Britches Get Stitches

by Elicia Hyder

  But then Clay started to worry that me being on my feet so much could be counterproductive to trying to conceive. He reasoned that he made enough money so that we really didn’t need my income. He said I should just stay home. Start preparing to have a family…

  That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I even gave up the safe, shitty job for what my husband went and found with someone else.

  Didn’t I warn you I was bitter?

  Stop. Count to ten. 1…2…4…5…10… And focus on the positives—like I’d promised my therapist I would do.

  One positive was that Sparkled Pink almost started itself. When I left the hotel, I worked part time for my mother at the bridal shop. She was cutting back her hours and taking fewer clients since my dad had retired, so I took over almost everything but the bridal gowns themselves.

  In my downtime, I spent a lot of time making dresses for my own little girl, the one I didn’t have yet but who was certainly forthcoming.

  One day at the shop, a bride’s mother saw me working on one of my creations. She asked if she could buy it for her granddaughter. As they say, the rest was history. Mom retired later that year and handed the store’s keys to me.

  Sparkled Pink carried everything from infant pantyhose to 100 percent couture children’s fashion. I carried a few high-end brands that I hand-selected at different fashion shows, but the bread and butter of my store were my custom designs.

  The first dress I ever sold was called “The Sophia” because that was the name I was planning to use if Clay and I ever had a girl. More dress designs followed, some named in homage to family members, other names plucked at random from my Big Book of Baby Names.

  The Sophia.

  The Gabrielle.

  The Charlotte.

  Those dresses and others covered the back wall of my store. And while I kept some of the best sellers in stock, most of the named dresses were custom-made to order.

  The process was simple. The customer picked out the design then hand-selected their favorite fabric, lace, and beading. Afterward, we took their measurements and half of the final cost up front. The turnaround time was two-to-six weeks, depending heavily on our workload, the complexity of the dress, and if we had any of the pieces pre-assembled.

  Clay always said it was like a build-your-own burrito station for little girls’ couture.

  Up until my world had so sensationally imploded, I’d loved everything about it. But these days, it was getting harder and harder to work with toddlers and their mommies. Hmm, I wonder why?

  But back to the positives…

  Even from the street, I could count several heads bobbing through the clothes racks inside my store. That was definitely a good thing. Especially because it was the first of the month, and every bill I had was coming due. That included the property tax invoice, which loomed in the future like doomsday.

  (Insert vomiting noise here.)

  Property taxes had gone up, up, and up in Hillsboro Village. It was one of the old-school trendy spots in the city, connecting the Vanderbilt University campus and Music Row. My shop and apartment were nestled between A Village of Flowers and The Pancake Pantry, making it the olfactory sweet spot on the block. My store always smelled like heaven.

  I parked in the back parking lot in my designated space, then walked around to the trunk and opened it. A smell like rotten cheese puffs smacked me in the face. I shuddered as I reached for my skates’ bag. “Definitely time to wash my gear. Gross.”

  I lugged the bag around the building to the red door that led to my apartment. I needed to check on the shop but not before at least changing my disgusting clothes. Otherwise, no amount of maple syrup and roses wafting through the air would keep the patrons in my store.

  Before going up, I stopped at the metal mailbox attached to the wall. Both the store’s mail and my personal mail came to the same box. Most of it was junk, except the water bill was due, as was the electricity. Behind them was a menacing envelope stamped with “Final Notice” in thick black ink. I already knew it was an overdue invoice from my fertility doctor. Talk about insult to injury.

  I’d hoped the judge would stick Clay with the bill in the divorce.

  He didn’t.

  With a sigh, I shoved the bills into the stinky bag where they belonged. Then I glanced back at the street, to the spot where Jason’s car had been cozy and warm the night before.

  I can’t believe that asshole wanted to have me arrested.

  When I finally hauled my bag into my apartment, I was greeted by Bodhi’s half-eaten bowl of kibble and his rubber chicken. I dropped the bag, and all my resolve, with a heavy thud in the foyer.

