“But doyou?” April said, frowning at Ramona. “Get it?”
“It’s not your job to reignite my career, Apes. Give me some time to process.”
“You’ve had twelve years of processing.”
“That’s a long time,” Olive said softly, and Ramona reached out and squeezed her hand, relieved when Olive squeezed back.
“Plus, it’s June—Pride Month!” April said. “All the queer deities are smiling down on you.”
Ramona huffed a laugh, then stood and took her empty mug to the sink. “What do you expect me to do? Camp out in front of Noelle’s trailer and most likely get arrested for harassment?”
“There are other ways to meet her,” Olive said. “Isn’t the café doing a lot with the movie? What about deliveries or catering or something?”
“Olive, you’re a genius,” April said, grabbing Olive’s face and kissing the top of her head.
“I know that,” Olive deadpanned, and god, Ramona loved her. Every choice she’d ever made for Olive was worth it…but she also couldn’t deny that little flicker near her heart was growing, brightening the dark places where she’d tucked away her own plans and visions for her life.
A few nights ago, she couldn’t sleep, that spark burning just enough to keep her awake. She’d taken her iPad and crept into the spare bedroom, the one with the daybed no one ever slept in, four different dress forms she had used for various genders and plus-size designs huddled in one corner, and the closet filled with Ramona’s creations from high school, from RISD, and from the few years after she first came back home from Rhode Island. She’d flipped on the red swing arm lamp on the drawing table she hadn’t used in years. Soft, warm light filled the room, and she sat on the edge of the bed, her iPad held tight to her chest. She eyed the closet, wary, like a monster lurked behind the honey-colored wooden doors.
It took her a good ten minutes, but she finally made herself stand and let that monster out.
And it was beautiful.
Sharp and hungry and eager for attention—smooth silks, colors in every shade, unique buttons and stitches, tartan and wool and chiffon, all lined up like scenes from Ramona’s dreams. Her heart fluttered like a kid with a crush, her fingers reaching out to drift over the things she’d created.
She loved clothes.
Always had, really. She could remember being as young as four and tucking herself into her mother’s closet, a walk-in filled with all manner of colors and fabrics and styles. She loved the textures under her fingertips, how her mother transformed depending on what she was wearing, everything from a simple pair of jeans and an old band tee to a sleek black suit to a floor-length dress the color of champagne. Clothes were art that one got to wear, got to present to the world and declareThis is mewithout uttering a word.
After her mother left when Ramona was thirteen—taking a bit of Ramona’s sense of security and understanding of love and family with her—Ramona fell even deeper into fashion, finding solace in the creation and work that was just for her, retreating to this roomafter school or on weekends while baby Olive napped. What started as a hobby turned into a passion, an obsession really, oxygen while her tender family of three struggled to breathe, to get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other.
Clothes became Ramona’s mood ring, a way to express herself without saying anything out loud—she was never great with words, taking after her more reticent father. She wasn’t sure there evenwerewords to describe what it felt like to be left by your own mother at thirteen.
What it still felt like, a lot of the time.
She hadn’t seen or heard from Rebecca Riley in eighteen years. And she didn’t want to—she’d long let go of the idea of having a mother, accepted the fact that the problem was Rebecca, not Ramona, not Olive.
But.
Feelings and facts rarely coincided, and if she let herself think about it just a bit too long, a knot formed in her throat, even at thirty-one years old. Which was why she didn’t think about it very much at all—what good would it do? She’d raised Olive. And Olive was incredible. She’d carried this family forward, she and her dad, and it no longer mattered what she’d had to give up to do it.
But as she’d stood in front of that closet, pulling out piece after piece of her heart and hanging them around the room, she felt like she was eighteen again, the whole world spread out before her.
Possibility.
It had been so long since she’d felt that word—reallyfeltit—for herself. She felt it all the time for Olive, worked for it, sacrificed to make sure Olive had endless supplies of it.
And she’d succeeded.
And now…Ramona felt a hollowness inside her, a space Olive had carved out and nestled inside of for so many years, and she didn’t know what she needed to fill it once Olive left home.
Or did she?
Now, as she stood at the kitchen sink and gazed out the window of her father’s house at the cloudless June morning, she knew exactly what she needed. And what’s more, she wanted it, foolhardy as it was, a thirty-one-year-old waitress trying to restart a whole career in costume design. A laugh escaped her throat, her chest hitching with a few tears at the same time.
It was just so…unlikely.
But so was a queer romantic comedy coming to Clover Lake, and here they were.
