by Julie Murphy
“All clear,” I mutter to myself as I pull out the bedside drawer. Whatever I might have left behind belongs to the St. Regis now, as far as I’m concerned.
After work today, I’m leaving for a two-week seminar in Italy with the new women’s footwear team, some of whom are industry giants and others who are just as green as I am. It’s all a little intimidating, but I’ve already made a few work friends, which Sierra is very impressed by. (Of the two of us, she was the only one who ever attempted to expand our friend group.)
As I step into the elevator, my phone vibrates. “Hello?”
“Oh, Cindy, I wasn’t expecting you to answer. I was just going to leave a voicemail,” Erica says in a hurry.
“I’m just now leaving for work. What’s up? Isn’t it, like, five thirty in the morning there?”
“I’m trying a new hot-yoga class with Drew, and the only time we could get in was the six fifteen class. Anyway, I’m in the car, so apologies for the road noise, but what was the apartment number again?”
“One thirty-four,” I tell her.
“Oh, darn, I could have sworn it was eleven thirty-four. I’ll have my assistant call and fix it. I’ve got a delivery company all set to deliver your wardrobe when you return home from Italy. I’m planning on coming out that weekend so we can go furniture shopping?”
“Erica, you really don’t have to do that. Sierra and I can take her uncle’s truck out to an IKEA.”
Erica clicks her tongue. “I’ll not have you furnishing your first adult apartment with Scandinavian particleboard, thank you very much.”
I sigh into the receiver. “You know you can just come visit. You don’t have to use furniture shopping as an excuse.”
The day after the finale, I called Erica to apologize, and slowly over the last few weeks she’s warmed back up to me. It doesn’t hurt that the show has been the talk of the town since that night, but we’re still trying to find out how our relationship functions post Before Midnight. She was also impressed to know that I’d run away from home for the sake of a job interview.
Erica is silent for a moment. “Thank you. Noted.”
“How is—”
“Have you heard from him?” she asks, interrupting me.
“No,” I say glumly as I step out of the elevator. “Any word on your end?”
“Only from his lawyers,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Is the network really that upset about him disappearing that they need to involve legal? It’s probably some of the best ratings they’ve ever seen.”
“You’re not wrong,” she whispers as though someone is spying on her in her own car. “To be honest, it’s the highest finale numbers we’ve seen since the first season.”
“How’s Beck recovering from her prime-time debut?” I ask.
“Well, Mallory taught me how to send GIFs over text message, and apparently Twitter deemed the death stare Beck gave Chad highly GIFable, so I’ve found a great deal of pleasure in communicating via GIF only.”
“I’m sure Beck is really enjoying that. Hey, I’ve got to check out. Can I call you when I get to the airport later tonight?” I ask.
“Yes, please. The kids are dying to talk.”
“It’s a date,” I say.
After we hang up, I head to the reception desk, and Lydia, the manager, comes around to give me a hug and wish me good luck. She’d watched the show and even asked me to sign her eleven-year-old daughter’s autograph book.
There have been a few moments like that. Getting recognized on the subway or in line for coffee or in the hotel lobby. But for the most part, New York is a good place to disappear. Recent fashion school grad turned reality television star is just another square on someone’s NYC bingo card.
On my way to Gossamer, I make a quick stop. Unlike the first time I visited LuMac, there are no paparazzi or producers or film crew. The storefront has been converted back from a runway to its usual flagship layout.
When I knock on the glass door, the tall, slender salesclerk who definitely overslept this morning ignores me. I try again, rapping my fist a little harder. This time, she looks up and rolls her eyes before marching to the door and pointing at the store hours.
I glance at my phone. It’s only nine o’clock, and they don’t open until ten, but there’s no way I’ll be able to make it across town on my lunch hour.
“I need to speak with Jay!” I yell through the glass. “I’m a friend.” Then more quietly, I add, “Sort of.”
The girl points to her ear and mouths, I can’t hear you, even though she so obviously can.