  The tears came before I could even close the front door. Leaky, snotty tears that couldn’t be beaten back with hatred for Clay—or averted by a dognapping plot.

  My dog was gone.

  My ex-husband was an asshole.

  And I was really, really alone.

  I slumped against the wall and cried. Wailed, if I’m being honest. And when the maniacal snot-fest slowed to erratic hiccup-sobs, I blew my nose into the front tail of my practice jersey with a loud honk!

  Peeling myself from the wall, I realized I’d been leaning against the intercom button. As I stepped away, the buzzer sounded. I pressed the button again. “Hello?”

  A panicky voice came through the speaker. “Grace? Grace, are you all right?”

  It was Jason Bradley.

  Four

  What the hell is he doing here? was my first thought.

  My second was, Grace, you have snot all over your shirt.

  I raced back to the buzzer and pushed the button. “Hello?”

  “Grace, it’s Jason. Are you in trouble? I thought I heard—uhh—I heard you crying.”

  He had heard me honking my nose like a goose with sinusitis. I thumped my forehead against the wall. “Yes, I’m fine,” I lied. I was pretty sure my heart had flatlined. I probably should have requested he call an ambulance…or the coroner.

  “Can I come up? Is this a bad time? Maybe I should have called first, but I was already in the area…”

  “No, it’s OK. Give me two seconds.”

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  I hurried through my apartment, yanking my smelly tank top off over my head. The fabric caught on the tiny hairs at the back of my neck, ripping them with blinding pain from the follicles. I yelped and stumbled into the coffee table with my shins.

  Staggering through the pain, I said a lot worse bad words and limped into my room to grab my Music City Rollers hoodie off the end of my bed. I stuffed my arms into it as I walked back to the foyer, then decided to walk down to let him in rather than using the buzzer. As I plodded down the steps, I zipped the hoodie to cover my sports bra. Or I thought I did, at least.

  I pushed the door open, and the icy breeze smacked against my bare midsection. Jason’s eyes fell to where my zipper had split at the bottom, all the way up to my chest.

  His eyes darted away, but he couldn’t keep the grin off his lips or the heat out of his cheeks.

  I gathered the fabric in my hands to cover my squishy middle. “Oh, good grief.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have called,” he said again, finally able to look me in the eye.

  “No, it’s fine. And it’s only appropriate that I’m a complete disaster again, right?” When I looked down, one of my knee-high rainbow socks was flying at half-calf, and my right lime-green Converse was untied.

  We both laughed.

  Clearly, he was off duty, judging by his blue jeans and fitted black T-shirt. Partially hidden by an army green leather coat, the Punisher skull (ironic for a man of the law) stretched across his chest.

  “Grace?”

  I hadn’t realized I was staring. Maybe it was the lack of sleep from the night before. “Sorry. You wanna come up?”

  He glanced up and down the street behind him. “Sure. Thanks. You’re not locked out again, are you?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” I said with a smirk
as he followed me. “Sorry I’m a mess. I’ve been at roller derby practice all morning. Hence the sweat, the shorts, and the ridiculous socks.”

  “That does explain a lot,” he teased.

  At the top of the stairs, I opened the door. “Come on in. As long as you don’t mind the mess I just made.” Crap. Or the smell of rotting dairy; my derby gear was still in the foyer.

  “Not at all.”

  You say that now.

  He followed me inside, and I snatched my derby bag off the floor as soon as we walked in. I whisked the bag to my bedroom and stashed it in the closet.

  When I returned, he was looking around his feet at the dog stuff, my discarded jacket, my keys…

  “Would you like some coffee? Or a beer, maybe? I’ve got some of my brother’s craft stuff in the fridge,” I said.

  “I’m off duty today. I’d love a beer.” Jason carefully stepped over my stuff as I walked to the refrigerator. “This is a great apartment. Is it new?”

