We weren’t close when I was younger. I was embarrassed by her eccentricities when the rest of my friends had normal parents, which usually meant stuck up and hands off, but I couldn’t see that at the time. My mom was a free-spirit who married into money where the rest of those around us had been born into it. After Dad was arrested, she tried to make our new life seem like a grand adventure. But I was twenty by then and resented her optimism before I could come to appreciate it.
She taught me to work hard. To scream into pillows after shitty shifts. The best brand of cheap wine. She taught me that surviving is hard but it’s more bearable when you’re in it with someone you care about.
Now, she’s found a man who’s embraced her love of putting knicknacks on every flat surface of their new home and is traveling to a dozen Christmas markets with her. I know I could talk to her about going to school again and the financial blow I’ve taken over the last few days, but I want her to enjoy this new life of hers without having to worry about me when I’m capable of taking care of myself.
“Have to go! We found mulled wine!” she chimes. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
I walk another block before I reach Trove, my favorite, and completely out of my price range, vintage store. Its large glass windows display mannequins in vibrant ensembles. Rich brocade Valentino. Metallic futuristic 90s Alexander McQueen. Vibrant Emilio Pucci dresses straight out of a romcom. I love museums as much as the next gal, but point me toward the nearest vintage store and I’ll be lost for hours, or until I’m asked multiple times if I intend to buy anything.
“Henrietta, darling, we just got in this haul from an estate sale—Galliano era Dior. Very Sarah Jessica Parker,” Marty says from behind the front desk as I walk into the bright curated space. Marty is in his fifties, arms adorned with American traditionaltattoos, and has the best salt and pepper hair you’ll ever see. He runs the store front while his partner, Alexi, travels the east coast sourcing items. Iris and I met them at Pride when we first moved here in June, and I’ve visited ever since.
Usually, I avoid putting down any firm roots in new cities, but with the potential of staying here for school on the horizon, I’ve allowed myself this one exception. And after the morning of doom and gloom, it’s nice to escape to somewhere familiar.
“Don’t tempt me. I’m about to be on a sodium rich ramen diet. I just stopped in to see beautiful things,” I lament.
“All that sodium might be worth it. Good clothes feed the soul, and you know what else does?”
I flutter my lashes. “I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“Helping an old man rearrange furniture. Someone bought the Herman Miller lounge chair and a side table. It’s thrown this entire place out of wack.”
“No, not the therapist chair.” I pout, mourning the loss of the black leather vintage chair that cost as much as three months of my rent.
“Just wait until you see its replacement.” Marty’s green eyes light up and I can’t help but get excited.
I follow him to the functional display with the hole where the chair used to be. Removing lamps with stained glass shades, we shift side tables to make more space then grunt as we lift the tandem sofa with avocado vinyl seats. Once everything is in place, he guides me to the processing room, a treasure trove of all of the inventory that’s yet to make it onto the floor.
“Isn’t she something?” Marty says, sitting at the heart of the wine red anemone chair.
Delicately, I run my hand over the plush velvet. “Can you tell me who ends up buying this so I can steal it?”
“You and me both,” he says, pushing up and out of the chair and toward one of the work tables. “That reminds me. Alexifound this and snagged it for you. Apparently he had to fight off a Real Housewife of somewhere for it. Real bloodbath, the way he tells it.”
He grabs a red velvet dress with a bow on the bust that is undeniably breathtaking and sets it on the work table for me to inspect. My mouth goes dry. Vivian Westwood Red Label.
It’s a bit big in the waist and has a tear in the hem, but even after everything that happened, the one thing I’ve never been able to completely let go of is my expensive taste. So I learned how to hand sew, my Singer sewing machine being one of the first things I bought with money I earned. I’d scour local thrift stores for hidden gems, quiet luxury items from brands people rarely flaunt and tailor them. I’ve made my own clothes too, and I love them, but I’m a far cry from the greats.
When I was looking at masters’ programs, I also glanced at FIT and Parsons. But fashion isn’t a career I could comfortably rely on, so I keep it as a passion.
“No. I can’t accept this.” I put my hands behind my back even as I yearn to touch it.
“You’re taking it. A Christmas gift. I see you staring at all of those dresses out there.” He looks down his nose at me. “Holding them up to see if they’re your size—always the best stuff, might I add.”
I shake my head even as I run my fingers over one sheer sleeve. “This really is too much.”
“Think of it as payment for all your free labor if that makes you feel better. Take it and make sure to wear it somewhere glamorous.” Marty grabs a garment bag, sealing the dress inside.
And it does. His words cause my shoulders to relax. I don’t like feeling like I owe people anything—that they have some sort of power over me.
We chat a bit longer before I head home for a lunch of leftovers. After eating, I try on the dress, practically moaning asthe high quality fabric slips over my skin. I twirl in the mirror, the hem swishing flirtatiously over my thighs.
Still wearing the dress, I reply to Jasper, sending him my contract.
I want to stay. I want this life. I’ve worked hard for it, and will continue to.
7
