Page 62 of The Design of Goodbye
I waved the sandwich in front of him. “You need to apologize to poor gouda. C’mon, do it.”
“Gouda, I’m sorry I ever doubted you. Please forgive me.”
He stole another bite.
“Liam!”
“You were waving the sandwich in front of my face. The gouda was taunting me.”
“You owe me.”
He held out one of his sandwich halves, and I took a bite. Then I said, shocking myself, “My mom kind of taught me.”
“Kind of?”
“When I was seven, I wanted to sew like my mom did, so I stole some of her needles, thread, and fabric. Every night, I hid in my closet and practiced all the different hand stitches she did. I sewed simple things, like blankets, hair bows, little bags. She caught me a year later.”
“What’d she say?”
I thought back to that night and shuddered. “She wasn’t happy and said I didn’t have natural talent.”
“But you didn’t stop.”
“Of course not. My mom was trying to save me from future disappointment, but I was obsessed and determined.”
“A perfect combination.”
“I guess.” I took a sip of my coffee and continued, “When I was twelve, I attended my first Harbor Fashion Show with my mom.” I paused, memories momentarily taking my breath away. “The clothes were amazing. Especially the wedding dresses. I couldn’t get enough. That’s all it took for me to realize what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“A fashion designer?”
I shivered because those words felt like part ofme. “More specifically, a wedding dress designer.” Then I shrugged, like what I was about to admit didn’t tear me up inside. “I don’t have unique enough ideas or raw talent for that path, though.”
“What are you talking about? All I saw today was immense talent.”
“I’m not sure you’re the best judge,” I said, trying to hide how good his words made me feel. “You were impressed by a blind hem stitch.”
“It’s a neat stitch! You couldn’t even tell you hemmed the dress.” Softly, he added, “I think you should believe in yourself more.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t see what I see,” he pressed. “What other people see.”
“Liam,” I started, hating I had to admit this, “I call myself a fashion designer, but I’ve never designed a piece that’s entirelymine. I’ve only designed pieces based on my mom’s ideas and online templates. That’s it. How can I believe in myself if I can’t come up with an original piece?”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said. “But I understand. I’ll believe in you enough for the both of us. How about that?”
“Well, I can’t stop you.” I bit back a smile.
“Do you plan to go to college for fashion design?” he asked, breaking off a piece of his cookie and dunking it in his coffee.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s good. Try it.” He moved his coffee to the middle of the table. “It’s better with black coffee.”
I dunked a piece of my cookie in his coffee. The bitterness of it mixed with the sweetness of the cookie was the perfect combination.
“Really good.” I dunked another piece of cookie. “I applied to The Reed Art Institute for fashion design, but my main focus right now is entering the Harbor Fashion Show.”
