Page 107 of Not You Again

“Backstage.” He gestures in that direction. “He’s been working with Andie for the last few weeks.”

At my frown, Patrick tells me, “We’ve been trying to talk to you, but you won’t come out from under that rock you ran to.”

Just as the lights lower, I say, “Next week. We’ll hang out for real.”

My heart pounds against my rib cage and I hold my breath, waiting for what’s next.

Music starts up—a steady, throbbing beat coming from speakers mounted on the stage. A projector casts a spinning kaleidoscope of flowers on the stage.

The first model emerges in a structured dress. The bodice flares out at the model’s waist into a curved, voluminous skirt. When the model walks, the fabric shimmers in the lights, and I’m not quite sure how Andie pulled off the effect. It all looks a bit like armor—a chest plate to protect a soft heart beneath it, a Spartan shield formation forms the skirt—and it doesn’t take me long to understand. Geometric. Triangles.

The dome in the gardens at the Colonnade.

I swallow the lump in my throat, waiting for what’s next.

It’s structured, too, but Andie’s taken the triangle panels from the first bodice and opened them to make a sort of vest worn over a simpler gown. The bodice has a spray of rose gold beads arching over the model’s hip and curling up toward her navel. The fabric of this skirt is softer, too, moving a bit more with the model’s walk around the runway.

With the next dress, the outer shell is gone. It’s a simpler silhouette, with a skirt that appears liquid under the stage lights. I itch to run it through my fingers to see if it feels as cool and refreshing as it looks.

Each dress flows more naturally than the one that came before it. It’s a carefully crafted narrative of a bride coming undone. When the tenth dress emerges with a plunging neckline and beaded bodice, my mind is back in Andie’s studio, making her mine.

She let me in. She begged me to break down her walls, and I did. But I didn’t think I’d have to offer my own heart up on a platter to keep her doors open. It’s terrifying, but I’m ready to do it now. No running this time, I’ve made sure of that.

I can only hope she chooses me.

The final dress is a slip of a thing, hardly any form to it at all. The model’s shoulders are bare, with nothing holding up the bodice, and with no visible fastenings. I’m not exactly sure how Andie got the ethereal, loose shape to stay on the model without falling off. It looks like some kind of magic as the skirt flows into a short train on the runway. The crowd around me oohs and ahs as the model struts by.

As the parade of models comes out in their dresses again, in a line, I hold my breath. Andie emerges arm-in-arm with the final model, beaming.

I gasp when I see it. She’s carrying a bouquet and wearing the dress she wore on our wedding day, except she’s modified it. The most jarring change is the color: it’s a bright crimson. But she also shortened the length on the skirt to her knees. When she’s close enough, I can see how the edges of the dress are raw—she left it unfinished, messy, even going so far as to undo the beading around the neckline as it scoops over her breasts—I find myself standing, my legs propelling me toward the back of the stage.

No running away. It’s time.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVENANDIE

If backstage is chaos, this side of the curtain is loud. There’s applause coming from all sides, and I try to hold it together as I march down the runway with my models. In my designs.

Holy shit, they’re applauding my designs.

All at once, I remember why the hell I’m even doing this: to land some investors and take these designs across the country. Buoyed by the applause coming from the audience, it’s the first time I realize I might actually accomplish what I set out to do.

Back at the beginning of the runway, I turn to give the audience a little bow as I attempt not to bawl in relief. Through the haze of the spotlight, right off stage left, in the crowd, I glance at the seat I reserved, hoping against all hope it was the right thing to do. To put my heart on the line one last time.

While Patrick, Kendra, and Leslie are giving me a standing ovation, Kit’s reserved chair is empty.

It feels like a punch in the stomach. I force myself to stand an inch taller, spine rigid. I will not break down.

He left. After saying he wanted to divorce me. Then he basically fell off the face of the earth, just like the last time. It was silly to hope he’d show.

And dammit, I’ll be okay. I have to be. Even though that knot in my chest is pulling tighter with every breath.

I should know better than this, better than to hold out hope. It was only luck that I’d ever seen him again after the first time he walked away. If it had been up to him, he probably wouldn’t have chosen to see me again.

As I return backstage, the applause here is even louder, punctuated with whoops and hollers. Jamie is up on the scaffolding, telling everyone to head to the dressing area and hang up their dresses. In the flurry of commotion, Catarina pulls me aside. “I’ve got someone who wants to speak with you. About investing in your line.”

“What?” I snap my head in her direction. “Already?”

Catarina nods, beaming. “They have a small conference room inside. It’s the last door on the left. He’s waiting when you’re ready.”

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