“Trending,” Cami finishes. “Yep, I know.”
Revenant’s office space is open-floor concept, its windows swallowing the walls to showcase views of the city. Our desks stand, sit, even hover near the floor if you feel like getting horizontal. Visually, the space is neutral and clean-cut, much like the clothes we sell. On one wall, a string of gray letter decals spells out our tagline:Fill your closet once.
“I haven’t forgotten about the interns,” I say. “I blocked off that whole Monday morning for a get-to-know-you breakfast. And about the samples—”
Most other companies would have green-lit those samples by now, but that’s not how Revenant operates. We mean what we say about filling your closet once. That’s Revenant’s whole thing: a well-made capsule wardrobe you build over time.
My mind careens back to Will. I picture him buttoning the sample shirt across his chest with his scraped-up, calloused fingers in a nearby Starbucks bathroom, then heading for the elevators while he drinks something surly, like a drip coffee with no cream or sugar.Should I ask him his opinion on the samples when hefinds me, somehow?
It’s not like I have other men in my life to poll. I haven’t dated in more than four years, and my older brother, Robbie—who lives in North Carolina—shops exclusively on Amazon. My dad supports Revenant, but he lives back home in Nashville. We usually pool feedback from the men in the office, but something about getting Will’s opinion has my stomach somersaulting.
“I need two days to gather my thoughts,” I tell Cami.
“Great!” We land in front of her office, and Cami halts, turning to face me straight on. “Now that all the boring stuff is out of the way—”
“Nice try—”
“Maybe you could give me a status update on—”
“No.” I’m already shaking my head when I say it. We’ve done this every morning for two weeks. “Cami, don’t you trust me?”
Her hands clench into tiny, dramatic fists between our faces. “To run a fashion brand? Sure, Josie. To plan my bachelorette party? Less and less by the day.”
“Don’t let me get involved, even when I start begging.Remember saying that? Remember telling me those exact words after you got so wrapped up in David’s proposal plan that you found the ring”—I gesture down to her left hand, where her princess-cut engagement ring sparkles—“in his parents’ house with your spare key?”
Cami rolls her eyes. “You act like they’d hidden it well.”
“It was in his mother’s underwear drawer!”
“Which isweird!” Cami exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger in the air as she backs toward her office. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of her messy desk littered with trinkets, empty cups, six or seven lipsticks. “That’s fuckingweird,right?”
I laugh despite myself. It is pretty weird, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. “Could’ve gone your whole life never knowing. But you meddled.”
“I had to bathe it in jewelry cleaner for hours after the proposal.”
“Which you had on hand because you meddled.”
“Just give meonehint about the bachelorette.”
“It’s in Nashville.”
Cami groans. She’s only five-two, but when she gets worked up, her personality feels big enough to fill our whole office. “I alreadyknewthat, asshole!”
It was one of the only things she picked: the location. I’m not thrilled about it, considering Nashville is where I’m from and I typically avoid it apart from family holidays. But as any good bridesmaid knowsandrecites to herself on repeat throughout the wedding festivities—when the gown looks horrible on their body type, when there’s nothing vegetarian on the rehearsal dinner menu, when the bride asks them to take out every orange flower from the bouquets becausethey’re not really orange they’re peach, and I hate peach!—“It’s not about me.”
Cami kerplunks into her chair, and I smirk as I keep walking, heading to my own office four doors down. It’s neat and organized, with pastel highlighters jammed in a cup and Revenant’s first designs framed in white birchwood on the wall. Beneath my desk is a walking pad, and in one corner is a Zen garden I sometimes play with when I need to think.
I’ve barely sat down when Derrick appears in my doorway.
Derrick Lovell: a Dennis Quaid look-alike in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a grandfatherly voice, who’s known for having a Midas-like business touch, as well as dozens of plaid shirts from the nineties prep craze. He’s Revenant’s biggest investor, and not a bad guy, as far as I can tell, but I’d wager he didn’t become the CEO of five (five!) retail giants by only being nice.
“Josie.” He nods in greeting. Today he’s wearing a flimsy blue-and-yellow plaid shirt tucked into plain khakis, and old shoes with literal holes. This outfit, from a bona fide billionaire.
“Derrick.”
“I heard a rumor from security you were here until two in the morning.”
I wince. “Yeah, well, I came in late today, didn’t I?”
