by Melissa Ford
Francesca isn’t there, but I slide into a seat next to Tabitha, wincing as I arrange myself. “What is your problem?” she asks. “I finished your skirt for you. Only because you were ten seconds away from being fired, and I owe you for taking me to that party.”
“And now I owe you big-time.”
“Where were you?” she asks, at the exact same time as Francesca sweeps into the sample room and asks me the exact same question. Everyone is looking at me, and I can tell that my only option is to embarrass myself.
“I have a urinary tract infection. I stopped by a DR Walk-In and they gave me a prescription,” I lie. “I should be okay in a few hours.”
It’s hard to argue about something as mortifying as a urinary tract infection, and I can see Francesca swallow whatever she was about to say as a follow-up; especially since I’ve dragged myself back to the loft despite my fictional constant urge to pee. If anything, I look even more dedicated for pulling myself in here. Everyone goes back to work, and I don’t even need to embellish my tale with the rest of the story I came up with on the way from the studio to the loft, which involved spending copious amounts of time in a Starbucks bathroom.
“Just work on the suit,” Francesca snaps.
Despite the long list of work on the clipboard, I feel my body relax for the first time in days. The Emmy outfits are done and I got to go to the taping. Now it’s just getting through Fashion Week, which feels simple in comparison.
Hours later, when my phone buzzes, there’s only a handful of us left in the sample room. I glance at the screen, and it’s Noah. Good-bye? You can’t get rid of me that easily, Quinn. I’ll catch up with you after Fashion Week when things are less crazy.
It would be nice if Ethan had that attitude and understood how much pressure was on me. He texted me around Beckett’s bedtime to tell me that he could tell that Beckett missed me. It was sweet, but it gutted me as I attached an intricate pattern of sequins along the hem of a dress. Thinking about my child crying for me is not something I want to hear when I can’t get home to hold him.
I wish you had come over to say good-bye so I could thank you for the tickets. Why were you feeling shy earlier? None of us bite.
I pick up my needle and thread it. Only three more tasks on my list, and I can head home. Ethan will be asleep, but maybe he’ll wake up a bit when I crawl into bed, move apart his folded arms so I can slide inside, and hold me. Affection while we sleep will have to hold him for the next fourteen days.
There’s a word for a woman like you. Pochemuchka. It’s Russian for a person who asks too many questions. I scoff at that idea: too many questions. I love that you ask a lot of questions, Arianna.
Which only succeeds in leaving me with more unasked ones, even fewer successfully answered.
I CAN FEEL the tension of Fashion Week start to fade away after the first glass of champagne. Ethan stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders rhythmically as I drain the glass. Case, the babysitter, has asked us to be home by eleven o’clock so she can make a midnight showing of Rocky Horror in Chelsea. I wasn’t even aware there were still people out there who went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show or that any movie theater still showed it, but Ethan tells me that she showed up to babysit Beckett wearing tap shoes à la Columbia and took them off so he could happily bang the two pieces of metal together. We only have another hour or two to relax before we have to head back to the apartment or turn into a pumpkin minus one pissed-off babysitter.
I lean back into his chest and close my eyes, not really caring that he’s messing up my chignon by resting his chin on the top of my head. I could sleep for two weeks straight at this point. I’ve put in more hours than ever out of guilt from my fake urinary tract infection, one time staying in the loft for a straight twenty-six hours before stumbling home to sleep for a few hours. On one hand, I deserve to be exhausted. On the other, I hope Nigel Howe has noticed my dedication and will take me under his wing for the fall line. I have so many ideas brewing inside my head, as if some internal creativity switch has been flipped this summer.