“I said”—yelling even louder and feeling like an absolute lunatic—“I’m a friend of Jay’s.”
She holds her hands up and shrugs before walking away.
“Hello, friend.”
I spin on my heel. “Jay!”
“I hear we’re friends,” Jay says playfully. Today they wear a blue-and-white seersucker romper with a pair of Gucci sneakers. It’s the perfect summer-in-NYC outfit.
“I think I scared your store manager.”
They shiver. “Nothing could scare that troll. You know she once told Lucy herself that she couldn’t take more than six pieces into the fitting room.”
My eyes widen. “And she still works here?”
“Would you believe that Lucy thought she was kidding and gave her a bonus for her dry sense of humor?”
“That’s a thing people give bonuses for?”
Jay smirks. “Not on my watch. I’m guessing you’re not here to give me all the latest Gossamer gossip.”
“I could?” I offer.
Jay reaches for my hand and cuts right to the bone. “He still hasn’t been back to the office.”
“You’ll let me know when he has?”
Jay’s smile droops.
“I guess it makes sense that he’d get you in the divorce,” I say.
“Honey, I belong to no one. But you’ve got to understand, Henry’s spent most of his life playing second fiddle to someone’s career.”
“So he knows, then? He knows why I wasn’t there?”
Jay narrows their gaze. “You’re a real sneaky one, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you can’t blame a girl for trying to read between the lines.” I push my sunglasses up into my hair so that they can see my eyes and, somehow, I can hypnotize them into delivering this message for me. “Listen, I’m leaving tonight for Italy…I don’t expect to see him before then, but can you just tell him that I’ll be back…and at the very least, I’d like to talk about what happened. To apologize.”
They nod pointedly. “I can’t promise anything, but have a safe trip. Think of me wasting away at the Olive Garden in Times Square while you feast on fresh pasta.”
“Hey, when you’re there, you’re family. And yes, I’ll clean every plate,” I tell them. “Just for you.”
The Gossamer offices remind me of my classrooms at Parsons. I have my own work desk complete with all the technology I could ever need and my own personal cobbler station so that I can craft prototypes before sending them off to our manufacturer for official samples.
Beside me is Freja, a Danish designer fresh out of school in London. We’ve been practicing a few Italian phrases every day at lunch, and she’s convinced that I’m going to meet a great European rebound guy in Italy. Multiple rebound guys if she gets her way.
“Buongiorno, Cindy!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m running home to get my suitcase at lunch, so maybe we can get to the airport a little early. Get a little vino to kick off the trip?”
“You know this is a work trip, right?” I remind her.
“You Americans are such prunes,” she says.
I let out a snort.
“What? Did I say it wrong?”
“I think you were going for prudes.” I sit down at my desk and pull out the shoe I’ve been pecking away at for the last few weeks. Even though most of us have been in the office for a little while now, our team doesn’t officially assemble un
til the trip to Italy, so when we’re not doing HR trainings, we’ve all been encouraged to just…play.
My phone chimes, and I find a text on my group thread with Sara Claire and Stacy.
Stacy:
What if I told you I was already moving back in with my ex?
Sara Claire:
RED ALERT TOO SOON
Cindy:
Meh. Life is short.
I got their numbers from Beck a few days after the finale. That night, the three of us talked over a video call for almost five hours. I told them everything. Meeting Henry on the plane. Erica. My parents. Anna and Drew. And it turned out Sara Claire and Stacy had secrets of their own. Sara Claire’s father had bribed someone on the craft service’s team to give her a cell phone, and of course Stacy spilled all the details about her ex crashing our hotel room.
Sara Claire was upset at the finale, of course, but has fully embraced her status as America’s new favorite meme. Since I’ve bowed out of the next season, it looks like Sara Claire is being eyed for my position. She’s already made it very clear that the only person choosing the winner will be her. And Stacy is happy to be back to life as normal, though Beck has already reached out to say she’d love to have her on her queer take on Before Midnight, which was just greenlit, should Stacy’s girlfriend ever once again become her ex.
