Unafraid

“You took my truck.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I cringe. “There wasn’t time to leave a note.”

“Are you planning on bringing it back anytime soon?” Garrett doesn’t sound pissed, just amused.

“I’ll drive it back for my shift tonight, I promise.”

He laughs. “That means, not today.”

“I’m already halfway to the city.” I admit. “I really am sorry, I just had to get out of town for a while.”

Garrett’s voice softens. “If it helps, that as**ole is barred for life. And if you want me to go sort him out…”

“It’s OK,” I sigh. “He’s not worth it. No use in you getting all beat up over nothing.”

“Are you saying I can’t take him?” Garrett sounds outraged.

I grin. “Fine, it’s not worth you getting an assault charge for nothing. You know he’d just run straight to the sheriff anyways.” I feel a shiver of disgust for Trey, and all his slimy, lying, cheating ways.

“I mean it, Brit, you just say the word.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Sure I do.” Garrett says quietly. “You’re family.”

I feel a warmth in my chest. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Trey wasn’t even the half of it…”

I stop, but Garrett picks up on the change in my voice and demands.”What happened?”

“Nothing. I’ll tell you tonight,” I sigh. When I’ve had a whole day to pick apart the humiliating experience in my mind. “Anyway, thanks for the truck. I’ll see you later.”

“Drive safe.” Garrett rings off.

I turn onto the interstate, using one hand to flip through the mix CDs in the dashboard until I find a rock mix from the last time I borrowed the car. I slip it in the player, turning up the Paramore track and letting the miles drift by, cool breeze whipping around my bare shoulders, a new chill to the usual sweltering temperatures.

Summer’s almost done, I realize with a pang of regret. September will be here soon, and Beachwood Bay will shut down for another year – our temporary inhabitants heading back to their lives, kids going off to college in the fall, tourist stores shuttering for winter. The buzz of weekend beach parties and festivals at the harbor will fade, my tips at Jimmy’s dwindling until it’s just the locals in on a Friday night for beers and burgers.

And I’ll still be there. Another year older, and no closer to my dreams. Not if the stack of rejection letters have anything to say about it.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy, making something of myself. I’ve thought about getting out of town like Ray Jay and Emerson, starting fresh somewhere, but I’ve always felt trapped, caught suspended between the safety of Beachwood Bay and the unknown of the world out there. I may have a reputation here, but I know how to get by; I have a place, even if it is as the town bad girl. At least this way, I get to cling onto the hope that life outside will be different, something better. But what happens if I actually make the move—pack up and move on, only to find that it’s exactly the same?

Same whispers, same judgment. Same me.

Not that I have to worry about that anytime soon, I remind myself. Not until I find a job, or some plan beyond waiting tables for a living. As the city rears up in the distance, sunlight glinting off the tall buildings, I feel the same rush of possibility I always do leaving Beachwood Bay behind. I grip the steering wheel with determination, merging into the traffic downtown. I don’t know how I’ll make it, but I will, one day. This will be my life, not just for the afternoon, but for good.

And until then… Well, I have the day to myself, far away from the disappointment of my life, and I’m going to make the most of it.

My first stop is the same place as always: a nondescript warehouse building on the edge of the college district that houses my favorite place in the whole entire world: Emilia’s. There’s no sign, or website, but that’s what everyone calls it: a vast fabric warehouse ruled over by the eagle eyes of Emilia herself, a fearsome old Russian woman with tiny gold-rimmed spectacles and the best taste in materials I’ve ever seen.

“Brit-Brit,” she pounces on me the minute I walk in. She clutches my arms with her wizened hands and lands a kiss on both my cheeks. “You so skinny now, you need to eat. Men like meat on their bones!” She bursts into laughter, shooting a glance over at her long-suffering husband, Henri, who sits—as always—silent in the corner, laboriously pouring over the books.

“I’m fine!” I protest. “Believe me, you should see me put away a burger, you don’t need to worry.”

