Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
And my commitment. My strength.
My loyalty.
Snip, snip …
‘Don’t pull the thread like that!’
Snip, snip, snip …
‘You could cause a snag and ruin the—!’
I grab hold of the loose thread and give it the world’s biggest, angriest, most furious tug. The whole sleeve wrinkles. I yank it harder and harder, watching as the sleeve folds in on itself.
Then I’m tearing the sleeve in half with a shout.
I throw my shears across the room. It crashes with a noisy clang into one of the dress forms—which stands rigid and strong against the assault, not budging—before the shears drop to the floor, the blades left open like a metal bird’s beak.
Out of breath, I lower myself onto a stool behind me, miss it, and sit right on the floor like it was my choice all along. I cover my face with my hands and breathe deeply.
Shutting out the world is easy to do.
Keeping it shut is the tricky part.
Especially when every little reminder of him pulls it all right back in front of your face like some revenge-seeking ex-lover, or a persistent, seductive memory, desperate to be cherished again.
“You can do this,” I tell myself, filling the room with my small, small voice. “You can do this.”
Somehow, that brief, unassuming little statement makes me feel like I have a choice. As if I could decide to cancel my show and race back to Chad’s arms, far away in Spruce. As if I could tell my boss to stuff it. As if I could tell this pretty little life goodbye.
It’s fun to pretend I have a choice.
Then I can console myself and say something like: “You’ll make the best fucking piece that runway has ever seen. You’ll give them all a show to remember. Perfection.”
Perfection.
I rise to my feet, calmly walk to the dress form, apologize to it under my breath, then swipe the shears off the floor. I take the torn sleeve, toss it in my scrap bin, then start over.
It’s after eleven before I even check the time. There’s only darkness and city lights outside the window.
So much for making a choice for dinner. I forgot to eat at all.
I hurry to my bedroom and pick up my phone.
Four missed calls from Chad.
I stare at that notification so long, you’d think I was gazing into a crystal ball, seeing the future. The apartment is cold and quiet all around me. The darkness outside the window taunts me with its piercing city lights that look nothing like the stars Chad and I gazed upon. All I see is that notification and the four little missed calls—no voicemails.
The latest call was just twenty-two minutes ago.
I tap on his name to call him back, lifting the phone to my ear. I wait while it rings.
It goes to voicemail.
“Hey, this is Chad Landry. I’m not able to answer your call at this time, but feel free to leave me a message right here with your name, a callback number, and the purpose of your callin’, and I’ll get right back to ya in a jiff. Have a fine day, ‘cause I know I sure will.” And after Chad’s breathy chuckle, I hear the robot voice telling me to leave my message, press pound, blah, blah, and then the little beep, prompting me to speak.
And I stand there by my bedside, silent, staring ahead at the city lights through the window.
“Chad,” I finally say. “I’m … I’m sorry I missed your call. Your calls,” I amend. I sit on my bed. “I got caught up with work. I guess this is gonna happen more and more often, closer I get to the show. It’s just in a week now, next Saturday, super early at the ass-crack of dawn. Ugh. I don’t even know sometimes. I don’t know, Chad. I just …” I’m spiraling. “I just don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t seem to manage to split my energy. I’m either all into this work, or I’m …” I look up at my door. I can see the studio from here. It creates a perfect line of sight through my door and into the left-open one. One of the dress forms stares back at me, my newest work of art, my newest masterpiece. It’s nowhere near done. It’s nowhere near perfection. “Or … I’m not.”
I lower the phone to my lap, feeling so heavy, I might as well have a boulder strapped to my back.
There’s only one way this will end well. I know it. I’ve known it for a long time.
I knew it since I put the first stitch in that new garment.
I knew it after the first missed call from Chad a week ago.
I knew it with every crunch of another lonely salad in this tiny fucking place that shrinks by the day, more and more.