As soon as the final model joins the queue on the ramp, the chatter dies down. Our entire crew seems to lean closer to the backstage monitors at the same time, our eyes glued to the screens. Every decision that’s led up to this point flashes through my mind: the thread choice, the bead placements, the pattern that didn’t make it.
But the memories aren’t alone. No, each one seems to be escorted by Giovanni as they walk my mental runway. His sour face when I suggested a different crystal placement, hisdeft fingers stringing hundreds of beads, the angle of his body positioned over the tambour frame.
One last collective breath.
And then the music starts, the lights drop, and the show begins.
With every model that goes, the elation grows among our group. Tittering with excitement, we give each other high fives and fist bumps when our most labor-intensive designs grace the catwalk.
I hold my breath as the last model takes her first step. This moment feels massive. The loud beats of the music fade into a dull buzz as I watch the design walk—no,glide—down the runway. The sculptural front of the gown is mesmerizing, the smoky blue color looking divine under the glow of the warm chandelier lighting. The dress swells forward like a rolling wave, ebbing and flowing with each step. I can’t pry my eyes from the screen as the model stops and hits a neutral pose at the top of the catwalk.
This is it. The split second when the dress goes from a fleeting moment to a forever memory.
Three… two… one.
We hear the audience gasp before the model even fully shows her back, and then—there it is—Giovanni’s appliqué. His nonno’s final piece.
It’s breathtaking.
The appliqué looksalive. Thousands of glass beads give it a crystallized effect that embodies etherealism. The embroidery refracts glimmers of light onto the train, which does nothing to distract from the architectural silhouette.
It’s as if the entire gown was kissed by starlight.
My gaze meets Giovanni’s across the swarm of people. Both of us simply stare at each other at first. He throws me a lopsided smile, one I’ve never seen before, and my eyes widen as amixture of pride and disbelief blooms in my chest. I shake my head in awe. Giovanni nods in response, like he gets it, then starts walking my way. When he stands in front of me, we don’t say anything, but our posture speaks for us. Loosened shoulders, easy smiles, relaxed stances. A sharp contrast to the tense body language and narrowed eyes we both sported when we began working on the appliqué.
“Hammered it.” His voice sounds softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I can’t help but grin as I give a gentle correction. “Nailedit, actually.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Hammered sounds better.”
Smiling, I shrug. “I agree. It does.”
Simultaneously, it feels like a chapter is ending while a new one begins.
We turn back toward the monitors and wait for the models to do their final walk. It’ll be a victory lap, if audience reactions are anything to go by. The crew whoops and hollers around me. Backs are patted, fists are bumped, and I’m swept up in a hug from Esme. Still buzzing with energy, I replay the moment the model stepped on the runway. The way the light bounced off the appliqué when she turned, how the entire audience gasped.
A bout of confidence sneaks up on me, whisperingyou could really do this. I knew I’d feel a sense of accomplishment after the design came to life on the runway, and I do. I also anticipated the sense of relief currently settling deep in my bones.
But what I didn’t expect was the wave of sadness that washes over me when I watch Lamont link his arm with the model wearingmydesign forhisdesigner bow.
The desire to represent my own work—to show my own collection—still feels out of reach. And the only reason I’m even slightly closer to achieving that goal is due to Giovanni Cattaneo, a man who made my lack of potential painfully obvious twoyears ago. A man that’s helping me, not because he believes in me, but because I can offer him pretend girlfriend services. The weight of our agreement hits me all at once.How did I even let it get to this point?
The crash of adrenaline from the show’s conclusion, combined with the stress over our upcoming trip, has me feeling dysregulated. It’s like my body knows that my professional tasks are over, and it’s time to power off.
Except I have nowhere to go. I have to calm down before Lamont needs me again. Spotting a single-family bathroom, I head in that direction.
“Hey, babes, how’re you doing?”
One look at Esme, and my composure snaps. I yank her into the bathroom with me. Right before the door shuts, I see a very concerned pair of icy blue eyes staring directly at mine through the narrowing space.
Esme assesses my frazzled hair. “What’s going on, Tess?”
“I… I don’t know,” I mumble as I try to manage my emotions.
Esme opens her arms with the intention of giving me a hug. But everyone knows hugs make you cry when you’re already emotional, so I step back.
“Okay, okay. Take some breaths,” she gently instructs, locking the door.
