CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blue
Wednesday Night
Over eighty hours have passed, and I haven't slept one second of it. My eyes close at night, but no matter what I do, I can't seem to drift off. My brain replays every second of my encounters with Red, like it's a precious filmstrip that might disintegrate if I don't watch it obsessively. And there's one thing I can't stop circling back to.
He knows how much of a virgin I am.
Is he fantasizing about deflowering me as much as I am?
So every stitch I've sewn since Monday morning has been controlled by my confession. I've pushed all other work projects aside and focused on the white, innocent-looking sundress I've envisioned myself wearing. I know in my heart it'll tempt Red to make his move.
The fabric sighs beneath my fingers as I smooth the bodice again. It's my fifth redesign in two days. Nothing is good enough until it's perfect. It has to make Red lose that iron grip on himself, just once, just enough to prove I'm not imagining the tension that's been humming between us.
"Blue," my mom says gently, like she's approaching a frightened feral animal instead of her adult daughter. "Sweetheart, you need to stop for a minute. You've been reworking the same seam for half an hour."
I pretend I don't hear her, sliding the fabric under the presser foot. The machine hums to life, vibrating under my palms, but the line comes out uneven again. I rip it apart, jaw clenched.
Mom steps closer. "You're shaking."
"No, I'm not."
"You are," she insists, still maddeningly soft and controlled. "Your hands are trembling, Blue. And you look exhausted."
I lift the fabric, hold it back to the light, and frown at the neckline's curve. It's still wrong. It's too sweet without any sin. I reply, "I'm fine. I just need to adjust this again."
Mom's sigh is quiet, frayed around the edges. "You've been adjusting it since Monday. You have three fittings today, custom patterns to review, and the linen collection is supposed to get finalized by Friday. You haven't touched any of it."
I finally cut my gaze to her, irritation blooming hot under my skin. "I said I'm working."
"Onthis," she says, gesturing gently toward the dress like she's afraid to provoke me further. "But you have other responsibilities."
"Responsibilities that can wait."
She studies me and gently argues, "No, they can't. Not all of them. You're ignoring clients, ignoring deadlines?—"
"I'm not ignoring anything. I'm prioritizing." The words snap sharper than I intend.
Her brows lift. "Prioritizing what? One dress you've ripped apart twenty times? A dress no one ordered?"
The jab lands harder than it should. I straighten, my pulse skipping. "It doesn't have to be ordered to matter."
"I didn't say it doesn't matter. I'm saying you're pouring everything you have into this one piece and nothing else. That's not like you," she claims.
I scoff, turn away from her, and refold the bodice, pressing the seams flat with the side of my thumb. My movements come out fast and jerky. I retort, "People evolve."
She steps closer, her voice lowering. "Blue, have you slept recently?"
"Sleeping's overrated," I mutter, peering closer at the thread. Then my frustration mounts.
Wrong thread.
I pull the spool off the machine and move to the wall, running my fingers over the different white options.
Mom's voice turns firm. "You're pale. You have dark circles under your eyes. I'm worried about you."
"Well, don't be."
