Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
For the last few months, since being released from Bedford Hills, I’ve been finding comfort in watching people on the internet hear famous songs for the first time. Or their first time watching Star Wars or Twilight or Harry Potter. I watch those videos and wonder if I’ll ever be able to express emotions like that again. Just pow. No hesitating. Without toning the feelings down or worrying that if I get too emotional, my dam will break and everything will just come pouring out.
“We go out looking for a magical item, no idea what it is. If we see it, we’ll know, but we rarely find it. So show them. Show shoppers the item that will shock their lover or sibling or mother and make them feel not only loved, but exciting as a human being. The keys to a moped, the perfect nude lipstick, a designer martini shaker. If this was my window, I’d…display the dress a woman would never buy for themself but secretly wish they owned. And I’d make that dress a new lifestyle. A new start. Their desired result is on the other side of the window.”
He nods for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Then he turns slightly to look down the side of the building, which takes up an entire city block. “And what would you do with the other three windows?”
I blink up at him, not sure if he’s calling me out for being an armchair expert or if he’s genuinely curious. Somehow…I sense it’s the latter. Sarcasm isn’t his personality. Wait. How has he impressed his personality on me in the space of five? Ten minutes? How long have I been standing here talking to this man? “I should go—”
“You should apply,” he says at the same time, chuckling over our verbal collision. “I have it on good authority that Vivant is looking for a new window dresser.”
“Oh.” I choke on the word, unable to keep the longing off my face when looking back at the window, imagining myself on the other side with a Vivant-sized budget. Four windows to design. All manner of materials and fabrics and baubles at my fingertips. And that is never, ever going to happen. My résumé has a giant employment gap between age twenty-one and twenty-five where I was serving time in Westchester. For a crime I do not deny committing. I can’t even get hired at a diner, let alone at this upscale department store. “No. I…I’m not interested.”
Bow Tie studies me closely. “Sure about that?”
“How is this your concern again?”
He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks at me—and oh my God, it happens again. That weightless turnover beneath my ribcage. Maybe I’ve contracted some kind of disease. It has been a really long time since I dated or had a boyfriend, but I remember my type. This guy is not it. There is a pleat in his dress pants. He’s wearing a bow tie and a grin and a piece of hair is now curling down the center of his forehead. The pads of my fingers definitely shouldn’t be rubbing together, wondering what kind of texture that lock of hair would be. Or what his reaction would be if I curled it around my knuckle slowly.
I look down quickly before whatever is happening inside of me plays out on my face. “All right, I think we’re done here.” With a restless scratch to the back of my neck, I skirt around him, reentering the flow of sidewalk traffic.
Just before I’m completely out of earshot, he calls, “There’s an application on the website. Can’t hurt to give it a look-see.”
I don’t stop walking until I’m inside my apartment. Pacing to the very corner of the room, I toe off my boots, then I doff my jacket, bundle the garment up and place it on top of the boots. Next, my headphones. Out of the way. Neat. A memory catches me off-guard from just about a month ago—my parents watching me perform this habit from across the dining room, exchanging a nervous glance with each other. Like they weren’t sure who exactly they’d allowed into their home.
I bounce on the sore soles of my feet to clear my thoughts, moving to the radiator to make sure heat is coming out. During the long walk to Chelsea, I told myself my heart was pounding because of the brisk pace I set, but it still hasn’t stopped. The organ continues to drum unsteadily as I sit down on the edge of my bed. Gradually, my gaze meanders over to the ancient laptop left behind by my uncle. I shake my head, refusing to entertain the notion of filling out an application for a job I am not qualified for. Or even if I am slightly eligible to dress windows, three years of online courses with a focus on fashion merchandising will be wildly eclipsed by four years in lockup.