Page 13 of The Design of Goodbye
A tingling sensation swept across my entire body. Of course I remembered. How could I not? My mom had been gone a week. All I’d wanted—for one night—was to hang out with my friends and forget. That night had ended up being another thing I regretted.
Smirking, Jules said, “Remember the pictures I took? I even have a video. I’d hate to accidentally post them to Whirl.”
When the threat sank in, I breathed in and out slowly, trying to keep calm. “That’s basically blackmail. You wouldn’t do that.”
She would.
“It’s not blackmail when you’re my best friend. It’s only a little bit of fun.” Jules rested her elbows on the table and leaned as close to me as she could. “Would you rather ask Roo a few simple questions or have the pictures posted?”
I should’ve thrown her phone into the lake when I had the chance.
“Don’t post them,” I said. The pictures werefarworse than any secret Liam Strom was hiding. “I’ll find out where he was.”
“Deal.”
In that moment, I’d never hated Jules more.
chapter six
A year and a half ago, my mom told me my sewing was terrible. I’d been devastated. On top of not knowing what direction to take my fashion career, being told I couldn’t evensewhadwrecked me.
Invisible Thread was our local tailor shop. My mom had never let us go in, but in a fit of desperation—and bravery I hadn’t known I was capable of—I’d walked into the tiny store the morning my mom had destroyed me with her honesty and asked the owner, Bev Sage, to mentor me.
In less than a week, her mentorship had turned into a job. According to Bev, my sewing was impeccable. My mom had been furious. For months, she’d reminded me how much I’d betrayed her. But no matter how guilty I’d felt or how upset she’d been every time I left for work, I never quit. I loved working with Bev and her daughter, Taylor. Invisible Thread was the little piece of solace I hadn’t known I needed. Sometimes, it was hard to be at home. Over dinner, I’d listen to the hundreds of new ideas my mom had—I still had none. At night, I’d watch her take those ideas and bring them to life—I’d never created an original piece. Being at home was a constant reminder of how lost I felt. Invisible Thread was a place I could sew and fix andaccomplish.
But, today, I couldn’t focus. I was worried about tutoring tomorrow and how I’d have to pry answers out of a boy I didn’t think would open up.
I grabbed a black ball gown off the pending orders rack and started reading the order form just as Taylor flew into the alterations room—or as Taylor and I had renamed it a few months after I’d started: The Magic Room.
She fell against our sewing table and choked out, “He’s here!”
Taylor was a tall girl with dark-brown skin and voluminous, natural hair. She was wearing a forest-green bodysuit with a burgundy wrap skirt she’d embroidered fall leaves on.
“Bart?” I whispered.
“He was just delivered.” She dragged me to the front entrance of the shop. And there, in all his glory, was our trusty, old sewing machine, Bart. I kneeled in front of him, not believing my eyes.
“After three long torturous months,” said Taylor, kneeling next to me, “he’s back. Cost my mom a fortune, but I told her Bart was the only sewing machine for us. She’s learned her lesson and will never drink tea near him again.”
“I didn’t think this day would come,” I said, patting Bart like a puppy. “He looks so good.”
“Better than ever.” She faced me, and I braced myself for her question. “You okay? I thought you’d be ecstatic.”
I wasn’t sure how to describe my relationship with Taylor. We were both seniors at East Reed High, but we hung out in different crowds and didn’t see each other much outside of work. Our interactions at school consisted of quick waves or short conversations between classes. At work, we got along great, but that was the extent ofus. I hadn’t told her about my mom. Just like with my friends, I’d lied and said my mom was in Paris. I got the feeling Taylor didn’t believe me because she’d asked me if I was okay every day since I’d told her my mom had left.
I always lied.
“I’m okay.” I picked at a snag on my tights. “Just stressed about tomorrow.”
Jules couldnotpost the pictures.
“Why?” Taylor pressed her thumb on theBartsticker we’d stuck on the sewing machine a year ago. I’d written his name in an elegant font and colored it purple with yellow polka dots. Taylor had drawn wildflowers in the remaining space. The sticker still looked good, but the corners had lost their stickiness.
“He needs a new name tag. Given he’s fixed up and all,” I said. I took a breath. “And I’m stressed because I have math tutoring tomorrow.”
“First,” started Taylor, “I agree about the name tag. Second, I’m sorry about tutoring—that sucks. Third,stop that.” She pushed my hand away so I could no longer pull at the snag. “Those tights are cute. Anyway, tutoring’s better than failing, right?”
“Maybe.” A thought occurred to me. Maybe she knew Liam. Maybe she had answers. “Have you ever talked to Liam Strom?”
