Page 61 of Don't Be in Love

He laughed. “Maybe it’s because I don’t live here.”

“But you used to,” I guessed.

“Well, yes I did grow up here,” he said unwillingly.

“Why move? It’s not too far from campus.”

“Living with one’s mother while also trying to have a social life and build a career isn’t exactly ideal.”

“I don’t know, I think the idea of having a mother who wants to know about those things sounds like a gift.”

“You’re telling me you enjoy having your mother meddle in your business?”

“If she ever had, I would’ve welcomed it.”

He looked at me with a long, weighted stare. The solemn stare the moon gave me every Halloween as kids ran by the house; parents holding onto pillowcases and disregarded capes.

A look that pulled at the corners of my lips. The same regretful look professors gave me when they asked if my mom was proud of my high test scores.

The sooner the uncomfortable questions came up, the sooner we could file this topic away as One to Never Speak Of.

His words were rickety, shaking like a fence with a rain-rotted picket. “I didn’t mean to—”

I took his hand. “Don’t let me trip up the stairs. This color would be impossible to get stains out of.”

With Mia and Brina behind us, we followed groups of guests as we ascended the staircase that opened up the home. A high-arched ceiling with a skylight greeted us at the entrance. We passed painted portraits and framed photographs of runway shows and …

Holy shit. I forgot.

I spent my entire life cutting out dresses and purses and perfumes from Beverly’s newest campaigns to add to my mood boards above my bed. I dug through every pocketbook section in every thrift store in hopes of finding an original Beverly. I even did last year’s branding project on Beverly’s re-introduction of their 90s shoulder purse collection.

And now I was in the home of the longest running Chief Designer of Beverly.

I drank each image in, trying to memorize them all. Photographs of the 1995 Autumn/Winter show. Of the original design of their crescent purse. Of their newest campaign with Luna Aldridge. Private, personal images seen only by the people in those images and this house.

I pressed my hands against the silk on my hips to dry my hands.

I should’ve taken more time to do my hair. Paid more attention to the way I styled myself. I should’ve worn my signet ring or maybe just more deodorant. I didn’t even match the theme for God’s sake. I was a flute of champagne in a room full of lavish red wine.

James welcomed guests, shaking hands every few minutes as we made our way to the end of the grand hallway where we were emptied out into a Cinderella-sized ballroom that bled into a dining room. It was filled with spinning fabric and bright smiles. Feathers, sparkles, silk. Open balconies peppered the sides of the room, looking over the rolling green hills.

“Finally, Jameson! I’ve been waiting for you. What took you so long?” A woman in a ruby red dress and black lace mask immediately approached us.

I stopped short. Cressida Breyer was in front of me.Chief Designer of BeverlyCressida Breyer.

“I was picking up Adelaide and her friends, remember?” James gestured to us.

I prayed she couldn’t see the beat of my heart through the silk.

“Oh.”Her attention turned to me.

I stretched my hand forward with a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Breyer, you have a wonderful son.”

She smiled. It was James’s smile. Sweet and kind.

Large diamonds overtook my palm as she returned my gesture. “What a lovely dress.”

Cressida Breyer likes my dress. “Thank you,” I responded as if I was a sane person.