by Kelly deVos
The clothes are rich in color with the deep, bold blues of our starry nights, the oranges of the sunrise and the browns of the desert countryside.
He nods. “Not too bad. We make a good team.”
Part of me is relieved to be going home. The other part wishes I could hide out with Gareth at his ranch for all of time, sewing clothes, watching the moon rise over the cacti, rolling around in the perfectly pressed sheets of his bed.
And I’ll miss working out in his fancy home gym.
“This is it,” I say, trying to create some kind of transition between my escape from and imminent return to reality.
“It?”
“I want to say thank you for everything. Thanks for—”
Gareth hasn’t shaved in a few days and has a dark, almost full beard that sometimes scratches and sometimes tickles me when we kiss. It’s unfair that I have a hundred products to moisturize my face and a million things to do to keep my hair from sticking to my head while he pops up each morning oozing sex appeal.
He shakes his head and interrupts me. “Why the swan song, Cookie Vonn?”
My face turns red. “Well, we’re done. And based on all that paperwork I signed...I’m going home and...I’m not sure if...”
“Home?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I realize that the whole scene is super awkward. I’m wearing nothing but one of Gareth’s old black T-shirts. He keeps glancing down at my bare legs. I should have gotten dressed up in a more appropriate outfit. “I mean we’re done.”
“With the design aspect of the project, yes,” he agrees. He takes my hand. The look on his face. I’ve seen it before. I figure he’s leading me back to our room. Soon to be only his room again. He surprises me by pushing me hard up against the wall of the studio. Behind him, through the floor-length windows, I can see the sun start its rise over the butte, creating a gorgeous orange glow.
His hands reach for the hem of my shirt, or his shirt really, drawing it up the small space between us. “All this paperwork you mention,” he whispers in a dry voice, his breath on my neck. “Do you recall signing our employment agreement? You work for me through the end of the year.”
“Doing what?” I gasp.
He lifts the shirt over my head and drops it on the floor next to my feet. I’ve never felt so exposed as in that moment, wearing nothing in broad daylight, facing a wall of windows that open to an endless Argentinean horizon.
“Officially? Blogging about the production cycle, showing off the samples, taking meetings with retailers.”
His mouth runs down my neck and I gasp as his fingers brush my nipple. “Of course, there’s nothing, contractually speaking, to also keep us from having a bit of fun.”
As he presses me up against the wall he says, “We’re nowhere near being done.”
I realize I’m not in control of this situation quite the way I thought.
We’re going to back to New York.
And I’m getting too comfortable letting Gareth make decisions for me. There’s an antifeminist complacency to it that I don’t like, or am not supposed to like. But I find myself along for the ride anyway.
He tells me I’m not going back to the Refinery. For the next month or so I’ll be taking up residence in his penthouse. In an odd, 1950s sitcom kind of way, this makes perfect sense. We’ll be like a fake couple coming home from our fake honeymoon.
I’m worried. But I can’t stop myself from grinning when I think about getting back to New York.
This time, Gareth hooks us up with a private jet. The pro of this arrangement is that the flight crew, who know Gareth, have prepared all his favorite things to eat and drink.
The con side is that I know this lifestyle won’t last for me. The private plane ride is like enjoying a delicious meal with the knowledge that you’ll never have it again.
Plus, I’ve been washing and wearing the same outfits for three weeks and it’s starting to get gross and terribly monotonous for someone who loves clothes. “Can I have your address?” I ask.
Gareth is in the process of donning his weird eye mask. “Why?”
“I’m going to see if my grandma can ship me some clothes.”
He removes the mask as his eyebrows creep up his forehead and he leans in toward me. “I’ll let you in on a little secret here, Cookie. I own a warehouse full of clothing. I’ll have Darcy send some stuff over to the penthouse.”
“But—” I’m about to tell him that I’ve spent an amount of time bordering on obsessive making my own stuff and I want to wear it.
