Page 2 of Tailored for You

“No, she won’t. She’s four. All she knows is that she was supposed to swim in a pool, ride a pony, and spend the weekend with her dad, whom she hasn’t spent more than a few hours with in the last three months.” I wish I didn’t keep track of how many hours he spent taking care of our daughter, but I couldn’t help myself.

A female squeal, a big splash, and a bunch of cheering.

I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. He wasn’t doing anything for work. He worked for his dad’s investment firm and was the definition of a nepo baby, having been given his job by his dad despite lacking qualifications.

“Charles, what’s taking you so long?” The voice was whiny, and I knew exactly who it belonged to. Apple Livingstone.

There was a muffled sound, as if Charles had put his hand over the mic rather than pressing mute.

Charles cleared his throat, and I knew I didn’t care, nor did I want to hear whatever bad lie he was trying to concoct.

“Sounds like a great business meeting. Have a great weekend.” I hung up the phone and muttered, “Dick,”

I walked over to the mannequin. Fabric was pinned across it, slowly coming together into something I was excited about. Rubbing the fabric between my fingers, I wondered why I’d been so foolish to think I’d have a quiet weekend working on a few of my pieces.

At least I didn’t make any other plans for the weekend.

I pushed away at the bitterness that came whenever I spoke to Charles for longer than five seconds and walked back into our apartment.

The entire floor was mine. A flex wall split the floor in half. When someone walked through the door, they found my studio, where I ran my tailoring and design business. Once I walked through the door on the other side of the room, I was in my small two-bedroom apartment with the smallest possible kitchen-and-living-room combo.

Harper and I didn’t need much, and with what we had, we’d made a home.

It was a bit of a mess, but full of color and joy. The walls were lined with pictures of us throughout the years. It was a stark contrast to the way I grew up and the continued promise I’d made to Harper when she was a little bean in my stomach to give her a happy home.

I walked over and crouched next to her at the small craft table she had.

I tapped her nose with a finger and said, “Boop.”

Harper wrinkled her nose and sang, “Mommy.” I tried not to wince when her voice rose to a screech.

“I want to watch a movie. Want to watch with me?” I asked. Harper nodded so hard she nearly knocked herself off her chair. “Okay. Think about what you want to watch, and I’ll make the popcorn.”

“Monkeys!” she yelled as she skipped the three feet to the couch and turned on the TV. I headed to the kitchen, relieved she seemed to have forgotten she had plans, and made popcorn.

In no time, we were cuddling and watching King Kong.

And not once did Harper ask about her dad.

My wrists were stiff from hours of needlework; my shoulders ached from hunching over for hours, but it was worth it. The dress was almost done. I only needed to finish the straps and have the final fitting.

Then I would move to the next mannequin, then to the one after that. It was almost like I’d created an assembly line.

The sketch of the dress was on the corkboard, smack in the middle, with fabric swatches and other designs pinned on either side, making it easy for me to move from one piece to the next.

Bolts of fabric lined the far side of the room, organized in a gradient, with a table beside it so I could lay out different pieces to help me visualize them. It was also the area with the most natural light.

Right next to it sat the small changing room and full-length mirrors. These got the best lighting in the studio and were always the most organized corners of the space.

Where I was working, chaos reigned, with cut pieces on the ground. Tables around me were covered in scribbles of half-thought-out designs, stray threads, and fabric scraps. My makeshift cutting table sat behind me.

The creative chaos helped me think. Something about letting go of the need to be perfect and neat, giving myself space to be messy, opened me up.

It was quiet, at least for New York standards. The hum of the city fell into the background, barely noticeable.

I stepped away, admiring my work. Maybe if I tuck the seam...

A throat cleared behind me.