The Davis & Howe’s aftershow is at Drink, a rooftop bar in Gramercy. They’ve set up tents, though it’s still plenty warm even though it’s the middle of September. The waitstaff are all wearing crimson scarves as a nod to the designer’s gorgeous take on the three-piece power suit that transforms into a formal gown suitable for going from the office to a black-tie affair within minutes. Making the gowns is exhausting, so it’s nice to hear that the fashion blogs are already buzzing with photos of Kourtnee on the catwalk letting down the hem of the skirt while she shed the jacket in exchange for a shiny red wrap. Tabitha informed me that she heard Anna Wintour call the entire collection “groundbreaking and brilliant.” It’s a good time to be working for Davis & Howe.
“Don’t you think we should mingle more?” Ethan says, watching some of the models that have gathered around the bar to drink shots.
“I’m too tired to mingle,” I murmur. “And you can’t go mingle because I’m leaning on you and you’re holding me up.”
“What if I drag you around the party tucked under my arm like a blow-up doll?” Ethan jokes. “I told my new students that I would surreptitiously snap photos of celebrities for them tonight.”
I smile to myself, hearing the real reason why Ethan wants to walk around. It isn’t for me; it’s for him. There definitely are celebrities up on the roof, and part of me feels as if I should mingle, trying to pick up some work. This is the perfect place to get a celebrity for my designs—a fashion event, to boot. But I don’t have my cards on me, and anyway, now that I know my friendship with Noah isn’t expiring, I plan to ask him for his help. Chloë Sevigny has the perfect look for my designs, and he clearly knows her.
But right now, I’m too tired. I wouldn’t be able to hold up my end of a conversation anyway. “Sorry, you’ll have to disappoint them. Or steal photos from Page Six.”
“So this is it, right?” Ethan asks me. “Fashion Week is over?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Fashion Week is over. You get your girlfriend back.”
“No, I just meant, if Fashion Week is over, it’s fair game to bring up marriage again.”
It’s about five seconds after Fashion Week—still technically Fashion Week since we’re at an event for my design house—but I cringe, turning around so I can face him. I’m awake now, feeling as if I’ve startled by reflex just as I was starting to fall asleep.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to propose,” he promises, “even though you have to admit this is a pretty romantic spot. Manhattan skyline, champagne flutes at the ready.”
“Ethan,” I manage to murmur before he barrels past me so I can’t cut off this conversation.
“So I had this brilliant idea while you were working this week—something that could meld us a little more since I know you don’t feel ready for marriage yet.” Ethan is looking at me so hopefully, with a huge smile plastered across his face that my heart sinks. He obviously already loves his idea. “Have you ever read Daisy Miller?”
“No,” I tell him.
He stares at me, as if he can’t believe this fact, but I’ve never even heard of the book. “Well, the eleventh grade is reading it, and I heard the kids talking about it.”
“You want to read a book together?” I question.
“No, I don’t want to read the book. But it’s about this American girl traveling the world with her family. And I thought, what if our family took a year to travel around the world, getting one of those plane tickets that allows you to visit every continent. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I stare at him, as if he’s just started speaking to me in another language. I buy myself time by taking a large sip of champagne. Leave Manhattan for a year? Leave my career just as it’s taking off? Pull Beckett out of his routine and expect him to just roll with Monday in Italy and Thurs
day in Japan. New sights, new smells, new languages every few days; never getting accustomed to anything. And pay for it with what money? I have almost nothing saved, though my parents often float me money to pay for extras. Sure, traveling sounds lovely, but it’s unrealistic—not only now but really at any point in my life. My home is here in Manhattan. This is where I need to be if I want to design.
“Ethan, it sounds cool but . . . it’s just not realistic.”
“I knew you’d say that so I started pricing things out. Plane tickets for the two of us—most of the time Beckett can sit in your lap. And hostels that accept kids. Those are hard to find, but I’ve started a list.”
“Ethan! I’m thirty-five years old. With a child. And a career in Manhattan. I can’t just pick up and go around the world. And if we were going to travel, the last thing I’d want to do is hang out in a youth hostel with kids playing around in their gap year. I graduated from hostel beds about a decade ago. Don’t you think we should try traveling together someplace closer, like Canada, before we commit to circumventing the globe?”