He yawns. “You work for the company now. It makes sense you’d wear the label,” he says before he puts the mask back on and falls asleep.
I shudder at the thought of becoming another one of his black-tee-and-jeans-clad cronies. On the other hand, he’s offering me a free designer wardrobe and, as someone who loves clothes, I feel ridiculous objecting.
We arrive back in New York on the first day of October. Gareth says October is the best month in the city. “The weather is nice. Summer crowds are gone. Holiday tourists haven’t shown up yet. It’s perfect.”
Gareth lives in the West Village, a quirky, bohemian neighborhood that people like William Faulkner and Isadora Duncan once called home, in a renovated World War II–era building. To call the place a hipster pad would be a laughable understatement. There are electric-car charging stations everywhere in the parking garage, an indoor lap pool and a doorman who spends his days greeting the florists dropping off Raf Simons arrangements in square vases.
His entire apartment is decorated like one of his runway shows. All white and stainless steel. What he has in the way of furniture is all in cascading shades of beige. It’s a strangely impersonal choice from a designer whose claim to fame is dressing people in candy colors and oddball prints.
I call Grandma first of all.
“Of course, you know, this is gettin’ more and more worrisome, girl.”
“I’m fine, Grandma. I just didn’t realize I’d have to stay in New York. I guess I should have read the documents more carefully.”
“I’ll second that,” she says with a snort.
“But it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You’re just livin’ with a man you ain’t married to in New York City.”
I want to laugh at the way she spits out the words New York City. Like I’ve purchased a summer home in Sodom and Gomorrah. “We’re not living together. I’m just staying here...because, well...my internship...”
“I see.”
There’s a pause and she adds, “Your teacher’s been callin’ here. Sayin’ something about your scholarship. Cookie. I’m not gonna find out you’re losin’ your scholarship over some man, am I?”
“No. Of course not. This internship is a great opportunity. I’ll be back in January. I have until March to finish my makeup work. It’s fine, Grandma.” I take a deep breath. It has to be fine. I’m living my dream.
“Fine,” she repeats. “You know your momma—”
“I’m not her.” I’m not her, I repeat in my head as I hang up the phone. I’m focused on my career. Not my love life.
One good thing about my new situation is that Piper is in the city. While Gareth’s busy doing a million things, I have a daily lunch date with my Aussie BFF.
We’ve been doing this for a couple of weeks but today, she’s brought her new boyfriend, Brian. Or rather, “Brian Howowitz, Columbia pre-med.” This is how he introduces himself.
I hate him instantly.
He’s already pulled us away from the pub Piper suggested. She’d been texting me since yesterday about the greasy bar food, and I’d been fasting all day in favor of the pulled-pork nachos Piper told me would knock me off my barstool.
Piper’s wearing a boring, basic pair of jeans and a boring Columbia tee. “All the kids from school hang out at 1020. Especial
ly on the weekend. There’s always a bunch of people playing darts in—”
First interruption: “That’s the problem. It’s noisy. I can’t get through a sandwich without running into someone who wants to copy my notes. Let’s hit Toast.” Brian straightens his blue shirt. He already dresses like a doctor. He probably has two outfits. A chambray collared shirt with khakis and a gray, pinstriped suit.
We make the half-mile trek up Amsterdam. Piper smiles at me. “Don’t worry, Cookie. Toast is excellent too. They have this mac and cheese that—”
Brian snorts. Interruption two: “No, no. It’s all about the burgers. The English burger and truffle fries. That’s what it’s all about.”
Toast isn’t bad. In fact, it has a patio that faces Broadway. We get a seat next to the patio’s red wood fence and, as cars honk and people speed by, I feel important. I’m lunching at a sidewalk café on Broadway—the Broadway.
“How is school?” I ask Piper.
