“Acompany youmade up!” she rebuts. Cami laughs, bolting across the street. I tense as I check for cars. “Take my picture!”
Dutifully, I pull out my phone and snap a photo of her posing in front of the sign. She does a jumping jack, blows a kiss.
Will shifts beside me as Cami heads for the front door, keys in hand.
“You know what?” he says. “Camila seems pretty damn happy.”
My reply is a noncommittal noise that stays lodged in the back of my throat.
Inside the store, the fixtures have already been placed, the racks drilled into the walls. I wander toward the back room where the inventory is boxed up. I grab a steamer and start humming Lizzy McAlpine, de-wrinkling clothes just to busy my hands, listening to Will’s low tones and Cami’s excited drawl as they talk out front.
I feel more thanseehim meet me in the back five minutes later—the sound of his gait, the weight of his breath, the crackle of air making room for him.
“You ever work in a retail store?” Will asks.
“That’s a personal question,” I say.
I turn to him, my head tilting up. Neither of us bothered to turn on the lights, and shadows are folding across his face. “Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but.
“The summer before I went to college,” I answer anyway, since Will spent most of lunch talking about his own personal life and I devoured his answers while Cami asked endless questions about New York. What tourist attractions are actually worth it, does hego to comedy shows, if he ever gets claustrophobic (more so these days, he answered). “I steamed every item before it went on sale that summer.”
“So steaming is whatyou’reknown for.”
I snort. “Steaming is therapeutic.” I put the steamer down and move the dress to a rack.
Will’s shoulders curve as he moves to face me. “In all the press I’ve read about you, you always credit your oma with inspiring your love of fashion.”
I toss him a look. “All the press you’ve read about me? It wasn’t just the one profile?”
He shrugs. “Had to figure out what you were known for.”
“As you said, steaming.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the journalists.”
His mention of Oma conjures the smell of licorice tea, the feel of diving my hands into a giant tin of loose buttons.
I cross to the other wall and lean against it, my hands behind my back.
Do you want to tell me about her?Will had asked me that night on the beach.
“Oma was amazing. When I was growing up, my parents would drop me off at her house and we’d spend the day going to the fabric store, picking out a pattern, and then designing something and sewing it ourselves. A purse, a pair of pajamas, a pillowcase, even doll clothes. My American Girl doll had a better closet than I did.”
His smile is soft. “Why didn’t your family have a funeral service for her?”
“She was wholly against it,” I answer, chuckling. “She said nothing would make her roll over in her grave faster than gathering a bunch of people who felt obligated to grieve her in her least favorite color. We did a small family thing instead. But how did you know that?”
“Zoe and I looked it up to see if we could go.” Will says this offhandedly, like it’s not vital information.
“You guys would have gone?” I ask.
Will nods, scratching underneath his jaw. “Zoe felt pretty guilty about yelling at us after I told her about your oma and my breakup. She was embarrassed. Still a little angry and hurt, too, but yeah. She was planning to go to the funeral. So was I.”
I blink rapidly, tears smarting in my eyes. I never considered Zoe was afraid she’d hurtmyfeelings. That day she’d come by my desk and mutteredI’m really sorry about your omaunder her breath—had that been her white flag?
But why hadn’t she mentioned the letter? Why hadn’t she waited for me to say anything back before she walked on?
Why were weso badat communicating?
