The Next Mrs Russo

“He’s not my boyfriend, exactly,” I explain to Miller, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “I’m like a foster girlfriend, just helping out until he’s ready for his forever home. Wait—are you reading my card?”

“It’s fine. He didn’t write anything gross.” Miller dismisses me as if that’s the only reason he shouldn’t be reading the card attached to my flowers. “It’s not exactly a declaration of love, although… perhaps writing in cursive on a flower card is a declaration amongst your people? You know I don’t understand the mating habits of adults.”

“Give it,” I demand, attempting to snatch the card out of Miller’s hand.

He grins and holds it out of my reach. “It says,” he begins, then pauses—for dramatics, I’m sure, relishing his teenage power, and the fact that he’s got at least half a foot on me—“‘You shouldn’t have to buy your own flowers.’” Miller tilts his head to the side and considers. “That’s sorta swoony. I might use that. When I’m old.”

Oh, fuck my life. That is swoony. Is it supposed to be swoony? We’re sorta dating. We’re definitely having the sex. I’m absolutely delusionally in love with him, but in an under-control way. Like in a crush way. An expecting-it-to-end-at-any-moment way. Not in a hearts-and-flowers-and-expectations way.

I’m not in real love with him.

Oh, fuck.

Am I?

“Oh, you got a letter, too. Looks like it’s from a store in NYC! If they want to carry your upcycled dresswear, I’m expecting a raise.”

Miller hands me a stack of mail, and there, on the top, is a plain white envelope with the world’s most evil return address. I glance at the letter, deflated. It’s not from a store that sells clothing. It’s from… that store. The one that causes very bad feelings when I think about it. I stuff the letter into my purse to think about later. Or never.

Yeah, yeah, I know that sounds real mature, but you’d be amazed at the amount of problems that resolve themselves if you ignore them long enough. Ah-mazed.

“I got some new stuff,” I tell Miller, desperate to distract myself from both my complicated Warren feelings and my less complicated but definitely miserable feelings about the letter. I upend my bag on the work table and show Miller all the stuff I scored at the estate pre-sale this weekend. His jaw drops when he sees some of my finds. As it should. This haul is vintage nirvana.

“This is incredible,” Miller gushes with enough enthusiasm to almost make up for being such a snoop.

“Yup,” I agree. “But I also landed a new customer. Warren’s friend wants me to turn a few of her mom’s old pieces into new stuff she can wear. And her daughter wants me to redo her grandmother’s wedding dress into a wedding dress for her.”

“Whoa,” Miller says. “A vintage wedding dress redo? That’s a big deal.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “And you’re probably going to say I can’t handle it—”

“Uh, no?” Miller says, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t work for you if I didn’t think you were sort of good.”

“You think I’m ‘sort of good?’” I laugh, only semi-joking. “That’s some pretty high praise, Miller.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says. “Now, are you going to show me some designs or what?”

I whip out the sketches I’ve already started and start making adjustments based on ideas Miller adds as we play with the fabric and test the draping. I don’t want to inflate his ego any more than it already is, but the kid’s got a solid eye. Mrs McGinn calls, and we make plans for her to come into the shop this week.

I’m very nearly walking on air.

That is, until I go to get some lipstick out of my purse, and there’s that damn letter.

Nope.

Banishment to my purse isn’t far enough.

I take it to the Dumpster in the alley and rip it up into a million little pieces. I do it with my eyes closed so that I don’t catch a single word of shame.

But even after I walk away, the memory follows me, reminding me that, no matter how many changes I make, or how well I’m doing, or how successful I am, I’m still me.

Still a totally inappropriate girlfriend for Warren Russo.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Beatrice, I’m begging you. This is an emergency.”

On the other end of the phone, Beatrice grumbles something about “universe warned me about accepting your first appointment.” I’m worried she’ll hang up on me, but then she sighs, signaling to me that she’s still there.

“What is it now? I’m not even sensing any animal energy at the moment. What’s going on?”

“I’m calling from work,” I tell her. “Well, after work. Work’s done for the day. My place of work. I’m calling from my place of employment.”

“And this is an emergency?”

“Yes,” I say. “A really big one. Gary is… well…”