“Hmm,” Emilia squints at me, unconvinced. “How did the skirt turn out? It was like I said with the hem stitching, no?”

“You were right,” I admit. “The fabric didn’t take. I had to do it by hand.”

“I told you.” She glances past me at a group of fashion students manhandling some velvets. “No!” She calls. “Hands back! Shoo!” she turns back to me with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “The new class, ay ay ay. They put their sticky fingers over everything.”

“I’ll just browse.” I grin. “And look,” I show her my palms. “Spotless.”

“Of course you know,” she beams.

I leave her snapping at the students, and drift down the main aisle. All around me, reams of fabric are stacked fifteen feet high, samples draped enticingly in swathes of silky satin and stiff, architectural canvas.

It’s heaven. I can browse here for hours, lost in the possibility of this swatch of fabric, or that print, imagining what I could transform them into given a few days—and an unlimited budget. A cute, funky club dress, or an elegant, sweeping skirt? A tough denim vest, or a wild patterned shirt? Under this roof, anything is possible.

I got bit by the fashion bug early as a kid, as much out of necessity as anything. There wasn’t any money for new clothes, so my mom would raid the Goodwill in the next town, and beg black trash bags of castoffs from her friends’ kids. Looking back, it sounds tough, but the days she came home with a fresh haul were like Christmas to me. I’d tear through the piles, excitedly pulling out an old sweater or some embellished shirt—I knew that on their own, they looked way out of date, but if I chopped off those sleeves, and fixed those rhinestones to that collar…

I would spend hours working to transform the old clothes, graduating from a needle and thread to an old secondhand sewing machine. My early attempts ended in disaster most of the time, but by the time I started high school, I could whip up a cute tank from an old sweatshirt, and turn an oversize pair of jeans into a cutoff skirt. I would never be one of the popular girls in their fashionable jeans and store-bought shirts, but at least I didn’t look like I was desperately trying to keep up with them and be something everyone knew I wasn’t.

These days, I’ve moved on from just altering stuff. Now my sketchbooks are filled with wild, outlandish designs: amazing dresses, bold and crazy—and totally impractical for life in Beachwood Bay. I keep most of them in my imagination, but some, I can’t help but try to recreate. I sew them from scratch, painstakingly cutting patterns and mock-up canvas until finally, I can risk it with the real fabric and bring to life something that once only existed in my mind.

I daydream half the afternoon away, until Emilia finds me, poring over lace samples to use as a trim on a camisole top. She clucks her tongue, guiding me away, “This is no the good stuff. I have some, I put aside special for you.”

“You’re a gem.” I smile, following her to the back of the store. Emilia always saves me the good stuff: the odd-sized ends of a roll, and scraps of expensive fabric other buyers don’t think to bother with. Good materials cost more than I can afford, so I make do with what I can find, and usually, a slip of silk will inspire some new design in my sketchbook—even if I can’t afford to make the whole thing a reality.

Emilia digs out a basket from under the table, and spreads her wares for me to see: thin swatches of the lace I’m looking for, delicate as silken spiderwebs but bright in black and red; ribbon trims; a length of bold, orange printed satin; and more of the stiff, scratchy canvas I use to mock up my designs and fix the patterns before I graduate to real fabric.

“This is perfect,” I tell her, stroking the lace. I’ve been doing more lingerie-inspired pieces this year, adding flashes of lace and silk trim to camisoles and bra tops. I love how wearing something bold against my skin makes me feel extra-daring, like I have a secret nobody knows. “You’re the best.”

Emilia waves away my compliments with a smile. “What you work on now? Something pretty, maybe. You always so dark, aggressive. Try a little lightness…” She offers me a cotton in sprigged pink, but her suggestions fade as I look past her to the next table.

“When did these come in?” I ask, drawn forwards as if I’m pulled by some magnetic force. The table is covered in bolts of silk, every color of the rainbow, shimmering and lustrous even under the cheap lights.

