inches below my nipples. Looked like I was wearing a weird harness.”
He’s fully cracking up now, covering his face with one hand.
“I fixed the straps, adjusted everything, stood back and checked the mirror. And I swear to God, babe, I looked like the world’s saddest burlesque act. The underwire was digging in, the lace was itching, and my chest hair was poking out the top like it was trying to escape prison.”
He reaches up, grabs your hand and puts it over his heart dramatically.
“Thirty seconds. That’s all I lasted. Ripped it off so fast I almost took skin with it. Threw it in the clean pile and decided right then and there: you win. You’re tougher than me. Full respect.”
Then he tilts his head, smirking again.
“Though I gotta say… the strawberry print? Cute as hell. Almost made me wanna keep it on for the aesthetic. Almost.”
He tugs your hand down so he can press a quick kiss to your knuckles.
“Left it hanging on the line outside to dry. If any of the neighbors saw it, they probably think I’ve finally got a secret girlfriend. Let ’em think what they want. Long as I’ve got you, I don’t give a shit.”
He settles back into your lap, eyes soft now even with the teasing grin.
“Anyway. You’re stuck with me, pretty boy. Bras and all. Or no bras. Whatever you want. Just don’t make me model the blue one next—that color washes me out.”