I can tell nothing I just said got through to Ethan’s mind because he’s still hopefully smiling, playing with a lock of my hair that has pulled free from my updo. “Just think about it. I know we’re looking for something special to take our relationship to the next level. And I know—I know—you don’t want it to be marriage. But I’ve come up with two great ideas since that conversation at the Shake Shack, and you’ve come up with none.”
Wasn’t moving in together in and of itself taking our relationship to the next level? Why can’t we slow down and enjoy cohabitation for a few years before we talk about the next big thing? Even cellular companies make you wait two years before you get your next phone.
“I told you that I was tabling thinking about this until after Fashion Week. I haven’t had time to eat, sleep, or pee the last few weeks. So I certainly didn’t have time to think.”
“Okay, fair enough. So I did the thinking for the two of us. Don’t you want to hear my second idea?”
I steel myself, certain that if traveling around the world for a year was his soft opener, that this next idea is going to involve something even more outlandish, like exchanging kidneys or building a house together somewhere in suburbia like our parents. He takes my champagne glass and sets it down on a nearby table so he can hold both my hands while he stares deeply into my eyes.
“Arianna, I love you. And by extension, I love Beckett because he is a part of you. And . . . spending all this time with him these last few weeks . . . I’ve realized that I want to adopt him. What do you think of me adopting Beckett?”
I wait for Ethan to laugh and tell me that he’s just kidding before he launches into his real idea, but the moments of continuous silence after the delivery let me know that he is completely serious. As I try to figure out how to answer him, my brain keeps interrupting with the simple answer: No. Just no.
An angry, crouching part of me, deep down underneath all my muscle, threatens to spring up and release a torrent of words. How can he be talking about parenting when he just hired Martina to watch my son while I was away? After telling me that he has the whole childcare thing covered and doesn’t need my mother’s help. Does he realize what parenting entails? That this isn’t like all those jobs he’s left in the past without a second glance behind. Parenting is for life. There’s no dropping parenting to go explore the world or whatever catches his interest next.
And making matters worse is the fact that he’s smiling as if he’s saving me; as if he’s throwing me a life preserver because he thinks I’m drowning in the parenting ocean. I may not do it well, but I’m not drowning. Beckett and I are just fine on our own. I was fine making him on my own, and I’ll be fine raising him on my own.
In comparison, traveling around the world sounds completely sane. I clear my throat and make sure that I keep my hands inside Ethan’s so he knows that I’m not upset by the suggestion. I remind myself that the thought comes from a good place as does his love for Beckett. “Ethan, no. Beckett is my son. Just mine. And while I love having your input, and you will always be a huge part of Beckett’s life, it is not appropriate to make a choice like that for him. Not after eight months of dating. Maybe not even after eight years. This impacts his life; he needs to have some say over it. We’re talking about our relationship, and we can’t use him to cement us.”
Ethan immediately sees the problem with his plan, and he backpedals, apologizing for over-assuming and reassuring me how much he loves me and Beckett. I say all the right things, promising him that I’m not offended for looking at my child as the human equivalent of a rubber band stretched between two posts. I wait for him to suggest that we make a baby together, but he seems to have picked up on the fact that a rooftop bar maybe isn’t the best place to continue this conversation. We awkwardly mill about, watching the other partygoers socialize until Ethan suggests that we head home early.
I say a quick good-bye to some of my co-workers, skipping Nigel Howe and Arthur Davis, who are ensconced in a conversation with Gwyneth Paltrow and Gwen Stefani. Ethan’s hand finds the small of my back as he helps me toward the elevator. And it remains there, even after the elevator doors close and we start our quiet descent alone down to the ground level. It feels like entering a different world after the noise of the party.
“Ari?” Ethan asks, almost as if he wants to make sure I’m still there. “I really do love you. And I just want to figure out something more. Something that shows you that I’m here for the long-haul.”