“Mayfair is a total bastard. Last week, he announced we’ll be in these study groups and naturally I’m stuck with these tossers—”
Brian opens his mouth again, even though it has a massive bite of hamburger stuffed inside. A piece of bacon hits his chin as he speaks. Interruption three: “I told you. You need to go to Mayfair’s office hours. Tell him the situation is unworkable and you need to be reassigned.”
Not only am I sure Piper knows how to handle her classes, someone needs to stop this asshole who won’t let her complete a thought. I say, “But the professor might not like having someone argue with him about—”
Interruption four: “If she can’t argue with Mayfair, how’s she going to make arguments in court? You need to be more assertive, Piper.”
Piper is one of the most assertive people I know. If she gets any more assertive, she’ll have to become an MMA fighter or something. I give Brian the side-eye.
I turn his constant disruptions into my own drinking game, taking a sip of tea every time he interrupts someone. By the time I’m halfway done with my mac and cheese, I’m pretty much about to pee my pants.
And he sticks me with the check.
“I’m mean, you’re with Gareth Miller, right?” he says as he passes me the leather folio containing the bill.
After lunch, Brian walks to the corner searching for a place to hail a cab.
“Let’s just take the bus,” Piper calls up to him, but he ignores her. She turns to me. “Doesn’t he have a sexy, sexy ass?” she asks.
We both watch Brian for a second. I can’t deny he probably is pretty hot underneath that boring preppy shirt. But... I snort. “Uh, yeah. Too bad he is an ass.”
Piper whirls around and her dark, sleek ponytail whacks her in the face. “What?”
Foot-in-mouth much? “Uh, did I say that out loud? That was my inside voice.” I’m hoping she’ll let this slide as a bit of girl humor.
“Your inside voice thinks my boyfriend is an asshole?” She’s got her hands on her hips, and the breeze created by the heavy traffic pushes her T-shirt against her curvy frame.
“Well...”
“Yeah?”
“Come on. He hasn’t let either of us finish a sentence in almost two hours. You...you think...you don’t have to...” I’m about to say settle. You don’t have to settle. I see Brian. Handsome, WASPy doctor. With the slamming of a taxi door, it hits me. He’s not a settle. He’s a status symbol. A guy for the girl who, society says, is never supposed to get the guy. We’ve always assumed the thin girl would get the prince, and now Piper has done it. But fairy tales never told us much about the prince’s personality or informed us how he treats the princess as they ride off together in the pumpkin coach.
Piper watches Brian and scowls. But I’m an idiot and I keep talking.
I’m almost pleading with her. “I mean, don’t you think he’s a little...uh...controlling?”
“Controlling?” Piper’s raised her voice to be high and shrill over all the noise. “You think Brian’s controlling?” She’s glaring at me. We’re having a fight. We’ve never fought since that first day at Fairy Falls. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“What do you mean?”
Brian is coming back toward us and in a few seconds he’ll be within earshot.
Piper steps closer to me. “I mean, your boyfriend tells you where to go, what to do and even what to wear. And you’re calling Brian controlling?”
Brian hears that last line and scowls at me.
As if to prove Piper’s point, Gareth’s hired Town Car pulls up to the curb. I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the passenger window.
I shiver as my mother’s face stares back at me.
FAT: Days 31–32 of NutriNation
I’ve eaten the same thing every day for three weeks.
For breakfast, I make an egg sandwich and a banana smoothie. At lunch, I eat a bento box of cubed cheese, almonds and fresh fruit. Dinner is a Lean Cuisine frozen meal and steamed veggies. Every day. For three weeks.
I keep myself busy making a matching gray jacket for Tommy, creating a full suit. It’s not easy. Grandma has to get involved with the shoulder divots and fitting the waist. She’s got this pamphlet called Sewing for Boys and Men, that cost a dollar back whenever mismatched plaid suits were in style. But the thing knows what it’s talking about and Tommy’s suit ends up totally GQ.
It’s after school on Tuesday and Tommy’s at my house trying it on. He’ll look great for his parents’ party this weekend.
