Page 38 of Wallflower
I bite my lip at how offended he sounds. “I like it fine,” I assure him, “but I’m not what you’d call a diehard fan. My dad, however, follows the Fury like it’s his religion. He was ecstatic when I told him I got a job for the team.”
“I’ll have to meet him someday.”
“Really?” I don’t try to hide my surprise.
“Sure.”
“He’d love that.”
“Is he the reason why you took the job?”
“Um, well…”
It doesn’t feel great when people don’t care enough to ask about my life, but I’m always uncomfortable when they do. It’s a paradox easily managed by avoiding conversation altogether. But this moment with Chord doesn’t feel that way. We’ve been edging closer to something that might be friendship, soit’s surprisingly easy to push through the discomfort of talking about myself and lean into the impulse to be more open. “He’s part of it, but it’s a respectable, well-paying position with excellent health benefits. Anyone would kill for the same opportunity. I’d have been silly not to take it.”
“So that means—what? You studied business marketing in college?”
“No, actually.” The sun is toasting the tops of my thighs, so I run my cool, wet hands over them for relief. “Well, yes and no. I double majored in marketing and fashion design.”
“Fashion. That’s cool.”
Apprehension flutters in my chest. I get the sense Chord’s taking this conversation somewhere specific. Somewhere like the sketchbook and felt board he saw in my bedroom. The walls around my heart slam into place, but then I remember the secrets Daisy shared with me—all the intimate details I know about Chord’s life without his permission—and I want to offer something in return. The truth.
“Yeah, it is—or was.”
“What do you meanwas?”
I take a moment to think about my answer. It’s hard to put into words the regrets I’ve kept to myself. It hurts to think of them, let alone say them out loud, but it’s almost like they’ve been waiting for the right time to surface because once I start talking, I can’t stop.
“My dream was to design wedding gowns and haute couture. Violet James—the next Vera Wang.” I chuckle at how absurd it sounds now. “But it’s just me and my dad at home, and we need my income, so while other design students were doing low-paid internships and traveling the world, I was working whatever part-time marketing gigs I could find during the week, slugging it out in fashion retail on weekends, and failing to make an impact on social media.” I shrug like it doesn’t bother me, butthe burn of failure and embarrassment sticks in my throat. “I gave it ten years before I admitted it was time to let go of my dreams. Then this job with the Fury came up, I applied, and I got it. Donotask me how, but I suppose things worked out all right in the end.”
Chord is quiet for a moment, and I start to feel insecure about how much I’ve shared. Perhaps he wasn’t angling for my life story. Maybe he was just trying to be polite. I misread the situation, and now I look stupid.
But then he says, “It’s just you and your dad?”
“Yep. Just the two of us.”
“And your mom?”
A sad sort of smile tugs at my lips. “She was only eighteen when she had me. I mean, Dad was only twenty, so he wasn’t that much older, but by the time I turned three, my mom decided she didn’t want to be a mom anymore. There was too much adventure waiting for her. Too many dreams she wanted to chase. So, she left, and we never heard from her again.”
“I’m sorry,” Chord says quietly.
“There’s no need to be,” I say honestly. “I got over it a long time ago. She was young and beautiful, and she wrote me a long letter explaining how she dreamed of being on the stage. She told me she was sorry, and I was hurt and mad for a long time, but as I grew older and learned more about the world, I began to understand why she did what she did. I’m not sure I would have wanted a mother who didn’t want to raise me. I don’t want to be the reason for someone else’s regrets.”
Chord blinks like he’s turning my words over in his head. “And your dad?”
A single tear takes me off guard, and I dash it away before Chord can notice it. I’m more reluctant to talk about my dad than anything else, but I miss him so much that the words spill out. “He was always a good father—he’s a good man, and I neverwent without—but he struggles with depression. I’ve always believed my mother leaving us was sort of the catalyst for that.”
“What does he do with himself? Does he work?”
“He did a carpentry apprenticeship when he was young and worked in construction for a while. Then he did odd jobs and handyman-type things.”
“So, you take care of him?”
Something about the way he says it makes me frown. “We take care of each other.”
“And the designing?” He casts me a look that says he’s referring to the sketchbook he wasn’t supposed to see—he knows that; I know that; and he knows I know he knows—but neither of us is going to mention it because it’ll bring upother things. “You still draw in your own time? You don’t share it with anyone?”