I nod, either to tell him that I’m in this for the long-haul, too, or that I know he’ll be here for all the tomorrows. Really, both. So why can’t both of us knowing our shared foreverness, all the way into our bones and marrow, be enough?
Chapter Twelve
I MANAGE TO chew off my lipstick two times before everyone arrives at the apartment. The first time, I go into the bathroom and reline my lips, noting how much my hands are shaking so the color is a little uneven. The second time, I don’t even bother. If it was up to me, I would be watching in my pajamas, a pillow half over my face because I am so terrified of how everyone is going to react when they see my designs. What if Joan Rivers says the dresses are hideous? What if her daughter agrees, saying she wouldn’t leave the house if she looked like these writers?
But Rachel wouldn’t drop the idea of an Emmys party, guilting me into it by pointing out on her blog and over the phone just how little we’ve seen each other these past few weeks. You’ve seen that writer, Noah, more than you’ve seen me, she whined. Which is true only because I’m dressing Noah. I have to see him. If I were designing Rachel’s wedding dress, I would see her, too. But she hasn’t asked me to do it, and I certainly haven’t had time for it before now. But I don’t point out to Rachel that I haven’t seen Ethan or Beckett or much of anyone else either unless they work in the loft. It’s easier to just say yes to her guacamole and signature cocktails, and I am grateful to have good friends who are just as excited as I am to see my designs come to life.
Though every time I peel away the excitement and really think about what this night means, I get a nauseated feeling gurgling around in my stomach.
I think about Noah because he’s probably the only person I’m friendly with who gets how I feel right now. I sit down next to Beckett on the floor with my phone. I know Noah is out in California, and he may not even have his phone on him during the ceremony, but I text him anyway. Remember weeks ago when you told me that you weren’t ready for your book to be out in the world? I’m nervous right now.
A reassuring answer comes back within seconds. Don’t be. We’ve already been told that we look drop-dead sexy. I fear that Ryan Seacrest is going to make me strip on live television so he can steal my suit.
I laugh and close my phone, feeling instantly better. I’m still smiling when Rachel and Adam buzz up a few minutes later,
and I scoop up Beckett so he doesn’t crawl out into the hallway as they bring in bags of food.
“Beckett is still awake!” Rachel says, leaving Adam to unpack the bags and set up the food while she takes Beckett from me. He squirms a bit and then makes a grab for her hair. “I’ve missed him so much. I haven’t gotten a chance to see Becks in weeks since you’ve been so busy. He’s so big now.”
I wonder how many more times she’ll point that out this evening. “I was just going to take Beckett into his room and give him his final bottle before bed. Hopefully get him down before the red carpet coverage begins.”
“Well, hurry,” Rachel says, unhelpfully, and hands me back my son.
I grab the bottle from the kitchen and sweep into Beckett’s bedroom, closing the door behind me to give myself two seconds of peace before the television goes on. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the pounding that has crept back into my heart, and instead I concentrate on the rhythmic sound of Beckett’s sucking, the alternating slurp and swallow punctuated by little happy sighs. There’s nothing more I can do right now; this isn’t like Fashion Week where we’re fixing outfits up until a second before they debut on the catwalk. This is out of my hands, and maybe that is what makes it so scary. There is nothing I can do except sit back and watch, and I’m admittedly not very good at ceding control.
I slip a milk-drunk Beckett into his crib, rub his belly for good luck, and then sneak out of the room as he’s falling asleep. Ethan already has the television on low, and everyone is speaking in exaggerated whispers about the entertainment reporters that are milling about the empty red carpet outside the theater, waiting for the first celebrity guest.
“Come join us,” Rachel tells me, holding out a hummus-slathered cracker, as if this is her apartment, her sofa, and her special night where her designs will debut for the first time. I raise a single eyebrow and then slip into the space Ethan left me beside him. His arm tightens around me.