Since that marathon video chat, the three of us have stayed in constant touch, and Sara Claire is already demanding we rendezvous in Austin for a girls’ weekend.
I drop my phone back in my bag and return my focus to my workstation. In school I never really did much menswear, but in my free time over the last few weeks, I’ve been challenging myself to try. After rolling my suitcase under my desk, I open my sketch pad to the page I’ve revisited over and over again the last few days.
At the top in a soft script, I’ve titled my design The Henry. Below that is my sketch and fabric sample. A deep blue suede loafer with a slightly pointed toe and a super-soft brushed finish with a tassel on top. They’re more extravagant than my Henry might wear, but the details remind me of him. Refined and polished and bold without being too loud or taking themselves too seriously.
Crow was right. Crossing one bridge had allowed me to look back and see all that I had been through, and when I sat down to sketch a few days after the finale, things started to feel more and more natural. I was designing again. Really designing. Some of it was bad. Some of it was okay. And some of it was even great. But I was thankful for it all. Most importantly, I was relieved to have the thing that brings me so much joy back in my life. I think for a while there, I began to wonder if I’d made it all up, and that the inkling of talent that had gotten me through the first three years of fashion school was just a fluke.
“Did you find that tassel I dug up for you?” Freja asks.
“No.” I turn around in my chair to see a soft navy tassel next to my keyboard. The tassels are thick—not too delicate—and remind me of the ropes from the sailboat that last night. “This is perfect,” I tell her.
I pull the shoe out from the cubby beside my desk where we can keep our current works in progress. It looks like an old card catalog, except the drawers have been replaced with shoes.
The shoe I’ve been working on is rough-looking to the naked eye. Exposed seams. Obvious shoe nail tacks. But I can see what it’s supposed to be. I can see the potential, and this tassel is the crowning finish.
At the end of the day, as Freja and I are walking down the street with our suitcases to catch a cab, she begins to frantically pat down her pockets and dig through her bag. “I forgot it. Damn it. I can’t believe I did this. Or I left it at the office.”
“Forgot what?” I ask. “Whatever it is, we can just buy it when we get to the airport.”
“Unless you know a guy who’s selling Danish passports out of JFK, I need to run home.”
“Honestly, that’s not such a far-fetched business idea,” I tell her.
My joke doesn’t ease the panic in her eyes.
“Okay, you run home,” I say in my most soothing voice. “You’re just a few blocks away. I’ll run up to the office and check there. Leave me with the bags, and I’ll make sure we have a car waiting for us when you get back. Airport vino can wait.”
She nods and sprints off down the street.
I roll both of our suitcases back into the lobby and take the elevator up to the forty-fourth floor. I walk through the waiting room and wave to Carlos, the receptionist, as I pass his desk. He’s on the phone but gives me a puzzled look. “Freja forgot something,” I whisper.
The whole floor is empty, except for one desk—my desk.
My work lamp is turned on, illuminating him so that I can’t miss him—not that I ever would.
“Henry,” I say, his name sucking the air right from my lungs.
He looks up with a sad smile spread across his lips, and the constant five o’clock shadow I left him with has turned into a slight beard. “I—I thought you’d gone.”
“I had…I am…I just—My friend forgot something, so I…”
“Do you permanently live out of suitcases?” he asks. “Or do you just like to keep a collection of shoes on your person at all times?”
“Still a smartass,” I say.
“Turns out reality TV didn’t bleed my whole personality dry.”
“Lucky me.” I take a few steps closer, hesitantly. I feel like I’ve trapped a wild animal, and I don’t want to run the risk of spooking him. “Did Jay tell you where to find me?”
“Among other things. Honestly, I was just hoping to leave you something for when you got back.” He sits down on my stool. “Congrats, by the way. Gossamer is a pretty big deal. They’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks.” My pulse quickens the closer I get to him, and I wonder if he feels it too—that electric excitement that comes when it’s just the two of us, like we still have a whole production crew and house full of women to hide from.
