by R. R. Banks
The bar where we’re dropped off is way too cool, and we haven’t even gotten inside yet. Since it’s relatively early still, there’s no bouncer outside, but we can hear some music trickling out from its tucked-away door, illuminated by a single neon arrow. I don’t even remember the name of this place. I feel like that arrow is pointing at me, saying I don’t belong here, even though I guess I’m the primary demographic the owners were probably going for. It doesn’t look like a place for people in their early twenties — the drink prices are way too high, and the music isn’t deafeningly loud. The other bars in the area don’t look like the kinds of places that put up with drunken shenanigans.
Gigi’s boyfriend Jack is waiting in the back, holding a table for us. He smiles at both of us, but mostly Gigi. Once we’re close, he gives her a kiss on the cheek and whispers something in her ear that makes her grin and wave him away. After he’s greeted Gigi, Jack gives me a hug.
“Long time, no see,” he says, stepping back. “You look rested.”
“That’s what Gigi said. Is that code for something else?” I laugh.
“No, I swear.” He looks at Gigi. “We just mind-meld sometimes.”
They grin at each other like maniacs. They’re so cute together that it’s almost a little weird, especially in moments like this.
“Are we the first ones here?” I ask.
“Mmhm.” Jack nods. “So you just got in?”
“Yep, a couple hours ago.” I find myself feeling the music, gently swaying. My feet ache a tiny bit, but it’s not too bad yet.
“How’s life upstate?” he asks.
I’m not sure how much Gigi tells him about what I tell her (which is fine with me — Jack is good at keeping secrets, or at least, good at pretending that he doesn’t know anything).
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping he wants to leave it at that. “How are things here?”
“Pretty good. Business as usual.” Jack shrugs in his laid-back way.
Gigi catches a waiter’s eye, and he stops by to take our drink orders since we’ve reserved an area. Nice — we don’t have to fight our way to the bar for refills. I glance at the menu he’s put in front of me. The drinks have unusual names like, “Scout’s Honor” with a bunch of different ingredients in them, half of which I have to look up. They’re a whopping twenty dollars each. Not that I can’t afford that for a night, but seriously? Another thing about living in Gray’s Point — I’ve started to remember that things don’t always have to be so pricey. I get that people have to turn a profit but come on.
I pick something with rum and pineapple, and the waiter leaves. More of our friends arrive just as he leaves. I hug everyone and give everyone the same line — things upstate are good, I’m good, everything’s fine. Everyone gives me a rundown of what they’re up to, and everything sounds completely new and unusual to me.
Olga, an artist, is collecting shoelaces from old men (specifically men who are sixty-seven and up) for a new piece. Miguel, a photographer who Jack works with, is shooting a campaign for a celebrity brand that makes ugly sneakers that I loathe, which sell for twelve hundred dollars a pair. Fatima and her husband are launching a capsule collection of vegan clothing for children.
These are all things I wouldn’t have batted an eye at before. God, maybe I need to come back here more often. I’ve been shut in my little work cabin, listening to music and sewing ninety percent of the time, only coming out to use the bathroom or kitchen. I’m extremely content there, sure — when have I ever had this much time to myself to decompress and create? — but my social muscles have definitely atrophied some.
I shift my weight between my two feet, which have rapidly started aching in the heels. Miguel offers me his seat, which I take, which only makes things worse in a different way. It’s hardly past midnight and I’m genuinely sleepy. I remember when we used to get to the bar at midnight, barely getting started. Maybe I should have picked a cocktail with caffeine in it. I’m feeling drunk, but that’s only making me feel worse.
“You okay?” Gigi asks me, bumping her shoulder with mine.
“This is going to sound lame, but I’m super sleepy,” I say with a laugh.
“Maybe because you’re actually being healthy and getting eight hours a night,” she replies. “Do you want to go home? We can get brunch tomorrow or something so we can hang more.”
“That would be perfect. I think I should head back.” I slide off the stool.
“Okay, text me when you get home.” Gigi gives me another bone crushing hug. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you.”
I say goodbye to everyone, promising to grab drinks when I’m back for good, and call a cab from my phone. I’m glad I did it before I closed out my tab — the guy’s going to be here in almost ten minutes. By the time I make it out front, he’s still ten minutes away. The night is cool, but not quite cool enough for me to be happy with my faux-leather leggings choice. What was I thinking? Faux leather leggings can be comfortably worn in a three-day span of time each year — cool enough to not be hot outside, but warm enough for the heat inside to not toast your legs.
I sit on the edge of a concrete planter near the bouncer and sigh. I feel like a loser, even though I know I shouldn’t. We’re in our thirties — it’s not weird to not party as hard. But, at the same time, I’m thrilled to go to bed.
I pass the time on my phone, playing some silly game, when I sense a presence in front of me. I look up and literally jump when I realize it’s Max. He’s invading my bubble, and I can’t get far enough away from my spot on the planter.
I hate that I’m still attracted to him physically. The contrast between his ink-black hair and pale blue eyes is striking.
He must have figured out this is where her party was going to be since we have so many mutual friends. I can’t extract him from my life. He’s like a random cord stuck in a jumble of them that doesn’t even charge anything.
