leaf-patterned dress? What are you putting with that, darling?”
“Nothing much. Do you have the thick-knit, tan cardigan? And the chunky boots with the flip-over tops.”
“Just that? No jewelry?”
“No. Just that.” I pin the other side of the dress then grab my scissors. “And the maroon pants—pair them with a cream blouse, the one with the brown collar.”
“Why didn’t you put this in your notes?”
I slice through the collar. “You didn’t ask me. I’m working on next fall’s collection. It’s hard to concentrate on this season’s collection when I’m consumed by this.”
“You mean it’s hard when you’re not here.”
“Yes.” I sigh, dropping the scissors and leaning against the wall. “Dammit, Q. I wish I were there. I’d give anything to see my designs walk down the runway and all the crazy backstage fun. I’m gonna miss it all. And that sucks big time.”
“I know, Leah darling, I know,” he says softly. “But you picked this path—and I commend you. You could do it easily, make your mark in this world because of who you are, but you won’t. That’s honorable.”
“Really? Is it? When I’m going to miss out on everything I’ve ever wanted? When my dream is going to happen without me there?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I know I have to do this. I want to be accepted for me, dammit. Not because of Mom. It just hurts a little. That’s all.”
“Just remember who refused your designs. Remember all those designers who broke your sixteen-year-old heart because they thought you couldn’t deal with the pressures.”
“But you were there,” I say quietly. “You believed in me before you knew I was a Veronica.”
“Precisely,” he replies triumphantly. “Because you have talent, Leah. You have real fucking talent, girl. So, in two weeks, I’m going to stand at the end of the runway watching your designs kill it and I’m gonna be proud as hell of you. I already am. You got that?”
“Got it.” I stand up. “My designs are gonna create waves, I’m gonna kick ass, and you’re going to video every second and send it to me after, right?”
He laughs. “Exactly that!”
“Awesome. Now I have to go and work before my boss kicks my butt.”
“I agree. He’s a tough guy.”
I laugh as I hang up. Quinn wouldn’t hurt a fly—much less kick my ass. Slap it, pinch it, yes. Kick it? No way. He appreciates a good butt too much.
I grab some pins from my box and hold them between my teeth. I have no idea what I’m creating. All I know is that the neckline dips severely, the skirt clings, and the sleeves… Well, they’re flappy pieces of pinned-on material right now.
Sometimes, when the designs don’t come out on the page, they come out on the mannequin. The secret design room just down the hall from my room is my favorite place in the house. The walls are covered in designs I’ve sketched since I was six, because this was my eighteenth birthday present from my mom. A place that was wholly mine, where I could go and let it all go. There’s even a giant desk in the corner where I’m supposed to sit and design, but I prefer my room for that.
This is where I get to create a giant mess.
It’s fitting, really, given my emotional state. I fight it. I swallow it back and pretend I’m okay, but only because I have to. If I could let it all flow and have the mother of all cries, I’d be really okay.
The thought that my dream is within touching distance but my fingers will never even skim it is heartbreaking.
But, like Quinn said, I have to remember who believed in me. Who imagined I could be someone when they thought I was no one. He’s the person. He took a risk on the little sixteen-year-old, and when, year after year, my designs got noticed, he’s the one who took a risk on the kid with a dream.
He’s the one who got me a line, a show, a place in the spotlight. He’s the one who encouraged me to draw until my fingers bled and think until my brain hurt.
“Nothing much. Do you have the thick-knit, tan cardigan? And the chunky boots with the flip-over tops.”
“Just that? No jewelry?”
“No. Just that.” I pin the other side of the dress then grab my scissors. “And the maroon pants—pair them with a cream blouse, the one with the brown collar.”
“Why didn’t you put this in your notes?”
I slice through the collar. “You didn’t ask me. I’m working on next fall’s collection. It’s hard to concentrate on this season’s collection when I’m consumed by this.”
“You mean it’s hard when you’re not here.”
“Yes.” I sigh, dropping the scissors and leaning against the wall. “Dammit, Q. I wish I were there. I’d give anything to see my designs walk down the runway and all the crazy backstage fun. I’m gonna miss it all. And that sucks big time.”
“I know, Leah darling, I know,” he says softly. “But you picked this path—and I commend you. You could do it easily, make your mark in this world because of who you are, but you won’t. That’s honorable.”
“Really? Is it? When I’m going to miss out on everything I’ve ever wanted? When my dream is going to happen without me there?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I know I have to do this. I want to be accepted for me, dammit. Not because of Mom. It just hurts a little. That’s all.”
“Just remember who refused your designs. Remember all those designers who broke your sixteen-year-old heart because they thought you couldn’t deal with the pressures.”
“But you were there,” I say quietly. “You believed in me before you knew I was a Veronica.”
“Precisely,” he replies triumphantly. “Because you have talent, Leah. You have real fucking talent, girl. So, in two weeks, I’m going to stand at the end of the runway watching your designs kill it and I’m gonna be proud as hell of you. I already am. You got that?”
“Got it.” I stand up. “My designs are gonna create waves, I’m gonna kick ass, and you’re going to video every second and send it to me after, right?”
He laughs. “Exactly that!”
“Awesome. Now I have to go and work before my boss kicks my butt.”
“I agree. He’s a tough guy.”
I laugh as I hang up. Quinn wouldn’t hurt a fly—much less kick my ass. Slap it, pinch it, yes. Kick it? No way. He appreciates a good butt too much.
I grab some pins from my box and hold them between my teeth. I have no idea what I’m creating. All I know is that the neckline dips severely, the skirt clings, and the sleeves… Well, they’re flappy pieces of pinned-on material right now.
Sometimes, when the designs don’t come out on the page, they come out on the mannequin. The secret design room just down the hall from my room is my favorite place in the house. The walls are covered in designs I’ve sketched since I was six, because this was my eighteenth birthday present from my mom. A place that was wholly mine, where I could go and let it all go. There’s even a giant desk in the corner where I’m supposed to sit and design, but I prefer my room for that.
This is where I get to create a giant mess.
It’s fitting, really, given my emotional state. I fight it. I swallow it back and pretend I’m okay, but only because I have to. If I could let it all flow and have the mother of all cries, I’d be really okay.
The thought that my dream is within touching distance but my fingers will never even skim it is heartbreaking.
But, like Quinn said, I have to remember who believed in me. Who imagined I could be someone when they thought I was no one. He’s the person. He took a risk on the little sixteen-year-old, and when, year after year, my designs got noticed, he’s the one who took a risk on the kid with a dream.
He’s the one who got me a line, a show, a place in the spotlight. He’s the one who encouraged me to draw until my fingers bled and think until my brain hurt.
Similar Books
