“I know that. It’s just sometimes I can’t stop myself from thinking that it’s too late for me. People my age are typically already in the careers they’re meant to be in. Everyone in my classes are seven or eight years younger than me, and when I do better than them, I feel like I’m somehow cheating, and when I do worse than them, I feel like I’m embarrassingly behind. Like I shouldn’t even be trying. I’ve done a lot of self-reflecting lately, and I know that none of that is true and that I shouldn’t let it affect me, but it does, on a lot of levels.”
“Violet, why do you think so much about other people? About how you appear to them? None of that matters. What matters is that you’re doing what you want to do. If you want to make clothes, make clothes. If you want to quit, then quit. It’s a simple decision, but you do have to decide. You can’t just haunt the in-between. That’s no way for anyone to live.”
“It’s not a question of me wanting to make clothes,” I explain. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. But no matter what I do, I always get in my own way. And as sad as it is, sometimes it almost feels good to hate myself. It’s just so easy.”
“I think everyone feels that way occasionally. And it’s fine to wander in that place for a little while, as long as you know how and when to leave it. When I find myself there, I remind myself about time. It’s precious and limited and I don’t want to waste mine. Neither should you.”
I let her words seep inside me. They put down roots and a sprout of confidence begins to grow. It’s going to take time for me to work through the constant self-shaming that’s gone unchallenged in my head for years, but I know it has to happen.
“I won’t waste it,” I tell Mira. And I do mean it. She shoots me a smile and I reach up to run a hand over one of my garments on the dress form. “I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t know how I found such insightful friends.”
“Speaking of friends,” she says, “I have a gift from one of yours.”
She gets up and walks over to her bag that she left on the floor. She pulls out a carefully wrapped armful of fabric, but I can still identify it through the clear coating. It’s the same midnight blue satin that Louisa gave to me when I first met her. The one that matches the little square that I still carry around with me to this day.
“I can’t,” I whisper, at a loss for how to respond as Mira walks closer with the gorgeous fabric. “I can’t accept it.”
“Accept it. Louisa said it was meant for you to have it. She didn’t like keeping it in the store without you. It’s seven yards. Not enough for a whole collection, but she hoped it would help a little.”
“I don’t deserve it,” I say quietly.
“Yes, you do.” Mira doesn’t blink. Not for a second. How can so many people have faith in me when I barely have it in myself? Mira goes on, “She trusts you will make beautiful pieces with it.”
She pulls off the coating and she hands me the fabric. It feels weightless and smooth in my hands.
“I don’t know how to thank you both. I promise I’ll send you tons of pictures when I’m done. To you and Louisa.”
“I’d rather see them in person,” Mira says. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to attend your show.”
“Really? You’ll be in New York until then?”
“I’ll be here for a month, actually. Work first and a vacation after. Like I said, I’m visiting my dad and then there are a few things I need to do.”
The pressure’s on, but I can’t wait. “That’s fantastic! I’ll text you all the information and if I ever come out of my design cave, we should grab dinner if you’re free.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She gives me a hug and I’m still not positive that I didn’t somehow dream all of this up. I give Mira’s arm the very slightest pinch as we separate to make sure I haven’t been hallucinating. “Good luck, Violetta. Louisa wanted me to tell you that for her.”
I still have an astounded smile on my face as she exits, and the door quietly closes behind her. Of all the people who could have walked into this workroom today, in no way, shape or form did I imagine it would be Mira. Seeing her again brings me right back to Rome. I hear the sounds of the streets—the cars honking and scooters speeding. I can smell Dino’s carbonara. I see Matt’s face of pure terror when I barreled into his life that day in the café.
I cringe as I always do when I think back to the last time I saw him. Matt was right in what he said to me. I see that now. I was unfair. I was borderline cruel. I took my anger and disappointment out on him when I shouldn’t have.
I should have told him how I was feeling. I should have apologized. I should have explained it better. I didn’t then...but I can now. Feeling emboldened by Mira’s visit, I stand up and grab my phone from a nearby cutting table. Finding his number before I have the chance to chicken out, I hit the call icon and instantly feel like I might puke. I stay on the line—I don’t hang up even though it rings and rings. I’m facing the very real possibility that I’m seconds away from leaving a dreaded voice mail when he suddenly answers.
“Hey,” he says evenly. I hear his voice, and it’s amazing and terrifying. Amazing because I miss him. Terrifying because he has every right to want nothing to do with me.
“Hi, Matt. This is Violet.” I close my eyes and shake my head at my lame opening.
“Yeah, I sort of guessed that,” he says. “I have your number stored.”
“Right, of course. Duh.”
So this is going great.
I try to think of what to say next. A million ideas come to mind, but nothing vocalizes. I’m hoping that for the first time ever, Matt will say something to fill the void, but alas, no such luck.
“How have you been?” I ask. Straightforward. To the point. In no way charming. It’s very me.
“I’ve been good.” His tone is polite but distant. I may as well be a telemarketer.
