Maybe he knows our chance at something real was back then when neither of us knew better.
“And I do love you,” I tell him.
I hear him breathing.
I can see his face behind my eyelids, his furious, stubborn, blue-eyed face. I can see his nostrils flaring as he breathes hard, frustrated at my words, emotional and in pain.
“That’s why I gotta let you go now,” I let out in half a whisper. “That’s why I gotta snip the thread.”
“Lance. You’re makin’ a mistake.”
“I love you. Goodbye.”
“Goddamn it, Lance.”
I hang up the phone and set it on my chest. Each time he calls back, it’s a soft, desperate vibration against my heart that I ignore.
21
A Spinning Spool of Dreams
I stand in the wings, waiting.
It’s been a hell of an early morning.
I’ve spent half of it waiting. I spent the other half sweating my ass off as I rushed around backstage making sure my models were ready, dressed, every strand of hair in place, and their garments perfect down to the stitch. Four hours of waiting and panicking.
And now I’m out of things to panic over. So I wait again.
It’s almost 10:00 AM. The show will begin very shortly.
“Are you sure you don’t want—?” one of the assistants asks me, a hand to her headset and concern in her big brown eyes.
I nod curtly for an answer, unintentionally cutting her off. She gives me a wince of apology, then walks off to check on one of the other designers, who are all just as irritable, sleep-deprived, and trying not to crap their pants. Bless her; that assistant has so much patience to deal with the uptight lot of us.
From my vantage, I can see a sliver of the audience out front, sandwiching the runway. Several of them are seated. Some are still mingling and meandering between the aisles, chatting with their friends, complimenting each other’s designer purses, shoes, and diamond bangles.
Designer purses, shoes, and diamond bangles.
Tightened smiles, turning stomachs, and clout.
Botox, collagen, and side-eye.
This is my world. This is where I belong. This is what I signed up for when I first entered fashion school, after having impressed a face or three with my submissions. “Some country kid from a rinky-dink Texas town designed these? Spruce? Never heard of it.” I remember those words, which I overheard in the hallway outside the studio as I waited anxiously to be called in for a formal interview.
I wonder sometimes, had I not left Spruce, if my mom and dad would still be there. They left after I graduated because there was nothing there for them anymore, and my mom missed her brother and family, who lived in Lake Charles, Louisiana. My dad was able to transfer offices easily, and it was like they were never there.
I wonder what happened to my old house. Maybe some other kind, sweet family moved in. Maybe some other lost, lonely kid is in my childhood bedroom right now. I never thought to visit it during my short time in Spruce, weeks ago.
I wonder a lot of things, I guess.
“The show is going to be underway soon, and we need—”
“I know,” I say, cutting the assistant off yet again. This time, it’s me who offers the wince of apology. “Thanks for the heads up,” I then sweetly add.
She gives me an understanding nod, smiles, then is on her way to find the other designers.
Seriously. The most patient backstage assistant, ever.
I find myself in the audience with my peers. Ms. Andrews is the one presenting our work, shown in one continuous show of all of our pieces. So all we need to do is sit in the crowd, look pretty, and suffer while we observe the faces of all the onlookers judging our work, piece by grueling piece.
One day, I could be up on that runway, introducing my own collection.
Ten years has gotten me this far.
Where will I be in another ten?
“I hope you’re ready,” mutters Amelia, a fellow designer, at my side. “Did you see who’s here? You know, everything rests on what they think of our collections. If we don’t impress them today, then we might as well quit right now and head home.”
I don’t share Amelia’s sense of urgency, but I give her a nod of understanding anyway. “I hope we all find some success today.”
“Some? No.” Amelia finds that hilarious suddenly, letting out a staccato laugh that’s not unlike tapping the side of a champagne glass to get a room’s attention. “No, no, no, no, no. You either earn all your success today, or you’re forgotten. This opportunity only comes once for artists like us. It is the greatest—and only—chance we’ll get to show our work in front of the industry’s best. Didn’t you hear that whole thing Ms. Andrews said when she announced Carly was dropping? And how ungrateful poor Carly was to have—Oh, right. You weren’t there when it happened.” She casts me a sour look I think is supposed to appear apologetic. “Sorry.”