“Do you think you’ll make any physical pieces while we’re here?” I ask. “I know they said we could present one or two to Lorenzo if we had the time, but at the rate I’m going, I’ll be happy if I finish my drawings and concept on time.”
“At this point I’m not planning on constructing before we leave. I’m pretty sure Holly isn’t, either. Don’t quote me, though. For now I just want to focus on perfecting my sketches.”
I roll my shoulders with a tired smile. “Me, too. I don’t know. I feel like everything I try seems forced and I want to come up with something totally new.”
“I get that feeling,” he says. “Part of me is worrying that I’m trying too hard, and then the other half just wants to forget this is a competition and make whatever the hell I want.”
“In no way am I saying this to sabotage you, but if I had your level of talent, I would err on the side of making whatever I wanted. You’re so good, it’s genuinely upsetting. Everything you touch turns into fashion gold.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence, and if you ever feel like whispering that mantra into my ear while I sleep so it sticks, please feel free.”
I send a disbelieving look his way. “You never struck me as the type to lack confidence.”
“Please,” he replies. “I’m a self-conscious wreck. I just disguise it well under carefully curated layers of on-brand clothes.”
“That you do,” I agree.
“It’s important to exude confidence even when you’re petrified. When I first started designing clothes, mytiatold me that if you don’t believe in yourself, no one else will.”
“Yourtiasounds like a smart lady.”
“She is,” he agrees. “She was the one who taught me to sew. She was an accountant, but she always wanted to pursue fashion. She would do all the hemming for me and my sisters, and I remember watching her and being mesmerized. Once I was old enough, she’d have me help. First, I held the pins as she worked. Then sheletme pin. Then she taught me basic stitching and how to handle a sewing machine and the rest was history.”
“How old were you?” I ask, almost feeling like I was in the memory with him.
“When I first started sewing? Probably eight or nine. She picked out the beginner’s sewing machine my parents gave me that Christmas, too. Every year I make her an original piece as a thank-you. She loves to say that she was my first customer.”
“That’s a great story,” I tell him. “With you as the finished product, I should have known that you come from a wonderful family.”
“I’m very lucky. In fact, if you want to rub my elbow for good luck, I’ll allow it.”
I shoot him a quizzical look. “Why your elbow?”
“I like my elbow,” he answers simply. I shrug and give said lucky elbow a little pat once he tugs his shirtsleeve up. “Do you feel inspired now?” he asks.
I let out a quiet laugh and as I do, the sound of someone knocking on the workroom door draws our attention to the hall, where Matt is now standing.
“Hey,” he says, a little awkwardly as he leans his head inside. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work, but I was looking for my mom.”
“Of course, you’re never interrupting us,” Marco replies, hopping down from the desk. “Your mom’s out on the balcony with Holly at the moment but you’re more than welcome to join Violet and me as you wait.”
Matt’s already inching into the shadow of the hallway. “That’s okay. I can talk to her later.”
“No, no. I insist.”
Sensing that there’s no deterring a determined Marco, Matt slowly steps inside the room, adjusting the strap of a brown leather laptop bag that’s slung over his shoulder.
“That’s a snazzy case,” Marco tells him, noticing it as well. Matt glances down and tilts the bag off to the side to look at it himself.
“Would we call itsnazzy?” he asks. “It was the plainest one they had.”
“Maybe notsnazzy,” I tell him. “Let’s call it dignified. Think academia, dark romance, lingering-in-the-rare-books-section-of-a-university-library kind of energy. I bet it smells like dust and single malt scotch.”
Matt’s still holding up the bag even as he directs his gaze at me. “You got all that from this?”
I feel embarrassed, but I push the feeling away. “I have an overactive imagination,” I tell him, picking up my pen once again. “I always have.”
“I can see that,” he says. “Did you have a lot of imaginary friends growing up?”
