“There are some lessons in life that people have to not just learn the hard way, but particularly learn for themselves,” I remark as I finish pinning her other side. I get out a cloth tape measure to make note of her sizes. It’s a way to double check my work before making any permanent changes to the gown.
After she finishes the champagne and shifts slightly to set it to the side, I can feel her studying me out of the corner of her eye. “Sorry,” she breathes. “I feel like I’m dumping all my problems on you. I guess they’ve just been building up for a while now.”
“I asked about them,” I assure her. “Nothing you’ve said has been too much or unwelcome.”
There’s a comfortable silence before Wren gently adds, “You said you knew what I meant.”
It’s my turn to sigh then. “Yeah, well… My father, he’s what they call a ‘man’s man’. He doesn’t like anything resembling being feminine. My entire childhood, I found my peace and my home here in this shop. I worked alongside my mother and grandmother, learning the different kinds of fabrics, stitches, techniques— you name it. They taught me everything I know.” I clear my throat, measuring her shoulders. It’s not a needed measurement since it’s an off-the-shoulder dress, but I’m trying to buy myself time. “To put it lightly, he was disappointed when I chose to be a dressmaker and tailor; though my mother called me a seamster to be more encompassing. He said it was a woman’s career. I told him I was comfortable enough in my identity to do what I’m passionate about without being insecure. It caused us to be at an impasse and after so many heated words, I cut ties with him. Went so far as to change my last name to my mother’s maiden name. Efron.”
“He sounds about as enjoyable as my mother,” she muses. “Maybe we should set them up on a date.”
I laugh and actually despise picturing such a thing. I hoped it would only ever live in my imagination to see my father find someone just as toxic as him. How absolutely awful they would be. It’s only comical to think about because I know he’s completely out of my life. “God, please don’t,” I reply finally.
I finish her measurements, but I’m not ready for her to leave. I start redoing them and try to act as casually as I can. I hope she doesn’t notice, or just assume I’m double checking my work. “I feel like there’s a joke in here somewhere about me having mommy issues and you having daddy issues,” she jokes.
I snort and keep measuring. “If we were talking in a bar,” I begin, shifting my gaze to meet hers for a moment before looking back at my task, “I would say we’re two broken halves that complete each other.”
“That’s corny,” she giggles.
My lips stretch into a wide, but shy smile. “I’m a bit rusty, alright? It’s been years since I tried to flirt with someone.”
“Well, maybe save that line. It comes off a little strong,” she snickers.
I eye her and shrug. “Maybe so. But it’s a little more personal than the usual. Would you rather me ask if you’re from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see? Or maybe you prefer the library book one, because I am checking you out.”
“Okay, okay, fair enough,” she says, continuing to laugh.
“What’s your pickup line then?”
Wren clears her throat awkwardly. “Maybe I’m a bit rusty too. Besides, women don’t really have to use them.”
“How equality-forward of you,” I tease.
“Let me think, let me think,” Wren chuckles. There’s a long pause, a finger pressing into the dimple of her chin. “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.” We both chortle and she shakes her head. “Okay, I’m no better. I concede. I concede.” Then, as I stretch the tape across her shoulders again, she comments, “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were taking my measurements for the third time just to keep hearing my sad attempts at flirting.”
When my eyes lift to her pale green hues, there’s something palpable in the air between us. I’m not sure if I should call it sparks, a magnetic pull, or something else entirely. But I’m sucked in. I’m doomed. And I’m leaning toward her without a single thought rattling around my head other than just how badly I want to feel her lips on mine.
Chapter Five
Wren
To say I’m elated to see him leaning toward me would be to undersell it. I’m on cloud nine by the time our lips brush against one another. Brush? That’s too gentle. No, they collide like two stars that have ventured too deep into one another’s orbits. It’s a violent, beautiful explosion that feels as natural as those stars in the night sky. Emanuel’s lips are velvety, tender, and downright intoxicating.