Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
PHIL
I’d low-key planned to spend the weekend working—without telling Calla, who, in the hopes of getting me to work less on weekends and have an actual social life, invented a rule that if I work, she has to as well.
It’s a stupid rule, since her work involves a lot of dealing with clients and suppliers and my work involves me getting to draw clothes and use my sewing machine, both of which I love, but arguing with Calla is like arguing with a rock.
She doesn’t listen, and I’m not going to change her mind.
That analogy sounded a lot better when it was a concept in my head.
Anyway, the plan goes out the window on Friday afternoon when Polly drops by the office and insists we’re all going to Disneyland with him for the weekend.
I’m appalled, of course—crowds and I do not get along, and weekends are when the crowds at Disneyland are worst—but I don’t want to pass up the chance to hang out with my friends, and I know they’ll take care of me. They always do.
By midafternoon Saturday, I’m leaning against a fence beside Butch and Harold, waiting for Polly and Jordan to finish signing autographs.
“I guess a ball cap and sunglasses aren’t a good enough disguise when you’re a professional ball player,” Butch says, heavy on the sarcasm, as Xera comes back from concessions and hands out sodas and churros.
“Those dumbasses,” she agrees fondly. “But I can’t say I’m mad about the chance to stand here, eat, and heckle them.”
Harold perks up. “We get to heckle?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before calling, “Hey, Polly! Are you a construction site? Because your form is solid.”
He gets some weird looks and a few chuckles from the small crowd of adoring fans. I don’t think Polly hears him, but Jordan laughs and winks at us before turning back to the little kid whose shirt he’s signing.
“Maybe go easy on the heckling,” Butch suggests. “Some of those people look rabid.”
Shrugging, Harold says, “Sports people are all a little rabid in some way. So, Phil.” He turns to me, his tone indicating a change of subject. “Calla said you have some very cool new clients.”
I glance over at where Calla and Blaise are handling crowd control for our famous athletes.
She wouldn’t have mentioned names because our contracts include an NDA at this early stage—especially for red-carpet designs—but I wish she hadn’t said anything.
I still feel like Griff Pevensy hates me and this might all fall apart.
“Yeah,” I say at last.
Xera studies me. “You don’t seem excited.”
I shake my head. I’m still verbal today, but not very.
I probably wouldn’t be if my friends weren’t all right here, or if a stranger came up and wanted to talk.
It’s weird how one person who was predisposed to be nice in my safe-space office was too much for my anxiety to take, but being surrounded by literally thousands of people in an uncontrolled environment is okay because I’m in kind of a separate bubble.
It’s impossible to explain, and I kind of understand why it would make some people think I’m faking…
but also, I don’t. Because telling someone they’re faking their anxiety is an asshole thing to do.
“Why not?” Butch asks, moving closer. It’s like she knows I need a protective barrier between me and the rest of the world if I’m going to answer. “Are they dictating the design? I know you hate that.”
I shake my head again, then change my mind and pull a face.
“Not exactly. The stylist…” I trail off.
I don’t know how to explain why I’m so wound up about Griff, who hasn’t actually done anything wrong.
“He wanted changes, but hasn’t replied about the mocks I sent.
” And it’s eating me from the inside out.
I sent the email before lunch yesterday—how long does it take to look at two gifs and admit the one with the overskirt is better?
I know he was checking his email yesterday, because Calla sent him our terms and the contract for Daria’s top, and he replied to her.
Me… not so much.
“He wanted to change something in your design?” Harold asks incredulously. “Clearly he has zero taste.”
That makes me smile and relax a little more. I love my friends. “No, he has great taste, but it doesn’t usually include my style.”
“Ooh, you’re turning him to the dark side,” Butch teases, making me laugh out loud.
Xera slings an arm around my shoulders. “He’ll see the light, no pun intended. He’s probably spending the weekend sulking because the change he wanted didn’t work out better than your original.”
I hope so.
Harold’s gaze is on my face. “What else?” he asks. “Something else is bugging you.”
Fuck. The downside of having friends who know me well enough to be able to protect me from my own anxiety is that they know when said anxiety is acting up.
“Nothing. I… I couldn’t talk during our meeting. Calla had to handle everything.”
Xera squeezes, and Butch says, “That sucks. I know you hate it.”
Yeah. I nod, not because I can’t speak, but because there’s nothing more to say. It sucks, and I hate it.
“Calla wouldn’t have signed this client if he’d said something dickish, but why am I getting the vibe he said something dickish?” Harold’s eyes narrow. “Did he say something when she wasn’t in the room?”
“No. He…” My vocal cords freeze. Dammit.
They all notice, of course. “We don’t need to talk about this,” Butch assures me gently. “Only if you want to.”
She’s not implying that I could choose to talk; she’s saying if I want them to know but can’t verbalize, I should text. It’s how we’ve done it for years.
I consider for a second, then pull out my phone. Thinking about this riles up my anxiety, but maybe I just need to talk it out with someone. It doesn’t take me long to type out the relevant information, and then I hold out my phone to them.
They lean in to read.
He looked at me like he hates me.
Three faces frown.
“I’m not doubting the vibe you got,” Xera says, “but could some of that have been fed by anxiety? Like maybe he wasn’t sure what to think of you being nonverbal, and your anxiety read that as hate instead of… annoyance and confusion?”
I shrug, because yeah, that’s totally possible. Anxiety means sometimes thinking people hate you because of something as small as the punctuation they use in a text message.
“Did he know you might not talk before the meeting?” Butch asks. “Because if he did, I have zero sympathy for his confusion, and he needs to fucking fix his vibe.”
