Page 19 of The Design of Goodbye
After work on Wednesday, I locked myself in my mom’s sewing room, determined to sketchsomething.
But then I couldn’t stop staring at the application.
It was for an official entry into the Harbor Fashion Show, which was held the last Saturday of May a few towns over in Harbor, Michigan. The Harbor Fashion Show was unique because it didn’t showcase well-known fashion designers and their upcoming fall and winter collections, as one would expect. It was a competition meant for soon-to-be high school graduates. The winner would receive ten thousand dollars and the opportunity to design a limited-edition collection with Marvin Jones, famous haute couture designer. The collection would be revealed during next year’s Harbor Fashion Show and available for pre-order immediately after.
I vividly remembered attending my first Harbor Fashion Show. I’d just turned twelve, and my mom had finally agreed—with pressure from my dad—to take me. I remembered the models, with their sparkly makeup and perfect hair, and the intimidating runway. Most importantly, I remembered the clothes—especially the wedding dresses—and how they made me feel.
Some people connected with certain books or songs. But me? I connected with clothes. And like those books and those songs, clothes told stories, too. The day I’d attended the Harbor Fashion Show was the day I’d discovered my passion—my dream. One day, models would wear clothes I’d made when they walked down that Harbor Fashion Show runway.
Remember what I always told you.
Who was I kidding? I was going to fail. How could I enter the competition when I had no ideas? My sketches should be done. I should be ordering fabrics. Choosing models.
My eyes landed on the application again.
It was pinned to a corkboard. It was the only thing on the board, taunting me. On nights like this, I had the strong urge to burn it, like I had my mom’s letter. I never did. There were some things I wasn’t strong enough for. Burning that paper would feel like burning my dreams.
Something needed to change.
My eyes landed on the sketchbook. That was it. I’d been using my mom’s sketchbooks for years. I needed one that was mine. I tossed the sketchbook I’d been using in the closet. I needed to go to the store. Now. I also needed to get out of this room—something was wrong with it. When I was in here, my chest felt tight, my throat scratchy, my eyes dry. It was probably black mold.
When I tossed my purse into the passenger’s seat of my car, I saw it: the painting Liam had left by the stop sign the day I’d hit him with my car. I’d planned to throw it away. Maybe give it back to him. But I hadn’t been able to do either of those because I loved it too much. I stared at it, in awe of its beauty. It was a simple watercolor painting of a bird, but the way the black-and-white paint blended, dripped, and splattered across the page was breathtaking. Longing was in the painting. Sadness too. I could see it in the bird’s eyes, in the shape of the bird’s wings. Feel it through my fingertips gripping the paper. No amount of paint or brushstrokes could bury the emotions, though the artist had tried. I wasn’t sure how I could tell.
I clutched the painting to my chest, never wanting to part with it. I’d never connected to a painting. Until now. I placed the painting back on the passenger’s seat. Change of plans.
The painting needed a frame.
chapter nine
Over the past three years, I’d learned there were two major signs Jules was dealing with Tanner drama.
Doughnuts and Disney.
So, when I reluctantly walked into her room Saturday morning and saw the doughnuts on her bed andFrozenplaying on her laptop, I knew what I was in for. I’d already kind of expected it. I’d woken up to over a dozen missed calls and thirty unread texts from her. When I’d finally called back, she’d answered, sobbing. The only words I’d managed to get out of her were “I need you” and “My life is over.”
This wasnothow I wanted to start my Saturday.
“What happened?” I asked as I sat next to her.
She paused her movie and looked at me with swollen red eyes. “Tanner—” A sob cut her off.
“You broke up again?” I asked.
I wasn’t surprised. While Jules and Tanner had been going out since freshman year, every few months, they broke up. Then got back together. Then broke up again.
It was exhausting.
She shook her head, chin quivering. “Worse.” Her face crumpled. “He kissed Olivia Jones last night!”
Nowthissurprised me. Whenever Jules and Tanner broke up, it was over something silly, like Tanner canceling plans for something Jules had been really looking forward to or Jules texting Tanner too many times when he was out with his friends. Neither had ever hooked up with other people.
“Hecheatedon you?” I took her hair out of her bun and began untangling the knots with the hairbrush I’d grabbed off her nightstand. “What a jerk.”
“He said he was bored with me.” She sniffed and grabbed a powdered doughnut before getting situated in a better position for me to continue combing her hair.
I wasn’t sure how to console her. I’d had boyfriends before, sure. But I’d never had arealone. All the boys I’d dated so far had been set up by Jules and only lasted—at the most—a few months. I’d never been interested in them, so I hadn’t cared when we’d broken up. I’d never dated a boy I couldn’t stop thinking about. That Iliked. I dreamed of finding a boy that made my stomach flip and knees go weak.
“It’s his loss,” I said.