And for the dance.
In the halls at school, they’ve started to hang up posters for the winter formal. Tommy and I always go to the dances together, usually because he’s got this lame idea that later on we’ll positively remember these moments of forced socialization. Most of the time, I give him a ton of crap.
Not this time.
This is my chance. The only thing I’ve been thinking about since the meteor shower.
The dance has this kooky James Bond theme. I think it’s stupid, but it could be worse. They could have gone for High School Musical Holiday or something. Plus, the ’60s were good for women’s fashion in a number of ways. I’ve been making a killer outfit. I’m down a size since I started NutriNation, and I plan to dress to impress.
I have this idea that the metal accents on my dress will sparkle just right on the dance floor. Like falling stars. And Tommy will see me. Really see me. Then we can be more than best friends and go to the prom and live happily ever after in a Barbie Dreamhouse that has a design studio for me and a terrace for Tommy’s telescope.
I’m seriously thinking this can happen.
“You wearing this to the dance?” I ask Tommy.
“The dance?” he echoes.
“You know, 00-Snow?” When he continues to stare at me like I’m a martian, I add, “The winter formal. Should I get the tickets? Or do you want to?”
“I got tickets last week,” he says.
“Oh. Great.” I smile at him. “You’ve got the suit. I’m almost done with my dress. And it’s fabulous.”
Tommy’s running his hands over the gray wool of the jacket and turning red in the face.
“You mind if I pay you for my ticket on Friday? That’s when I get my check from Donutville.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t mind. I mean, you don’t have to pay me.”
“Of course I do,” I say. But my mind is doing cartwheels. Omigod. Omigod. He’s asking me on a real date. Sparkle. Sparkle. Barbie Dreamhouse. Genetically perfect, postcareer children with dimples.
“No, I mean, I thought that... I didn’t think... You always say...”
“Stop doing that to the wool or it’ll become felted or something,” I say with a frown as he’s still rubbing his coat. The sparkles are fading. “What’s wrong?”
“You hate dances. I assumed you’d be happy to get o
ut of this one. I didn’t think you wanted to go. I should have said something.”
“But you just said you already got the tickets.” The sparkles are completely gone. A bulldozer is knocking down the Barbie Dreamhouse. I realize what’s happening. The expression on his face says everything. “You’re going with her.”
“You hate dances, Cookie.”
“I don’t hate them. They’re okay.”
“When we went to homecoming, you said that the school should use the dance to recruit volunteers for a eugenics program. You said you wished the DJ would get dragged off by a sun bear. You said you needed to get home to sanitize your toothbrush.”
“Well...” Things have changed. I know what I want now.
“Kennes loves dances.”
“Of course she does.”
He slides the jacket off his shoulders. He’s gotten hot and sweaty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I reach out and take it from him and put it on a hanger. “That she’s a superficial narcissist who is probably always on the lookout for opportunities to show off and make herself feel superior to other people.”
Grandma comes out of her room. It’s almost time for Wheel of Fortune. “Cookie, that ain’t too nice,” she says, setting her lips in a white line. Grandma is many things, but she is never rude.
“No, it’s not,” Tommy agrees.
Tommy and Grandma watch Wheel of Fortune together. It’s kind of their thing. The value of a friend who has a thing with my grandma isn’t lost on me.
On TV, Pat Sajak says, “And the category is Phrase.”
“Friends with benefits,” Tommy calls out.
Very funny, universe.
Grandma marks a point for him on her score pad. They tally it up. It’s 246 to 232. Tommy’s gaining on Grandma.
After he leaves, Grandma shuts off the TV and turns to me. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. Grandma really gets me, without us having to talk a lot, without having to put a bunch of awkward stuff in words. Mostly that’s a good thing, but sometimes...
“At church today, Father Tim told me your daddy’s been trying to get ahold of you on that fancy machine of yours. Sending you that E stuff.”