“I didn’t think you noticed I was there.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You didn’t even say hello. I mean, really? I was the maid of honor, and you were the best man.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll admit it. I had every intention of making nice, and then you showed up with a date, and … well, I couldn’t.”
“I get it, it’s not easy. I was kind of relieved we didn’t have to speak.”
“It’s not so bad now, is it?” he asks, huge puppy dog eyes staring back at me.
“No, but I think it’s because we’ve both moved on and have other things in our lives.”
Christian looks back at the kitchen, searching for any sign on the status of our food. “Henry does seem to make you happy,” he adds at last.
“He really does.”
“I’m happy for you. So tell me all about this guy. How did you meet, what does he do? I want all the details.”
I wrinkle my forehead and ask cautiously, “Are you sure?”
“Of course, this is the kind of stuff friends talk about. I want to know everything about your new life,” he insists.
And so I tell him everything. We talk all through dinner, the drive home, and then even stand in the courtyard talking. Nothing is off limits. Nothing feels weird. He isn’t jealous, and he actually seems genuinely interested. I wonder if he misses our friendship as much as I do.
When a silence at last lingers, he chimes, “You better get to bed.”
“Are you going to be able to sleep, or is it back to the studio for you?” I question.
“What can I say, it’s my routine,” he answers, walking backward as he watches me quietly sneak in through the back door of Em and Colin’s home.
I WAKE UP late, look at my phone, and realize I’ve missed a call from Henry. I decide he can wait, as I sit up and get a look at the clock. 9:26.
When I came upstairs, after my evening with Christian, I was suddenly troubled with a case of insomnia, something very rare for me. I’d sketched into the early morning hours.
Reaching down, I pick the pad up from the floor and flip through the pages. Examining the ideas that had flooded out of me, I’m expecting nothing usable. Much to my surprise and delight, I see design after design that I still love in the morning light. To be quite honest, they are better than anything I’ve ever created. I find myself loathing the designs I’ve already made for my show. There is cohesion in the images that I have seemingly struggled with before. I’ve never included a vest in any of my designs, yet here are at least three within the pages of sketches.
The words urban country pop into my head. There it is, the entire show, the concept shifting in the blink of an eye. The beauty of the south is taking things slow, doing it right. I want to take all the textures and patterns that make you think Southern style and put them on urban lines. The cut of a nice blazer paired with the perfect blue jean. Oh shit! If I’m going to commit to this, it means starting over from scratch. I have to think on this some more; any major decisions prior to my morning coffee always leads to disaster.
Stumbling out of bed, I slip on my robe, pulling the fabric up to my nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells of home, my home with Henry. I decide I’ll call him after coffee. He will be honest about the makeover idea—complete and total honesty is something I can always rely on from Henry.
Shuffling down the stairs, I weave through the halls and make my way into the rustic kitchen, the smell of muffins filling the air. Emmie is dancing with Olivia near the stove to a song on the radio I’ve not heard.
She spins around, dancing her way over to me. “Oh my, Ms. Olivia, look who joined us. Can you say hi to Auntie Paige?”
My heart warms as Olivia giggles and gurgles, her mom suddenly dipping her back in a dramatic dance move.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replies, throwing a puzzled glance in my direction.
“Dancing in the morning … what did you do with the Emmie I know?”
“Tell Aunt Paige that just because she’s a grumpy puss, and her date must have went terrible, she doesn’t need to bring us all down,” Emmie says in a baby-like tone.
My stomach twists and suddenly my face flashes with heat. My reaction is pure instinct. “How about you tell your mommy to hush it when she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.”
“Whoa!” Emmie replies quickly. “I was just kidding. No reason to get nasty.”
I sit silently, avoiding eye contact, unsure why what she said bothered me so intensely.
“I’m serious,” Emmie continues. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Did something happen?”