He holds up a glossy white shopping bag with Jimmy Choo spelled out across the front in delicate gold letters. “I thought I’d bring you a peace offering. I’ve got to get back to work eventually, and it turns out fashion is a small business, so what better way to clear the air than with shoes?”
“You’re speaking my language,” I say, tiptoeing closer so that we’re only a foot apart.
“Erica is my stepmom,” I tell him. “I wanted to tell you the whole time.”
He nods. “Beck told me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I, uh…When I wasn’t working on the show or putting out fires at work, I was duking it out with the network execs over ‘wifey.’ God, is that just the worst word of all time or what?”
“Moist,” I say. “But after that, yes, wifey. But you wanted to choose me? Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I didn’t want to promise you anything I couldn’t deliver on,” he says. “Contracts had been signed. They wanted me to propose. To Sara Claire? Can you imagine? I barely even know her. I said yes at first, because, yeah, I liked you, but I went on the show to save LuMac. They promised me things that…well, things that could have saved the business overnight. Featuring LuMac in all their programming and productions. Runway sponsorship. Prime-time commercial spots. But, uh, I pretty much ruined all that.”
“What now?” I ask. “What happens to LuMac?”
“The show gave us a boost. That’s for sure,” he says. “It’s not the big splashy deal the network offered. But we’re out of the SOS zone, and we’ve bought ourselves enough time to figure out how to move LuMac into the future. And we get to do it without selling out to Hollywood, which makes Mom happy.”
“You and Jay are a force,” I tell him.
He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, long overdue for a cut. His jeans are worn, and his white T-shirt is likely nothing more than an undershirt. I wonder if all the suits were Irina at work, and if this is the real Henry. Threadbare jeans, T-shirts, and Converse. This is much closer to the ve
rsion of Henry I met on the plane. “Well, I thought my peace offering was splashy, but I guess you one-upped me.” He motions to my open sketch pad, where my Henry-inspired design is on full display.
My cheeks flush with mild embarrassment at the thought of him seeing my work and the fact that it’s so heavily inspired by him. I reach past him for the prototype, and a vein in his neck jumps as my waist grazes the side of his arm. “This isn’t even a sample,” I say. “Just something I’ve been fooling around with, but, Henry, meet…the Henry.”
He takes the shoe in his hand, running his thumb along the material so that he can feel both the rough and smooth sides of the suede. “Do you mind?” he asks, looking down at his own feet. “They look to be about the right size. And then I could say I’d tried on a Cindy original.”
“I’d be honored,” I tell him as I take the shoe from him and drop to one knee. Carefully, I untie the laces of his well-loved all-white Converse. Looking up to him, with my shoe in hand, I ask, “Ready?”
He nods as he slides his foot in, his heel popping perfectly into place.
“It fits,” he says, a lilt in his voice.
“It looks perfect on you,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I feel. “Henry?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I just…I didn’t think you would pick me, and I couldn’t risk missing out”—I motion around to this beautiful space—“on all of this.”
“Don’t you be sorry,” he says with force, pulling me to my feet so that we’re only a breath apart. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I was trying to save LuMac and play my cards just right when I should have just been up front with you all along. Cindy, it was always you. It was you from the moment we met outside of our gate at JFK.”
“But—but then why did you agree to choose Sara Claire to begin with?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t think it could be that simple. Surely, I wouldn’t just meet the girl of my dreams on a flight and then that would be it. I just…wanted to be the son who saved the day. But I can’t be that for them. For some twisted reason, I thought that if I couldn’t save LuMac for my mom, then I didn’t deserve you. But if I’m going to save LuMac, it has to be because of my own vision. Not my mother’s.” He reaches up and pushes a loose hair back behind my ear. “I just didn’t see you coming. I didn’t know someone like you could exist. Cindy, being with you makes me feel like I can come up for air.”