"Joss, can I get you something? Do you need meds?” I knock on the partition and stick a hand out to Gustav. “Ibuprofen, please.”
He pops open the glovebox and pulls out a bottle of pills, passing them through before closing the barrier.
I hand them over, and Joss dry-swallows a couple. “Don’t listen to me. Don’t dump him. My personal life is in shambles right now, and—” She holds up a finger before I can ask her what’s going on. “I don’t want to talk about it yet. We’re talking about you right now, and from what I remember, Decker was a million times better to you last night than anyone else I’ve seen during the entire duration of any of your previous relationships.”
As much as I want to deny it, I can’t.
“That’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”
She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m crazy. “Sad? No. It’s about time you pull your head out of your perky little butt and take a look around at what a quality man is.”
I bite back a smile. “Quality?”
She shrugs. “Better than the trash you usually lug around with you. You actually seemed happy with him. Like the whole night. I was also drunk half that time, but still.”
My smile expands until it hurts my cheeks. It feels so good to hear that. She’s right. The time I’ve spent with Decker has made me just that. Happy. And despite the chaos of the past few days, everything has been relatively easy. So easy that my brain is beginning to fill with delusion.
If my best friend believes it, why wouldn’t others? Not only does she believe it, but she approves of it. Of him. It’s been so long since I’ve heard those words from her, my mind swirls with figments of what could be. Me and Darlene watching Decker in the playoffs. Decker meeting me on the field after another win. The two of us posing for pictures as confetti rains down at the Super Bowl. Decker finally getting voted into the Pro Bowl and me watching—yet again—from the stands. Why couldn’t this be our reality?
We could keep this going. Forreal.
A fear creeps in, coiling in my gut at the thought of how a solid relationship—the kind that lasts—may affect my work. Those types of romantic commitments need dedication and time. Is there room in my life for both a successful relationship and career? If there’s one thing my string of broken hearts has taught me it’s that it isn’t possible. Yet, a sliver of delusional hope prevails, and the fantasy circles back to its source. I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering how Decker’s lips felt against mine. How protective he always is any time the paps rear their sordid heads. How fun he is to be around. Joss is right, he's different, and I need to be honest with myself. Then it dawns on me, this isn’t delusion. This is want. Despite my reservations, I want Decker.
I want to be with Decker Trace.
The question is, does he want to be with me, too?
“You want me to take it lower?” I try not to distort my face as my seamstress tucks and pins the bust of my top. Breaths are few and far between, constricted by my costume. She wheels around me on her little leather-top stool, examining her handiwork thus far. A drawn on brow arches at the incessant buzzing of my phone. I want so badly to answer it.
“If it goes any lower, I might as well not be wearing one.”
“I’m only doing what the design notes say, dear. Plus, with a figure like yours, if you want to accentuate what you have going on, this is the best way.” Marguerite wrinkles her snub nose and pulls another pin from her lips, sinking it into the pink satin of my bustier.
My stomach growls. All I’ve had to eat are the puffs of artificial rose fragrance emitting from the plug-in nearby andthe small talk with Marguerite I had to choke down. To say I’m tired of being here is an understatement. I want nothing more than to be finished with this fitting already. My mind’s not present, it’s somewhere back across town in a pillowy white bed next to a half-naked man that I let kiss me last night. Heat pulses from my cheeks down into my belly. I let Decker kiss me, and it wasn’t bad. Quite the opposite of bad, actually. I sigh at the memory, at my predicament of being trapped here instead. Which only earns me a bigger sigh from Marguerite in return.
“I want to try adding a panel of another fabric down your side. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Draping her measuring tape around her neck, she uses her short legs to repel off of the pedestal I’m stuck on. In a second flat, she’s rolling across the slick floor and through her open office door.
Marguerite is kind of scary, and since she holds all the sharp pointy things during our meetings, I usually listen to her, but I can’t keep my mind from wandering to my phone. My eyes lag across the bright room, trailing from the gold framed 360 degree mirror before me down and across the terrazzo floor. I rock on my heels, not wanting to disobey, but my phone beckons again. It’s been buzzing for hours, it seems. Only God knows how long I’ve been trapped up here under Marguerite’s fastidious stare. When she’s out of sight, I cave. I step down, grab my phone, and check my messages. Joss has sent me a picture of herself burrowed into the satin sheets of her bed. Glad she made it home safe, though I know today—and maybe tomorrow—will be rough. Butterflies storm my belly when I see the next name. Decker. Despite the inkwell of hope that’s opened in my chest, he doesn’t mention anything about last night. Not the puke, not the whole sharing a bed thing, and definitely not that kiss production we put on for Maleko. Only a quickgood morningpopulates my screen.
I check my clock. It’s 7:30 a.m. He said he was sleeping in. Does he really consider this sleeping in? I commend him for that, but if I had a whole day free, I’d sleep until at least 9:00 a.m. I try to think of something cute to say back, but it never comes to me. Another text from Joss rolls in, asking for spoilers of my newest costume. She always gets the first glimpse.
I open my camera and take a few photos in the 360 mirror in front of me, both for her records and for mine. Then I lift my phone and emphasize “what I’ve got going on,” as Marguerite so eloquently phrased it, tossing my head back and letting the low-V of my bustier take center stage. As the cherry on top, I bite my lower lip and snap the picture, snickering to myself as I examine the campy pose. Though my top is revealing, the pose doesn’t fit it. There are loose threads and frayed edges sticking out from all sides and places Marguerite has marked up to change. I look ridiculous. Giggling, I choose one to send Joss, but Marguerite appears. I scramble to close out of my texts and drop my phone back into my bag. Just as swiftly as she’d returned, she’s gone again, mumbling something about supplies she forgot. I unlock my phone once more, choose a photo, type a few quick words, and press send. Careful not to be jabbed with all the metal lodged in my outfit, I jog back to the pedestal.
Marguerite pops up moments later with fabric shears and her sewing kit, a trail of blue satin tossed over her shoulder. She gets to work, none the wiser that I’d moved across the room. She mumbles and pins, mumbles and pins, arching a brow every so often at the incessant buzzing of my phone.
“You ever turn that thing off?” she gripes.
“I do. When I’m not working,” I reply coyly.
“And when is that?”
“Never.”
Her lips push into a tight smile as she wheels around me, inspecting her alterations. One last pin drills in beside theboning in my chest, and then she backs away. “Very good. It’ll be my favorite yet, I think.”
“Are you adding the crystals I asked for?”
Her lips purse. “The note said this one is intended to be a bit more sleek than what you’ve worn in the past.”