Emilia follows, looking at the fabric proudly. “Just this week, my guy in India.”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, stroking the silk. It’s soft under my fingertips, draping and folding in a gorgeous, heavy sway. I lift a length of the purple. It’s deep as midnight, with a rosy-colored sheen. I could drown in the depths of the color. I feel a shiver of anticipation. I can see the dress already: simple, floor-length, strapless. Timeless.

“How much?” I ask.

I know from Emilia’s pause that it’s more than I can afford, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I have to have this fabric. “I’ll take it,” I tell her, before she can answer. It’s probably more than my earnings for a month, but it’ll be worth it. This fabric is made to be mine.

Emilia gives me a knowing smile. She’s probably seen it a hundred times, the spell a piece of material can cast over you. “I’ll go cut,” she tells me, whisking the bolt away before I can have second thoughts. Before I know it, I’m out on the street again, my heart racing—half in shock at the amount of cash I’ve just parted with, and half with nervous exhilaration at my find. But as I drive back to Beachwood, the excitement takes over, and the thought of what those bags hold. Dresses have never really been my thing—not unless they’re cut to stun guys into submission—but this fabric is crying out for something sweeping and elegant. Not a fairytale princess dress, all frou-frou and glitzy, but something bold: the kind of dress that would stop you in your tracks.

I’m still swept up in plans for my precious bolt of silk when I pull into the drive back at the beach house and find a strange truck already parked up front, this one even more dusty and battered than Garrett’s.

And behind it, sitting on the front porch steps, leaning back on his elbows like he owns the place, is Hunter.

“How did you find where I live?” I demand, slamming the car door behind me.

He unfolds his limbs and stands, coming down the steps to meet me. “I asked around.” Hunter replies. He’s wearing another of those preppy Oxford shirts and a pair of jeans that fit way too good. “Small town hospitality,” he grins happily, “It really can’t be beat.”

“It’s a treat, alright.” I mutter. This is something else I won’t have to deal with when I get out of town: people dropping by unannounced, without any warning.

Without any time for me to prepare.

“The lady at the café even wrote me out directions.” Hunter holds out his hand to show pen marks scribbled on his palm. He’s so casual and relaxed, it’s like he’s totally oblivious to my hostility.

His gaze drops to my bags. “Been shopping, huh?” Hunter reaches to help, but I duck past him, heading inside. He follows me through the hallway and back to the living room, which I’ve set up at my temporary studio. Fabric samples are piled on the table, my sewing machine sits under the window to catch the best light, and there’s a dress form in the corner wearing an unfinished negligee.

I dump my bags on the table and turn, my hands on my hips.

“What do you want?”

The edge of Hunter’s mouth quirks in amusement. “What do you want?” he echoes. “That’s it? No, ‘How you been?’ ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Sorry for ditching you three years ago?’”

Is he for real?

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Hunter continues, glancing around the room. He wanders over to the corner, looking closely at the nightgown I’m working on. “Finished college, the folks are doing great. What about you?”

“Spectacular.” I bite out. “Will you—don’t touch that!” I leap across the room to stop him from pulling my work-in-progress apart. Hunter stands back, hands up in surrender.

“Sorry. This is great, you do all this yourself?”

“Had to do something to pass the time.” I drawl, crossing my arms protectively over my chest. “I don’t spend my life waitressing, you know.”

“I didn’t think you did.” Hunter’s smile fades, and he looks at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. “It’s good to see you again, Brit.”

The sound of my name, soft on his lips, does something to me. A shiver rolls right through my body, delicate and sweet. I remember the touch of those lips, kissing their way across my skin. Suddenly, this room is way too small, and Hunter is standing way too close.

Close enough to kiss.

“So now we’re all caught up, maybe you can answer my question,” I snap, retreating behind the safety of my sewing table. “Like I said before, what do you want?”