“You’re here,” he says. He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look angry either. Regardless, the way he’s puncturing my personal bubble is intimidating.
“I am,” I say, keeping my voice steady. He’s much taller than me, lean like a panther.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
“Why does that matter? We aren’t together anymore.” I swallow and try to keep eye contact with him so I don’t look weak.
“C’mon, love.” He puts one hand on the planter, boxing me in, and I finally flinch. “Exes can be friends.”
“Not when one person grabbed the other so hard that it left bruises. And pushed them against a wall.” Even though the bruises have long faded, the proximity of his hand to my wrist is making it throb with phantom pain.
“If you had just calmed down, I wouldn’t have had to do that to you. You made me do it even though I didn’t want to,” he says, as if that’s a valid excuse for hurting someone. It sends my heart racing. If he can justify something like that, who knows what he’d do…
“Please leave, Max,” I say.
“Can’t we just talk?” He tries to box me in on the other side, but I manage to stand up, stumbling from a combination of my drunkenness and these heels that I used to be able to walk in.
“You okay?” The bouncer calls from a few feet away, taking some steps down the stairs. That alone makes Max take a step back.
“Basically!” I call back. I see the bouncer settle a few feet away out of the corner of my eye.
My phone buzzes with an alert, and a car flashes its lights across the street. It’s my cab driver, right on time. I step on Max’s foot with my heel unintentionally, but it makes him stumble back. I dart out toward the car, narrowly missing traffic, and hop in without even double checking if this is the right guy. I lock my door right away, and the driver pulls off. My stomach is churning, but I don’t want to throw up in the car. Instead I rest my elbows on my thighs and my forehead on my hands, breathing in slowly.
I shouldn’t have told so many of my friends where I’m living,
which is a completely fucked-up thing to even have to do. There are so many of them that I can’t control who says what.
It’s been months, and yet Max still finds it necessary to show up where I’m going? He hasn’t directly threatened me, besides the wrist situation, so I don’t even think I can call the cops. I want to go to bed. I want to forget that Max even exists. Any blip of happiness that I had gathered since I came back is gone in an instant.
When I finally fall asleep, I sleep listlessly. The whole Max thing aside, it’s so loud, even though the area is relatively quiet. It’s just the little things, like the creaking of the floor upstairs, sirens in the distance, the occasional drunk person talking loudly on the phone as they walk past. I didn’t think to bring ear plugs, and now I’m regretting it.
I wake up the next day with a very mild headache and a dry mouth, stumbling through the day. I nap, eat greasy hangover food with Gigi, and nap some more. Eventually I’m feeling somewhat human again, so I hop up and dig through my bag for my sketchbook. I don’t want to work on Katya’s stuff since I know I’ll get myself too revved up.
I’ve held off on working on my own stuff since this meeting with Katya is coming up, so it’s been a while since I’ve looked at everything. I sit on the fluffy rug and open it up to my newest work. I love sketching, but it’s always a little hard for me to imagine what something will look like when I’ve actually made it.
The pieces for my own collection are very different than Katya’s. Katya’s ideal customer is super wealthy with modern taste and an eye for quality. I want my line to be more for the everyday woman who wants to invest in a nice piece they can keep forever. Everything is classic, but not outdated. Or at least I think so.
I glance at the clock. Even though I’ve been asleep half the day, I’m somehow still tired. Maybe it’s hunger and nerves. I order some food and eat it on the fancy leather couch while watching Netflix. Something’s off with me. I ate pizza and watched Netflix all the time back in Gray’s Point, but I didn’t feel this edge inside of me. Maybe it’s because of all the activity. The Airbnb listing said it was a quiet street, which it is — for Brooklyn. I miss the quiet upstate, and the clean air. I’ve wanted to live in New York City and work in fashion ever since I was a kid, but now that I’ve gotten a taste of life outside of that, I’m less sure of myself.
Maybe I just need to invest in an air purifier and heavy-duty ear plugs.
Once I’m done eating, I decide to go to bed early, even though I’ve napped basically all day. I’m too nervous to face Katya tomorrow without being on my absolute A game.
Thankfully, Katya wanted to have our meeting at her apartment, so I don’t have to face my coworkers in my nervous state. I take my time getting dressed, mixing pieces of her line with some other designers, which she always likes to see. I take the subway to Tribeca and head over to her building. Even just being outside is intimidating. The doormen are wearing suits, and the building’s all glass and steel. I don’t even want to think about how much the rent is.
Once I’m let in, I wait in the elevator, feeling the inner crook of my arm sweat from where my garment bag is laying over it. It should open directly into her apartment.
Apartment doesn’t feel like the right word for it. It’s a penthouse with perfect views in every direction. There’s hardly any furniture, but what’s there is bright, modern and clean. It’s so spotless that it looks like no one lives here. My nerves shoot up ninety thousand feet into the air, even though honestly, this is kind of what I expected her home to look like.
“Simone?” Katya calls, sweeping into view. She’s wearing one of her own designs, a floor length white maxi dress that looks perfect on her.