I shrug again. I’m pretty sure Calla says something before she brings people in to meet me—they sometimes have that deer-in-headlights look people get when she turns on her I-will-gut-you charms. But she’s never admitted to it when I ask her, so I have no idea what she says. I try not to let it bug me.
“Maybe you should talk to Calla about this,” Harold suggests, and I shake my head vehemently. No fucking way. I’m not risking that she’d react badly and we’d lose Margaret and Daria.
“Okay, then maybe I should go visit this stylist, make sure he knows hating you is bad,” he teases. “Who is he, anyway? Could I take him?”
I look my uber-trendy friend up and down, taking in his outfit that is definitely not appropriate for an active, sweaty day at a theme park. Then I picture Griff.
My laughter is involuntary and loud.
“Ouch,” Harold mutters.
“Intriguing,” Xera adds.
Butch huffs. “I bet I could take him.”
I love my friends.
I’m lying on the floor in Blaise and Jordan’s house—we usually hang out here because it’s the nicest, thanks to Jordan’s Major League Baseball contract.
Blaise is widely regarded as the up-and-coming costume designer to watch, and he’s made good money on his last few projects, but not the kind of money that can pay the rent on a three-bedroom bungalow in Echo Park without roommates.
None of us are there yet. Xera probably could swing it if she dipped into her trust fund, but she and Butch have this thing about only using it for extras, not daily essentials.
Besides, of all of us, she comes the closest to matching Jordan and Brad for income.
Shockingly, creative fields don’t pay as well as finance and pro ball—not when you’re just starting out, anyway.
Calla and I aren’t doing too badly, but we feed every cent we can back into the business; Harold makes a reasonable living as an interior designer but blows most of it on shoes and clothes; and Butch, after a few huge arguments, agreed to let Xera support them both while she gets established as an artist. She’s getting there—her most recent show got some great critical reviews and some even better sales.
But yeah, we’re mostly living in shitboxes, and Harold has a couple of roommates he says are “questionable.” I’m too scared of the answer to ask what that means.
Blaise keeps telling him to leave San Diego and move up here so he can live in their spare room, but as much as Harold bitches about his non-creative boss, he’s reluctant to leave the firm.
I smile at the ceiling. I have some suspicions about Harold and his boss, but I’m not brave enough to bring them up. Not yet, anyway.
Someone laughs, and I tune back in to the conversation, but it seems to have hit a lull.
“What are everyone’s plans for the holidays?” Calla asks. “Phil and I are staying in town, if you want to hang out. We’ll be ordering takeout and playing a ‘that line is cheesy’ drinking game while watching Hallmark movies on Christmas Day, but we might have a party on New Year’s.”
I lift my head just enough to quirk a brow at her, since a party is news to me.
I don’t mind, though. A lot of people think it’s weird that I don’t hate parties, what with the whole can’t-talk-because-of-anxiety thing, but it depends on the party.
A huge party in a strange place with nobody I know?
Hard pass. A party somewhere familiar to me with a lot of friends and acquaintances who don’t care if I go nonverbal?
Sign me up. Most of the time, I won’t go nonverbal at a party like that, anyway—maybe low-verbal, but I’ll still be able to speak.
Calla grins unrepentantly. “Don’t give me that look. I’ll plan everything. All you have to do is put on something fabulous, turn up, and look pretty.”
I laugh along with everyone else but still flip her the bird as I put my head back down on the floor.
“You should come here for Christmas,” Blaise says. “Jordan’s dads are going to Philly to visit his sister and the baby, but I can’t take time off work until January.”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “You should have heard the drama from Uncle Luke when he realized we weren’t all going to be together for the holidays.
I swear it took me hours to convince him Blaise and I were going to be fine.
You should definitely come here so I can tell him we won’t be all alone.
” Despite the words, I can hear the fondness in his tone—and the tiniest undercurrent of uncertainty.
I’m pretty sure I remember Blaise telling me that Jordan’s celebrated every Christmas with his uncle and sister since his parents died when he was five, even when they were all living in different states.
Turning my head, I meet Blaise’s gaze inquiringly, and he pulls a slight face and gives a tiny nod.
“Sure, we can get drunk here just as easily as at home,” I say. “Right, Calla?”
She shrugs. “If we’re not hosting, we don’t need to clean the house after. But we’ll bring the liquor.”
“Free liquor and someone else cleaning up?” Harold asks. “I’m in. Can I crash in the spare room?”
Jordan snorts. “Dude, just move here already.”
“That’s a yes,” Blaise adds. “Polly? Can we convince you to come back for the holidays?”
“Nah.” Polly shakes his head. “I promised my mom I’d go for Christmas and stay until Spring Training.”
Calla sighs. “Normally I’d be laying a bet on how soon your mom drives you nuts, but she’s one of the few parents who wouldn’t.”
“She’s the best,” he agrees.
“Butch and I are spending the holidays with my family,” Xera says in a tragic tone. “Since we went to hers for Thanksgiving.” She turns to her wife. “How many years do we have to do this before we tell everyone we’re establishing our own traditions as a family?”
The vibration of my phone going off distracts me from Butch’s answer, and I dig it out of my pocket.
It’s a work email—not surprising, since most of the people who’d text me are in this room—and I sneak a guilty look at Calla.
This doesn’t really count as work, and I’m low-key desperate to see if it’s Griff emailing me back finally.
It’s not, sadly.
Dear Phil,
I’ve just been introduced to your work, and I’m reluctantly impressed! Not my style at all, but I can see why people think it’s pretty. Good for you!
Best wishes from a new fan,
Mary
I blink at it a few times, re-reading to make sure I didn’t misunderstand the first time, then snort.
“What are you looking at?” Butch asks, and I shake my head.
“Fan mail.”