Page 79 of Stick Fight

And if I ask her to stay, that…that can only lead to resentment.

Fights behind closed doors.

22

Gabby

By the time we got home last night, it was late, and we were both worn out, from the sun, swimming and the fashion show. At least, that’s what I’m choosing to blame for Roman’s quiet mood. From everything I could tell, he loved it. Everyone did. It wasn’t easy hiding all my designs from him, but it was worth it. Worth every sneaky late night and whispered plan.

Watching the show come to life, seeing the kids twirl in their tiny outfits, their faces lit with joy, it was so much fun. There were no moguls, no industry bigwigs, no cameras or fashion editors. No pressure. Just pure joy.

Who knew I’d enjoy making miniature versions of my designs? Maeve was incredible, pulling it all together, wrangling the kids, turning chaos into a runway. I’m not entirely sure Mabel was a willing participant, but she was an absolute star. There's got to be a market for matching pet couture out there. If nothing else, her tiny tutu stole every heart in the room.

After the show, Gina offhandedly mentioned she’s always looking for quality kids’ clothes and asked if I might be interested in doing a line. It could be fun, and I’m sure the WAGs alone would keep me in business.

As that thought churns, I slide out of bed, careful not to wake Roman, and pad softly to the kitchen. In just a few hours, Nolan will be here. The week will no doubt go fast, and then Roman is off to Vegas for the wedding and Nolan goes back to DC and his internship at the Center for American Progress.

I stretch, drop a pod into the coffee machine, and listen to the soft hum of brewing. It’s Sunday. A day meant for rest. But how do you rest when your whole future feels like it’s waiting for you to finally claim it? With my job soon ending, the pressure to figure out next steps feels heavier than ever. I need to think about a new kids’ line and that means buyers, branding, a name that means something, collaborations, social media. I’ve never had to build a world from scratch before. I was a cog in someone else’s machine.

It's scary but exciting all the same.

I grab my sketchbook and settle at the kitchen table, coffee warming my hands. Camryn’s face flashes in my mind. She’s at that turning point between childhood and teenager-hood. I let my pen move, gliding across the page, lines becoming shapes, shapes becoming ideas. But then a question cuts through my creative high like a cold breeze.

Is this new and fresh, Gabby—what you’re known for?

My hand falters. My stomach tightens. The page stares back, the beginning of a dull design that doesn’t feel like me.

“Hey,” I hear, and glance up to see Roman strolling into the kitchen, dressed in nothing but sweats. My heart stutters at the sight of him, barefoot, messy-haired, impossibly beautiful in the quiet morning light. But when I catch the stiffness in his shoulders as he drops a pod into the machine, his back turned, something shifts in my chest. I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat.

“Are you okay?”

He pulls a mug from the cupboard, takes a second too long to answer. “Yeah.” He walks over, eyes flicking to the sketchpad in front of me. I usually close it when he’s around. I’m weirdly private about my work. Maybe scared that if someone sees it too early, it’ll lose its magic. But he saw the fairy tale line yesterday, and this is just an extension of that.

An extension of another friend’s idea…

“Designing more dresses?” he asks.

“Actually…” I glance down at the sketch. The spark I used to feel while drawing wedding gowns, the rush, the electricity, it’s not there. “It’s a new line. Kids clothes. Easy-wearing, fashionable stuff.” I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, but it lands flat. I know he hears it too. “Gina mentioned she’d love to find something for her kids. I thought… maybe I could give it a try.”

His coffee beeps, and he grabs the mug, fingers running through his hair like he’s trying to push away a thought that won’t budge. He looks tired. No, more than tired. He looks like someone carrying something heavy.

“Gabs,” he says quietly, eyes still fixed on the sketchbook. My stomach twists and I brace myself because I suspect what he’s about to say is very hard, and very important.

He lifts his head slightly, takes a sip, and finally,finallylooks at me. His dark eyes meet mine and hold. “I liked what you did yesterday. The kids were adorable.”

“Thanks. They really enjoyed it. I think everyone had fun.”

“Everyone except Mabel,” he says, a small grin teasing the corner of his mouth. A beat passes. Then he reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek with the gentlest, most tender caress. It steals the breath from my lungs. His eyes search mine, full of something I can’t name. “But, Gabs… this isn’t what you were meant to be doing.”

My breath catches. A wave of defensiveness rises up in me, even though I’m not sure he’s wrong.

“This world…” he says, glancing around the kitchen, the house, the sketchpad. “It’s not who you are. These clothes. They’re cute. But is this what you want to be doing? A play on designs that have been done before. Your dresses, they were original, they were yours. Something that hasn’t been done by anyone before.”

I open my mouth, but no words come. I can’t tell him he’s wrong, because a part of me knows he’s not.

“When you were withhim,” he continues, a sharp edge to his voice now. “You changed yourself. Made yourself smaller. Easier to manage. And I get why you did it. I just…” He presses his hand gently over mine, still wrapped around my pen. “I don’t want to watch you do that again. Not for anyone. Not even the people who love you.”

“I don’t think my friends—” I begin, but he cuts me off gently.

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