Lorenzo flashes me a sad smile. “Try not to be too discouraged. I’m counting on you to prove me wrong. Then you can come back here and throw everything I said right back in my face.”
My fake smile is starting to hurt. This would have been much easier to take if Lorenzo was a terrible person, but he’s not. And that’s why I know what he’s saying must be true. Devastating and true.
“Thank you for your time,” I tell him.
“Of course,” he answers. “And thank you for all your hard work while you’ve been here. I wish you the very best of luck.”
He and I shake hands and I leave his office in a daze. I feel like I’ve been punched in the throat while simultaneously having my legs kicked out from under me. I stand there a few feet outside his office for several seconds until I realize that Gabriele is beside me. I turn to look at him, but he avoids eye contact, merely holding up a tissue instead.
“Here,” he says, shaking it around a bit in front of me. I pause before I hesitantly take it. “If you’re looking for somewhere to cry,” he continues, “I prefer the sample closet. It should be empty around this time.”
I continue to stare at him with a puzzled gaze, though it’s hard to see much of anything through my glassy eyes. “You cry in the sample closet?”
He shrugs. “On occasion.”
I don’t know how to respond. Gabriele is speaking to me as if I’m a human and everything feels upside down. I hold on to that tissue like my life depends on it. “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask quietly.
“I’m not,” he insists. I keep watching him and he rolls his eyes before going on, “I just understand how you feel. I showed Lorenzo my designs once, too.”
A crestfallen smile pulls at my cheeks, and for the first time I see a softness to Gabriele that I’ve never picked up on before. He’s one of us. Another designer doing whatever he thinks it takes to find his way in this business.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you for...”
“Yeah, whatever. Bye,” he says, cutting me off and striding around me to return to his desk. I don’t pester him further. I follow his advice and beeline it to the sample closet. Once inside, I close the door and I let the silence fall over me. Let it push me down until I can hardly stand. Each one of Lorenzo’s negative comments replays in my head at a high-pitched scream. They sing along with and overlap my preexisting insecurities, creating a stomach-turning melody that grows louder and louder with every passing second.
I’m not good enough. I never was. I never will be. I need to go home. This isn’t for me. I should quit. I need to quit. If I quit now, it won’t hurt anymore. I don’t need to put myself through this. Why am I putting myself through this? If I quit now, this can all be over. Please let this be over. I don’t want this anymore. I want to go home. I need to go home. I don’t deserve to be here. Quit. Quit. Quit.
The tears in my eyes are blinding and my cheeks are burning. I’m well past ready to give myself over to my inner misery when the closet door creaks open. I turn from the sound, willing myself into appearing collected as I hear a voice drifting through the confined space.
“Violet?” I know it’s Mira without looking. I take a shaky breath in and pull myself together. It hurts so much that it’s almost nauseating. I wipe under my eyes and turn around, plastering on a cheerful smile.
“Hey,” I answer as coherently as I can.
She takes in my current state and the concern in her gaze is visible. My eyes beg her not to mention it.
“How’d your meeting go with Lorenzo?” she calmly asks.
It takes me a second, but I eventually answer. “It was fine. He gave me some really helpful notes, so that’s good.”
Mira pauses, clearly debating what she wants to say versus what I need her to say. “I’m happy to hear that,” she replies. “Sometimes he can be quite harsh.”
Harsh. I wish I could see his critique as merely harsh. To me, it was soul crushing.
“No, it was good,” I tell her. “I’m actually super excited to implement some of his ideas. I think they’ll really help me in the long run.”
Mira just looks at me. I’m so close to losing it, but I miraculously keep everything in.
“I’m about to go meet with Louisa,” she says. “Why don’t you come with me? It’s your last night in Rome. We can make it your going-away party.”
If things had gone differently, I would have said yes in a second. Off we would have gone, celebrating my meeting with Lorenzo, my finishing the internship and the genuine friendship Mira and I were able to forge. But things didn’t go differently, and as it stands now, I’m going back to New York an utter failure with no one to blame but myself.
“I wish I could, but I’m wiped, and I’ve barely packed. I think I better call it a day.”
“I understand,” Mira says. And I think she does. Before I know it, I’m stepping forward to give her a hug, which she instantly returns. A few moments later I step away with a grin that’s sincere despite my current agony.
“The next time you’re in New York, I want you to call me, okay? You have my number.”
“I will,” she promises.
