Page 6 of Wallflower
I open the doorto the two-bedroom apartment I share with my dad, and the comforting aroma of ragu makes me smile—for about three seconds. I’ve spent the entire day thinking about how to break the news I’ll be gone all summer, and I still don’t know how to do it. The thought of leaving him in his own company for months ties my stomach in knots.
The door clicks shut, my keys hit the ceramic bowl on the hallway table, and Dad’s head pokes around the corner. “Dinner is ready when you are, Blossom.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I call on my way to my room. “Give me a couple minutes to freshen up, and I’ll come right out.”
He knows me well enough to read between the lines, and this evening is one of those times I need to be alone for a while.
I’m grateful but not surprised when he replies, “Take your time. No rush.”
I disappear into my room, drop my satchel on my desk, and collapse face down on my bed. Ugh. What a freaking day.
And starting tomorrow, my dad will be alone for the first time in probably thirty years.
His world is so, so small. He spends ninety minutes every morning walking around our neighborhood, cooks us a homemade dinner every evening, and supports the San Francisco Fury like it’s his religion. He also sees his therapist twice a month. That’s all he has. Walking. Cooking. Hockey. Therapy. And me.
With a groan, I roll and reach over to turn on the lamp on my nightstand, then glance around my room. When we moved to San Francisco ten years ago, it was so I could start my fashion degree, and this shoe-box apartment was the best we could afford. Dad insisted I take the larger bedroom with the ensuite bath because “young women need privacy, and young fashion ingenues need space to chase their dreams.”
When I mentioned I wanted to line the walls with oversized gray felt-covered boards, he installed them all in a day and surprised me with them after class. All this time later, they’re covered with layers of my sketches, hundreds of fabric swatches, a bunch of inspirational quotes, and photographs of wedding dresses by my favorite designers. Evidence of a dream I gave up but a calling I can’t ignore.
I pick up my vintage—okay, thrifted—beige leather satchel, tug my sketchbook free, and open it to the design I started this morning but didn’t have time to finish. I put on my headphones and turn up the gritty rock track, then start to draw. It’s not long before I’m lost between the beat in my ears and the smooth paper under my palm. Another minute, and my heart rate slows enough that I can no longer feel it thumping.
Cocking my head to one side, I add shadow to the feminine silhouette on the paper. Lengthen the skirt. Refine the waist. This particular design isn’t new. It’s a dress I’ve committed to paper a thousand times over the last ten years, but I’m trying something new in the bodice. A little less lace and a little more skin. A subtle blush instead of the classic ivory I’ve favored in thepast. Sometime later—I know it can’t be too long because Dad hasn’t come looking for me yet—it’s done.
I tear the page free from the binding and look around. I ran out of blank space years ago, so I find a spot where a pin can pierce through the layers to the board and add my latest work to the collection. Versions of the same dress appear on all four walls, each one a little different in ways nobody but me would notice. My latest attempt at a sample of it hangs from the dressmaker’s dummy in the corner. I should let this one go, but I can’t until I get it right.
After a quick social media check—no new likes, no new followers—I shower, change into comfortable sweats, and then sit at our two-seater dining table. Dad is in the kitchen spooning noodles and sauce into bowls, and when he sets one down in front of me along with a bowl of grated parmesan cheese, he gives me a look he’s perfected over the last twenty-eight years. The one that saysspill it.
“I have some news,” I begin, twirling a knot of spaghetti onto my fork. I slide it off when it grows too large and start again.
“Yeah?” Dad picks up his knife and fork, slices into his spaghetti, and chops the strands into rice-size lengths. I’ve suggested we cook penne or fusilli instead of spaghetti, but slurping noodles was one of my favorite things as a kid, and he refuses to let it go. “Did you get a promotion already? I knew it wouldn’t be long before the Fury realized how lucky they got when they hired you.”
I spare him an indulgent smile. Lucas James is my biggest cheerleader, and I appreciate his confidence, but he’s my dad. He’s obligated to believe in me.
“Not exactly.”
I stuff a forkful of pasta into my mouth, but I have to swallow eventually, and Dad’s waiting with questions written all over his face.
“Chord Davenport came into the office this morning.”
Dad’s hands stall mid-cut and I can’t help but grin at the wonder in his eyes. “You metChord Davenport?”
“I did.”
“And?” He circles his fork in the air, prompting for more. “What’s he like in person?” Dad shakes his head. “The Fury’s going to be unstoppable next season with a player like Davenport on the right wing. Just what we need to turn things around, right?”
“Right.”
I set down my fork, take a gulp of water, and then tuck one hand between my knees to stop them from bouncing.
“What’s going on?” Dad leans back to glance at my legs, still vibrating under the table. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
He gives me a confused look, so I suck in a deep breath and let the words tumble out.
“He came in to talk about next season, but he needs an assistant for the summer, and I think my boss wanted to do it, but for whatever reason, Chord didn’t want that. So anyway, one thing kind of led to another, and in the end, he said he wants me.”
