I pull the card from the envelope and begin to read. My heart sinks. “‘Dear Addison…’”
“Shit, shit, shit!” I hear someone mumbling as they stomp down the hallway outside of my bedroom as I lie curled in my bed with a fresh blank sketch pad page teasing me.
Although I can see Addison out of the corner of my eye, I refuse to acknowledge her standing there in the frame of my bedroom door.
She clears her throat.
“Hi, Addison,” I say without looking up from the page, like I’m actually working on something. “Is there something I can help you with?”
She walks in and hovers above me.
I hold the sketch pad to my chest because it turns out pretending to work on a totally blank page is deeply embarrassing.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” she says in the most normal voice I’ve ever heard her use. “I heard you went to, like, sewing school or whatever.”
“I wouldn’t call it sewing school, but yes, I know how to sew if that’s what you’re asking. What’s the problem?”
She pouts, and her eyes are a little glassy, like she might actually cry. Pulling her long, perfectly straight hair over her shoulder, she turns around to show me that the zipper of her curve-hugging champagne minidress is split right up the back. “Irina dressed me in this super-expensive dress and I guess the stupid zipper was, like, defective, and now the whole crew is waiting outside and so is Henry and—”
“Why don’t you just go ask Irina for help?” I ask.
“She might already be mad at me for…” She mumbles the rest, her chin resting on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“For refusing to wear the first fourteen options.”
“Are you serious? This isn’t your wedding dress or something.”
She turns around, her arms flapping. “Can you help me or not?”
I don’t want to. I really, really don’t want to, but I’m like a moth to a flame when it comes to a fashion emergency. And even though I truly doubt that karma is real, ditching awful, manipulative Addison in her hour of need is pretty mean. Even for her.
“Take off the dress. I can’t promise anything. It could need a whole new zipper. And I only have a travel sewing kit with me.”
She obeys and strips down, tossing me her dress as she sits on her old bed in her strapless bra and smoothing undergarments, watching me nervously.
“Watching me won’t make me go any faster.”
“Just do whatever you have to do. Sew me into it if you have to.”
I take a quick look at the zipper, which luckily for Addison is an easy fix. The zipper just got off track, so all I have to do is rip a few stitches, retrack the zipper, and sew it back in place. That, however, doesn’t stop me from making some very thoughtful and unsure noises just to keep Addison on her toes.
It’s only been a month or so since I last had my hands on a needle, which is an eternity if you look at the last four years of my life, but something about the process of threading it and holding it between my teeth as I use my seam ripper makes me feel at ease. Calmed. Soothed. This was the exact energy I was chasing during our goat yoga class, and it’s hard not to feel like a small puzzle piece has clicked into place with the familiar act of simply fixing a stray zipper.
“Done,” I finally say.
“What? You mean it’s fixed?” She jumps to her feet with grabby hands reaching for the dress.
I pass it back to her and watch her squirm into it. “Be careful. The zipper isn’t defective, but it’s not as high quality as it should be for a dress that expensive.”
She turns around so I can zip her up, and with her gaze steady on the wall ahead of us, she says, “Thanks, by the way.”
I’m honestly shocked to hear unadulterated gratitude come out of her mouth. I can’t help but assume that not having to make direct eye contact with me made the exchange possible for her.
“I guess this means you owe me,” I say.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
