CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STACY
THREE DAYS LATER, AFTER I’VE made the new round of sketches, I decide to make some mock-ups.
What the hell. I need to make stuff to sell on FairTraded anyway, and I’m pretty sure that Crazy April will buy just about anything I aim in her direction. Besides, I recently received some fantastic fabrics that I haven’t had a chance to use, and the designs I have in mind for Expendable Chic — especially if I’m allowed to “bump it up a notch” — are things I’d like to try my hand at anyway. So why not? I’ll make some stuff to show Hampton when he comes back into town. If he doesn’t like it, then I’ll sell it online. Nothing gets wasted.
The plan sours when I realize that I’m not making the right dresses, the right slacks, or the right shirts.
More accurately, I’m making exactly the dresses, slacks, shirts, and other garments that I’ve drawn on my pad, but there’s zero chance they’ll be a fit for Expendable Chic. They’re some of the finest articles of clothing I’ve ever made, once finished. They aren’t particularly fancy, but you could drop bombs on them. They’re so meticulously made and wearable that whoever buys them will be able to list them in their wills.
I’ve only finished two items by Wednesday: a dress and a man’s dress shirt. I’m stupidly proud of both, but as I eye them on their hangers, I wonder why I made them. I doubt that either is practical to manufacture at large scale. And they’re not even Expendable Chic type clothes. They’re beautiful but basic. Expendable Chic, on the other hand, is the opposite. Their clothes are the most commercial definition of “fashion.” The rage today and stupid tomorrow.
I can’t explain my actions. And what’s more, I don’t know what I’ll tell Hampton. Not only have I failed to craft the mockups I wanted to show him, the sketches aren’t any good. They’re all of pillar items. Timeless rather than trendy. Foundation instead of frivolous. At least with my last round of sketches, I followed the Expendable Chic ethos. My first attempts managed to be things that would fit with their lines while also reflecting me enough that they weren’t embarrassing. But these? They’re all me. It’s like I sewed these garments with my ears closed to the customer’s wishes. Like I sewed them out of spite.
I have exactly fifteen minutes to freak the hell out. Hampton clearly has something in mind, and judging by the way he was on the phone last week, it’s something that excites him. We haven’t talked since. I’ve had questions, but didn’t feel like picking up the phone. Now he’ll be here soon to see how royally I’ve screwed up.
I probably can’t sketch anything new in fifteen minutes, but figure I might as well try. Three crumpled sheets later the door chimes and Hampton enters.
I’m not prepared for what I feel. It’s not quite nerves, though I feel plenty of that. It’s not lust, although my body does respond to the memory of our last encounter. It’s not anger. It’s not even resentment. I was beyond annoyed when Hampton called and pitched me more work instead of helping me to figure out what happened between us. Maybe he’s still processing. Guys are weird. My emotional life winds into everything I do, like a hair in a braid. Men seem to have separate selves, each compartmentalized away from the other.
I watch his eyes. I want to see how he looks at me.
And because I’m looking I catch what flickers across Hampton’s features before he’s all business. A flash as we don’t just look at each other, but lock eyes.
It’s amazing how much can pass unsaid, in only a glance. For a moment, I feel naked before him, though I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I’m a bit embarrassed, given what happened and what hasn’t happened since. But at the same time, I’m accepting — it was what it was, whatever that might mean. And lastly, though I’m not sure if I’m proud of it, I feel desire.
I remember his touch. I remember the obstacles we stepped past, as our lips mashed and our bodies blended. I remember what we knocked against. Right beside his left leg, is the couch where he spread my legs and licked my pussy until I came.
The moment passes, and whatever connected us is gone.
I’m dizzy from the flurry of memories. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Or where to look. Should I face him fully, as business partners? Should I go to him like a lover? Or should I stand here stiffly like a confused dolt as I’m doing now, with legs together in the middle of my shop like a mannequin?
Blessedly, I see the same uncertainty in Hampton. He’s paralyzed, too. It’s as if he’s just remembering now. As if until this moment, he’d forgotten what happened the last time.
He breaks first. He comes forward, and for a terrible moment we don’t know how to greet each other. His hand flinches as he’s going to raise it to shake. Then he stops. Then it flinches again, and we save each other with an awkward hug.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“I’ve had a crazy week,” he goes on. It’s possible this is an apology for not being in touch more, though I have no idea.
“Me too.”
“Lots of customers?”
“About the usual amount.”
“Making a lot for your FairTraded store?”
I don’t know if I told Hampton about that or if he looked it up on his own. I wonder what it means if it’s the latter. Nothing, I’m sure, other than that he was evaluating the designer he keeps trying to pay so much money.
I think of the new garments before answering. The dress and the shirt that are all I’ve done to fill his request that won’t work for him even a little. Those will go online, I’m sure, after Hampton fires me, or whatever the appropriate thing is for him to do.
“Some.”
“How’s your family?”
He hasn’t met my family. I only mentioned that they live upstairs. I did mention Hampton to them, though. Dad last heard how much I hate him, then how my opinion suddenly and inexplicably changed. Emily told me she heard noises downstairs the day Hampton was here. She said it sounded like two animals wrestling. Later she pointed at a stain on the couch, gave me an obnoxious wink, and laughed.
“They’re fine.”
“Have you been outside? Beautiful out there.”
Wow. We’re discussing the weather. I don’t know how the rest of the day is going to unfold, but I do know it’s going to be painful.
“Sure is. A lot nicer than the last time you were here.”
Hampton’s eye twitches. There’s a second of contact, and then he becomes very interested in his hands. I really shouldn’t have returned his weather volley. The rain was almost as much a part of our encounter as we were.
“So. Do you have anything to show me?”
Like your tits?
The mental non-sequitur takes me off-guard. I scramble for something to say. I should rip off the Band-Aid. Blurt that I don’t have any designs ready that will do him any good. I can argue that I had too much going on. Or for a creative block that wouldn’t let the muse in to bless my ideas. I should apologize. Tell him I’ll do better next time.
But there’s something weird between us.
“I …”
He saves me. As I hang on my single syllable, wondering what “I” am about to do in this verbal scenario, Hampton’s agitation breaks. I can tell he doesn’t like being in here, not without the air cleared. He can tell there’s something with me because he’d be blind if he missed it. “Have you eaten?”
“What?”
“Food. Lunch.”
“No. Why?”
“I just wonder if this would go better with lunch.”
“You want to buy me lunch?”
No. He doesn’t. He clearly just doesn’t know what else to say, but the odd vibe got him thinking he needed to say something to the girl he stuck his dick into. “Why not?”
“Okay. Sure. Now?”
He’s flustered. “Unless you’re busy. Unless you’d just like to hand me the sketches and get back to work. I don’t want to put you out. I was just thinking—”
“No. It’s fine.”
“You’re sure?”
Didn’t he just invite me? I can’t tell whether this is something nice or something terrible. I can’t tell whether he’s happy to be going to lunch with me or somehow resents me for making him feel like he should ask, then accepting.
Was I supposed to say no?
I need a copy of the rulebook, please.
But I’m in too deep. And it’s better than handing over the sketches I don’t have.
I don’t answer. I just tidy up, lock the register and move toward the door. I’m out of the store before Hampton, who follows bewildered.
I lock the door, and we walk down toward Main Street with two feet of distance between us.
Hampton looks at my empty hands and then behind us. “You forgot to bring the sketches to show me over lunch.”
“I’ll show you later,” I lie.