  “Thank you. Yes, it is. It was just finished a few weeks ago.” I opened a Battle Road IPA with my magnetic bottle-opener-slash-mermaid-tail that was stuck to the fridge.

  When I handed it to him, he studied the label. “I forgot your brother owns a brewery.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Yeah. Clay took a few of us there for a tour when they first opened.” His mouth immediately snapped shut, like he worried Clay’s name might be some sort of a trigger word. He tilted the bottle up to his lips. “This stuff is really good.”

  “Thanks. Glad you like it.” I glanced back toward my bedroom. “Can you give me a second to actually put on a shirt?”

  He chuckled again. “Sure. Mind if I sit?” He gestured toward the living room.

  “Of course not. Be right back.”

  “Take your time.”

  I didn’t take my time. I put on a pull-over sweatshirt, straightened my socks, and tied my shoe. I did stop to glance in the mirror and retie the knot of hair on my head. When I reemerged from my bedroom, Jason was peeling the label on the beer bottle and looking up at the wall.

  He pointed to the framed painting of Elvis Presley on black velvet. “You got the velvet Elvis in the divorce?”

  “It was the second most heated custody battle after Bodhi.”

  “Nice.” He scooted over and patted the cushion beside him.

  I sat down. “So what’s up?”

  He turned to face me. “How did the exchange go this morning?”

  “There was a lot of swearing, and I may have contemplated knocking him down the stairs.”

  He balanced his beer bottle on his thigh and settled back against the armrest. “That’s fair, but I’m glad you didn’t. I’d have a hard time trying to talk you out of those charges.”

  “It really sucked having to give my dog back.” Tears prickled the corners of my eyes again.

  “I’m sure it did. I’m really sorry.” He put the beer on the coffee table—and used a coaster. “He called me again today.”

  I groaned. “What now?”

  “Nothing, except he mentioned a broken lamp and some missing wine.”

  “The lamp was an accident. And that was my wine. I bought it in Sonoma last year,” I said.

  “Were you awarded it in the divorce?”

  I frowned.

  “Then it wasn’t yours anymore. Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

  I thought about the eggs.

  “No.”

  He put his hand on mine. “This will get better. Just lay low, and I’m sure he’ll calm down.”

  “I hate him so much, Jason.”

  “I know,” he said, squeezing my fingers.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks for letting me know. You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

  “The place where I buy my cop gear is a couple of streets over. I needed to be out here anyway.” He stood. “I should probably get going.”

  “Me too. Have to check in on the store. I’ll walk you down.”

  When we reached the foyer, I looked around on the floor for my jacket. It was now hanging on the coat hook beside Jason’s. Bodhi’s stuff was also missing. “Did you tidy up?”

  “Figured you might not want to see it right now. I washed the bowl and put the toys and food under the sink in the kitchen. Hope that’s OK.”

  My shoulders wilted, and I had to stop myself from whimpering. “Thank you, Jason.”

  He winked as he stuffed his arms into his coat. Then he reached for the door handle and opened the door for me. “Wait.”

  I stopped and looked at him.

  He grinned. “Do you have your keys?”

  “Oh, shut up.” I laughed as we walked out and started down the stairs. When the door closed behind us, Jason double-checked that it had locked. No one besides my dad had ever checked that my doors were secure. Not even Clay.

  Jason stepped sideways and looked at the front of my store. The old brick storefront had a new wooden facade with beautiful crown molding. The whole thing was painted a light minty blue with a bold black-and-white awning over the white front door.

  “Mind if I take a peek inside?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” I pulled open the door, and the welcome bells jingled. “Welcome to Sparkled Pink.”

  Jason looked around the shop, taking in its gleaming wooden floors and built-in wooden shelves and clothes racks. A crystal chandelier hung above the custom check-out counter built by my dad.

  “This place is nice,” he said, looking genuinely impressed.