“Hi,” I say, sounding shy, like I’ve never met her before. I’ve forgotten how beautiful and intimidating she can be. She’s seventy, but you wouldn’t guess it. She’s had work done, but not so much that she looks plastic.
“It’s so wonderful to see you.” She glances to my garment bag. “You look so rested. I love this outfit you’ve put together, too. Remove your shoes, please.”
I swallow hard and thank her, stepping all the way into the room. I step out of my oxfords, only wobbling a little bit.
“Let’s get straight to business, since I know you have a train to catch,” she continues. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, please.”
I follow Katya to her living room, where she sets me before she goes to the kitchen. This space has a little bit more color than the others — her couch is dark blue, and there’s a massive painting of a naked woman sitting on a beach behind it. She’s pulled a freestanding clothing rack into the space for me to put the clothes on.
I pull the pieces out one by one — some pants that are basic but will hopefully be in the customer’s closet for a long time, a feminine silk blouse made from the dark green color I loved when I first arrived in Gray’s Point, a dress, and a knit sweater. I hand-dyed the yarn at Maya’s family’s farm for the sample, but we can scale the production up. Or at least I hope my research is correct.
She returns with tea in a beautiful china teapot on a tray, then puts it on her coffee table. She pours us each a cup and hands me one. My hands are trembling. Why am I so nervous? I’ve done this before. But those times hadn’t been just my work without more hands deep in the design.
Katya examines the pieces, not saying anything for a bit. She makes a little sound of approval when she touches the alpaca sweater. I plop down on the couch, wincing. It’s not exactly made for comfort.
She’s taking ages, stepping back and touching and staring. She puts some on a dress form, then steps back again. I’m about to blackout on this couch.
“It’s not quite right,” she finally says, looking at me. “Don’t get me wrong — they’re beautiful clothes. Very well-made. But they don’t scream ‘Katya’ to me. They looked a little more mature in your sketches that I approved.”
I hold it together even though the disappointment’s a bit of a punch to the gut. “Oh.”
“Like this sweater.” She picks up the sweater, my favorite. “It’s so soft, but the cut is for a younger woman, I think. And the color’s lovely, but a little bit too out there.”
I scribble down the notes, my heart sinking. At least I can wear it, since I didn’t make it a sample size.
“And I don’t think the blouses work at all, unfortunately. They feel a little too J. Crew, if you get me.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m not sure if that’s a diss — does she mean old J. Crew when it had good basics, or new J. Crew, where you pay a bunch of money for subpar quality? Katya’s too classy for disses, I think, but I’m a little raw right now.
“I’m going to show these to our other designers, but I’m not sure this is the right direction.” She looks at the pants again, her head cocked to the side. “Actually, these pants are fine. But the rest aren’t quite it, I’m afraid.”
If my heart was sinking before, it’s now on the floor. Sure, the clothes are nice, but I still failed at something I poured my heart into. This fucking sucks. It’s not the first time some of my work has been rejected, but this collection has a lot of me in it.
“Okay, so what are the next steps?” I manage to ask without sounding like I’m as bummed as I am.
“I think we’ll get a little more feedback on these and pivot. We’ll email you, okay?” she says, patting my hand. “Please, keep doing what you’re doing up there. You seem so much more at peace.”
“Jeez, did I look that exhausted?” I crack, trying to brighten the mood. “You’re the third person who’s said I look refreshed.”
“No, Simone. You just look happier and less stressed.” She sips her tea. “I’ll have my assistant set up a conference call to chat about all of this.”
I nod along as she fills me in on more office stuff, but I mostly feel a dull sadness. I need to pull myself back together, and soon.
Chapter Ten
Jay
Simone’s back, final
ly. Her little rental car is parked next to my truck, and she’s just gotten out. I’m annoyed as hell, but that’s until I notice that she looks pretty rough. She’s pale, and her hair’s a mess around her shoulders instead of in the bun she usually has it in. I can’t tell if her eyes are puffy from here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they are.
Goddamn it. Should I go talk to her? Or will she literally run from me? Seeing her, someone stubborn about maintaining the appearance of strength, wilted like this is a little worrying. Maybe it has to do with that ex of hers.
I don’t have to wonder whether to go to her or not, because she grabs her purse and starts toward the house. I slip away from the window, so it doesn’t seem like I’m staring at her and head back to the kitchen. I’ve got some stew on the stove, since it’s basically the only thing I know how to make well on a consistent basis, so I give it a stir when the door opens.
I hear Simone kick off her shoes and walk toward the kitchen. Even though I’m still facing away from her, I know that she’s standing in the doorway.
“You’re back,” I finally say after a few moments, still facing the stove.
“I am,” she says. She still doesn’t move. “That smells good.”
“Thanks.”
I look over my shoulder at her. She’s pressed her body up against the doorway, like she’s nervous to come in. Fine by me. It’s hard to process her clearly defeated attitude when I’m as annoyed with her as I am. On one hand, I’m pissed, but on the other, I want to comfort her and protect her. Is that latter feeling based on who she used to be? It’s starting to feel like it is.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
“You’re already in.”
I hear her small bare feet on the tile, and soon she’s next to me. I glance down at her.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “For being weird after we slept together and avoiding you.”