He nods. “Roger Mackenzie is Lucy Mackenzie’s number-one fan. He hates clothing, and to this day, she sets an outfit out for him every morning. His parents died when he was young and still living in Edinburgh, so he took what inheritance they’d left him and moved to New York. He fell in love with my mom on the subway before he’d even made it to his hotel. They haven’t spent a night apart since. Neither of them really had family, so they were and are everything for each other.”
“That’s a good love story,” I say.
“It’s no Blockbuster meet-cute.”
I smile.
“I think usually when people have kids, they prepare for their lives to change. Sometimes they leave the city or give up going to the bar on weeknights, but my parents had no such intentions. They just kept on…living. And brought me along when they could and then shipped me off for boarding school when I was old enough. The first one was just outside of London. No one really knew what to make of the half-Scottish, quarter–Puerto Rican kid from America. Anyway, if it’s possible to be the third wheel with your own parents, that’s me.”
“That’s not fair,” I say. “It’s like…the one place you should always belong.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever said this out loud, but sometimes I think I proposed to Sabrina just to say I’d found my person. I’d found my family without them…. But now suddenly, they need me. And how do you say no? I couldn’t. I guess I need them too in a way.”
I reach across the table and take his hand, offering him the comfort of shared silence.
“I bet you have shitty-parent stories too,” he says, watching our linked hands.
Not really. Even though I could think of a few, they would all involve my teenage angst over Erica trying to assert herself as my mother. That was a rocky transition, to say the least, but guilt twinges in my stomach as I remember all the things I’ve kept from him. He knows my parents are dead, but after all he’s shared, I feel so wrong lying about Erica. “My stepmom is…She’s there for me when I need her. Not perfect, but she tries. And my mom and dad…It’s not that I think dying made them some kind of saints, but I miss them. Especially Dad…even when he was at his worst…which was rare.”
He swallows and bites down on his lip, thinking for a moment. “I think that’s love. The real stuff. When you love someone at their worst. When you believe they can be better.”
“Is that…Is that how you feel about your mom?”
He sighs. “She’s better now. Calmer. She doesn’t treat me like as much of a set piece as she used to, but sometimes I wonder if that’s her actively changing or if it’s just age wearing her down. Or maybe, in the end, with the show and me taking over the company…maybe I’m more her set piece than ever before.”
“That’s not what I see,” I tell him. “I see a person who’s there for his family in their hour of need, even when they might not deserve it. And despite your parents’ best efforts, I think you turned out pretty great.”
“So says my therapist and Jay.”
“I like Jay,” I tell him.
“Oh, they really like you too. I’ve got the text messages to prove it.”
My eyes turn into saucers. “You have a cell phone? You’ve been holding out on me this whole time!”
He snorts and fishes it out of his pocket for me to see. “Oh, it’s definitely one of those old-people ladybug phones. This thing doesn’t even have a color screen. I’m actually a little embarrassed to be holding it in public, but Jay would just tell me that’s my toxic masculinity talking, or ageism or something.”
“Jay would be right,” I say, taking it from his hand. And sure enough, the phone is a little red walkie-talkie-looking thing with two tiny antennas you can actually pull out for better reception. “This thing looks like a relic.”
“You should see how long it takes me to text on that thing. It’s honestly not even worth it, but I told them that if they wanted me to do the show, I had to be able to get in touch with work.” He takes the phone back from me and puts it back in his pocket. “This was Beck’s idea of a compromise.”
“Hey, it’s more communication with the outside world than I’m getting.” I want to ask him what he knows about how the show is being received or if it’s making any difference for the brand, but I also don’t want to spend our precious private time together talking about this show. “Can I ask you something?”
“I think so,” he says playfully.
“If you could do anything with LuMac, what would it be?”
He nods, and I know he already has a very clear answer to this question. “There’s this program that we’ve got going for up-and-coming brands. We foster them and help them release a micro line. They pay back their loan to us slowly over time, but we just don’t have the resources to really dig in and do it up big. I would love to see us launch exclusive collaborative items as part of their lines and vice versa. I mean, we have the future of fashion just sitting right there in our offices. We should be doing so much more. Making connections. Building relationships. We just don’t have the money or the people to make it happen. At least, not yet. Mom calls it my pet project, but I think it’s the path forward.”
“I can’t even begin to tell you what an opportunity like that would mean to a fresh-out-of-fashion-school newbie. I love fashion. I love this industry. But sometimes it feels like the only way to succeed is to know someone.”
“Well, if your wardrobe is any indication, I’m positive you’re deeply talented, Cindy.”
“Can I get that in writing?” I joke.
Without a word, the waitress places our tower of dim sum steamer baskets on the table and takes two sets of chopsticks from her apron for us. “Bingo’s starting in just a minute.”
“Are we doing this?” Henry asks from the other side of the dim sum.
