“Please,” Marco replies. “Everyone loves a love story.”
“I’m not sold on that idea,” Holly suddenly adds. Marco and I instantly turn to look at her, and she seems taken off guard that we’ve given her our full, undivided attention. “I’ve just always thought romantic movies and books are kind of predictable and contrived. Not to mention they instill pretty unrealistic expectations.” She says her assertion very logically. Unaffected. But I’m sure there’s more there.
Marco lets the carry-on bag that’s slung over his shoulder drop to the floor. “Who hurt you, Holly? I’m serious, point me in the direction of the person who wronged you and I swear, I will make them pay. Yes, my jeans are snug and will in no way give me the range of motion I need to successfully attack someone, but I promise you, that won’t deter me in the least.”
Holly lets a guilty smile slip before she turns to continue inspecting the room. “I’m good,” she says over her shoulder.
Marco shoots me a wink and pivots around to resume basking in the glory of his sunlit balcony. I return my attention to the dress forms but then find myself looking up at my classmates once more, noting just how different our personal styles are, but somehow, in this room, we all seem to fit.
I tend to think of my aesthetic as dark academia meets utilitarian. I’ve always gravitated toward plaids and wools—all very autumn-esque and exploring the line between fashion and functionality. I went with a beige color palette today, like most days, sporting high-waisted cargo pants, plimsoll sneakers and a short-sleeved knit top—perhaps not the best choice for an Italian summer, but I’ll adapt.
Holly, as per usual, is ’90s chic perfection. With her acid-washed jeans and a slightly cropped tee, she’s impeccably curated while also looking completely natural. I’d never be able to pull off the looks she puts together, but that doesn’t mean I’m not enthusiastically here for them.
And Marco—Marco describes his style as jetsetter grunge. He’s all about quality, comfortable materials and unique drapes. Black is his signature color, but he likes to highlight it with pops of white and gray. He mixes luxury with vintage and the result is elevated and sleek. I’m about to comment on how well his current outfit contrasts against the softness of the balcony when I feel my phone vibrating inside my tote. It takes a few seconds for me to fish it out and see that Daniella is FaceTiming me.
“I need to answer this.” Looking to Holly I say, “You think you can point me toward my room?”
“Here, take the balcony.” Marco steps inside and I step out, closing the door behind me as I swipe to answer.
“Well, hello,” I say dramatically, holding the screen up to capture my face as well as my current dreamy backdrop.
“Ah!” my sister shrieks in excitement. “I can’t believe you’re really in Italy! Is it amazing? Did you win the competition yet? Are you a famous designer and now I can quit my job and mooch off you forever?”
My smile stretches at the sound of her voice and the built-in comfort it brings. Her ecstatic ramblings make me feel at home and miss home all at once. “Yes, I’m really here. I didn’t win the competition yet. And as for you becoming my full-time entourage, it’s only a matter of time.”
“I really hope that’s true,” she says, sounding defeated. “Evie projectile vomited up my nose this morning. Notonmy nose—upit. I didn’t even know that was physically possible. I thought having a second baby would be manageable, but I kid you not, I’m knee-deep in spit-up and fighting for my life every second of the day.”
I stay cheerful despite my sister’s dejected expression. “I refuse to believe that. Evie is a princess and would never intentionally bombard your nasal passages.”
Daniella shudders. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Just because I’m tired and dead inside doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy hearing about your fantastical life of freedom. Now, tell me everything. Start with when I dropped you off at the airport and ending now. Go.”
Taking a deep inhale, I proceed to verbally paint as clear a picture as I can for my sister. I tell her all about my flight, my first idyllic impression of Rome and about my nightmarish café fiasco. I wrap it all up with a panoramic view from off the balcony and at the end of it all, Daniella’s mood is noticeably improved.
“I still can’t believe how lucky you are,” she sighs. “Everyone’s on the go but me. I talked to Mom earlier and she and Dad are still loving North Carolina.”
I do my best to hold my sunny expression, but my smile definitely wavers.
My parents moved to North Carolina last month, and truth be told, I’m still coming to terms with it. From the pictures they sent me, their new place is really nice—a renovated ranch-style house right off a golf course that couldn’t be more different than our former two-bedroom condo in Queens. Our home was never big, but we were happy there. At least, we were, until the cost of New York living and the competitive real estate market sent my parents looking southward. Finding it impossible to retire on the salary of a teaching assistant and an exterminator, they gave up the city that never sleeps for space and sun and strangers who say hello when they’re out for their morning walks.
And as I was staying with my parents since moving back from Chicago, it also means that I’ll be subletting a room in a friend’s apartment in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood for the next three months—a fact that no one in my family is thrilled about.
“Don’t kill the messenger, but Mom wants to know if you’ve thought any more about that teaching offer. She says she gets that it’s not your first choice, but it could be a good safety net until you get a fashion job. I told her you weren’t interested, but she made me promise to ask.”
My heart sinks a bit at my sister’s words, even though I know they’re not hers. My parents have always been proud of me and believed in my talent, but their fear of fashion never offering financial stability often makes it seem otherwise. The fifty unanswered résumés I’ve sent out in the past few months haven’t helped, either. And once the principal at my mom’s old school said she could get me an art teaching gig, they haven’t stopped bringing it up.
Sensing my discomfort, Daniella goes on, “Don’t worry about any of that now, though. Pursue your dreams forever and move in with me if/when desperation sets in.”
“I’d move in with you tomorrow if you didn’t live in the mountains.”
Daniella scoffs. “Absolute lies. We live in Suffolk County. It’s hardly a mountain town.”
I know she’s right, but I choose not to acknowledge it. “It’s just too far from the city. It would take forever for me to get to and from work.”
In all honesty, I really do like waitressing in the SoHo steak house where I’m working now. The pay is decent and my coworkers are loveable lunatics. Sure, sometimes I get customers who are raging harpies from hell, but more often than not, my shifts are uneventful and steady.
“Listen,” Daniella goes on, “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just know that with Mom and Dad gone, things are going to be tight for you money-wise and you’re aiming to work in an extremely competitive field, so if you need help, just know that I’m here for you.”
My stomach twists in slight embarrassment, acknowledgment and even a bit of fear. My sister is more than generous but I refuse to be a burden.