  “Thank you. It was a lot of work.” I didn’t tell him that Clay and I had done most of the work ourselves, ripping out the old carpet and knocking down the walls that had once divided the storefront into sections.

  His eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember something. “What was it before you owned it?”

  “Sugar Drop Bridal. My mom made custom wedding gowns.”

  “Right!” He formed his hands into a rectangle. “Big white sign.”

  I nodded. “Yep.” I touched my chest. “That sign, which is a total rusty tetanus risk now, is still hanging in my parents’ garage.”

  “That’s cool. It was here for a really long time.”

  “Twenty-five years. They opened it when I started kindergarten. Have you always lived here?”

  He picked up a pink tutu—one I’d made myself—and tested the width of its elastic waistband. “Since I was four. My family moved here from Knoxville when my real dad was hired on with the highway patrol and sent to Davidson County.”

  “Your dad was a cop too?”

  He was smiling as he put the tutu back on its hanger. “Yeah.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Grace?” The chipper voice of my assistant, Kiara Washington, made us both turn as she walked out of the back workroom. She wore a white blouse with a red scarf and fitted black pants. A shocking red flower was poised in her jet-black curls that matched the bright lipstick slathered across her full smile when her eyes landed on Jason. “Well, hello.”

  “Kiara, this is Officer Jason Bradley, an old friend of mine.”

  She extended a perfectly manicured hand. Her nails were painted with tiny red flowers to match her outfit. “Hello, Officer Bradley. Kiara Washington.”

  “Call me Jason, please. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Kiara is the only reason I have any sanity left. I couldn’t run this place without her,” I said.

  And it was true. I had several other seamstresses, including occasionally my mother, who worked part-time for me from home, but none of them lived and breathed the fashion industry quite like Kiara.

  She was a design student at MacKay University just down the street, and I was lucky to have snagged her as an intern at the start of the fall semester. Her enthusiasm was the number one thing I loved about her, followed closely by her amazing eye for design and her steady hand with a needle and thread. She was a natural talent and an extremely
hard worker.

  Even as a student, she was so good with the business side of things that I immediately hired her to help me in the store. Now my website was up and running, my Etsy shop was bringing in orders, and my workroom didn’t look like a nuclear warhead had detonated. She really couldn’t have come along at a more perfect time. Despite my recently-departed enthusiasm for all things related to kids and babies, business was up almost 20 percent.

  Kiara reminded me a lot of myself when I was twenty-two. Back when I was young and eager. Before I’d had my hopes and dreams ripped out of my defunct uterus.

  Sadly for me, I was certain to lose her as soon as she graduated to the high-fashion world. Her graduation date was set for the end of spring.

  “It’s really nice to meet you, Jason.” Kiara was beaming. Her constant wealth of positivity was truly one of her superpowers. “Grace, are you here for a minute? If so, I need you to sign off on the two orders Margaret turned in today—”

  I waved my hand to stop her. “You can sign off on them. I trust you.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great.” Her face quickly fell. “I also have some questions about Sylvie’s latest order. She stopped by earlier. I told her you were at practice.”

  “Sylvia was here today? On a weekend?”

  “About ten minutes before you walked in the door. It can totally wait as long as you don’t mind suffering the wrath of the underworld on Monday.” She held up two fingers like horns at her temples. “She said she’d be in to see you first thing Monday morning.”

  Jason waved his hand. “Do what you’ve got to do. Don’t let me keep you. I need to go anyway.”

  I smiled. “OK, well it was good to see—”

  The front bells jingled again. “Gra-ace!”

  I froze. Only one woman in the world could make my name have so many syllables.

  “Good god, we said her name too many times,” Kiara whispered behind me.

  I slowly turned around, my metaphorical balls withering like raisins.

  Sylvia Sinclair, my best and absolute worst customer, leaned in the front door of my shop and slid her massive designer sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. “Grace, be a dear and come help me unload my car, please.”