Page 55 of Hats off to Love

Heat fuses into my cheeks as I smile back at her. She sees the blush and lights up even more.

“Maybe we should get a nice photo of the two of you tomorrow. It would look great on your pages, and maybe some of his adoring fans will see it and come in this week.”

All of my pages now are focused on the shop. From its conception to where it is today, Molly has documented everything in video or photo form: moving in, creating the rose wall, opening day, and many, many different items from the shop. She’s also been very adamant that we need to keep the human interest side there as well. It’s the same thing the film crew told us at the farm. People like to see what you are doing in your everyday life. It makes them feel connected, helps them become more invested, and in return they want to see me succeed.

“Okay,” I tell her, thinking I’d love a picture of the two of us together. Other than the upcoming ball and Derby, I don’t have many opportunities or a need to take one of us, but it’ll be nice to have them once this thing with us is over. My heart frowns at the thought.

Is it going to be over? Will we finally be friends, or will he want something more? My already anxious heart squeezes more, and my chest tightens even further. I am not good with uncertainty. I’m a planner. I’m responsible and, overall, a great troubleshooter. I’ve always had this ability to foresee problems and react swiftly and confidently. However, when it comes to him, I have no idea where he’s really at, and it’s starting to leave me unbalanced. I feel like I’m staring into a black hole.

Sliding the curtains across the shop windows, I hang a chalkboard sign on the door that says, “Closed for an appointment. Will reopen after 2pm.” It’s while I’m standing there that the familiar black SUV pulls up.

Letting out a deep breath, I push the thoughts of Stokes away, pull my shoulders back, and tell myself, It’s go time.

“They’re here,” I call over to Molly, whose eyes are now large with elation. I open the door as Blair slides out of the front seat, and she begins surveying the surroundings. She nods to me in greeting, peeks her head into the shop, and then goes to open the back door for Avery. Out she pops in athleisure wear, her long blonde curls going wild and a smile stretched from ear to ear, and behind her follows Emma White. Emma is a member of her three-piece group who sings and plays the violin. Molly is going to die.

“I hope y’all are hungry because I brought cupcakes.” She holds out a large sealed plastic container that holds chocolate cupcakes with light pink icing on them then dances by me into the shop, the scent of sugar trailing her and Emma. She turns to face me. “Ash told me I had to take them with me because he didn’t feel like adding another twenty minutes to his workout.” She giggles. “I love to bake, and well, unfortunately for him, he is the recipient of it all.”

“Not just him!” Emma chimes in. “Cora and I also suffer.”

“What do you mean, suffer?” Avery laughs out loud. “Y’all love when I bake.”

Emma turns around and points to her butt. “It’s bigger, Avery, and you know it.”

“What I know is last weekend you were all, ‘Can you make us some banana bread?’”

“That’s different!” Emma declares.

“Why is that different?” Avery asks her.

Watching these two bicker is fantastic.

“That was brunch. It was for a meal, not a snack.”

“Tuh-may-toe, tuh-mah-toe,” Avery fires back.

Beside me, Molly lets out a tiny noise. Just like the first time Avery was here, she’s fangirling and trying hard to hold it in. I think she mentally prepared for Avery, but with two superstars here, she can’t help herself.

“Lucky guy and lucky friends,” I tell her, inserting myself as I take the container from her and place it on one of the tables in the middle of the shop. Blair comes in behind us and locks the door, and when I glance back at Avery, that’s when I see her freeze. She’s spotted the dress on the mannequin behind me, and her eyes are wide in awe.

“Rosie,” she whispers. “It’s just stunning.” Slowly she walks around me. I’ve set the mannequin up next to the platform with the mirrors. It’s close to the fitting room and placed centrally so it is the star of the show.

No one in the store moves except for Molly; she’s pulled out her phone and is recording Avery’s reaction. Meanwhile, Emma, Blair, and I are just staring as she makes her way to the dress then walks around it to get a full three-sixty view. I made the train eight feet. It’s longer than the one she originally looked at, but I figured if she’s not going to wear it the whole night, she may as well make a grand entrance. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s hard to breathe, and my eyes prickle. I wasn’t expecting these wild emotions, but here I am. Here we are.

Avery Layne. Global music star. In awe of something I made.

Someone shake me.

“I can’t believe you made this for me.” She looks back at me, and I have to swallow hard. The lump in my throat keeps getting larger and larger, and I can’t speak to her, only stare.

I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.

Stress, excitement, and anxiety are funny things. I’ve done such a great job this season compartmentalizing the different stress factors in my life and not letting them bleed and blend together, but here with her, at this moment, all the hours of work, the heart and soul I poured into this dress, the few grains of sand left in the hourglass of the season, and my emotional uncertainty about Stokes have me so overwhelmed I feel like a shaken soda ready to burst.

Oh, God. I’m about to lose it right here.

What is happening to me?

I breathe in through my nose, trying to hold it all in while giving her a small smile. My eyes are burning more fiercely, and I’m blinking over and over in an attempt to stop what is so desperately trying to come out. What is it that is doing this to me? Is it relief that she loves the dress? Is it the anxiety of her walking out the door with it for the world to see? I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m suddenly bordering on an emotional meltdown of epic proportions.