Chapter 13
Tessa
It’s show day.
Backstage is a whirlwind of bustling activity.
It’s just like the last time we were at the venue, except today it’s all our garments, our models, our crew.
Everyone from stylists to producers flit to their destinations—wardrobe stations, sound and lighting, makeup and hair.
Semi-naked models dart in errant patterns, ducking into the designated quick change areas.
The chaos generates a buzz of energy that fuels me.
I bloom in this environment. Being in the thick of it all is strengthening my manifestations for my own line.
But after last night, an overcast of doubt shadows my hopes and dreams. The end of yesterday’s production meeting plays in my mind on repeat. I know it was rough. And to add insult to injury, Lamont’s interactions with me today have consisted only of disappointed sighs and barely audible demands.
While I try to block out the details of the nightmare meeting, the memory of Giovanni’s hand brushing mine echoes in my mind. I appreciate what he did for me, and I want to return the favor by convincingly playing the supportive girlfriend part in Brescia.
Drawing in a deep breath and closing my eyes, I tell myself to focus on the present and remember what Daniel told me last night on our call: “Don’t let one bad practice ruin the game.”
When I open my eyes, I feel grounded. The thought of watching my dress walk down the runway vibrates beneath my skin. I’ve worked hard for this moment.
I belong here.
We complete final tests on spotlight transitions, recommunicate audio levels, and fuss over the angle of a particularly difficult headpiece.
One by one, the rest of the crew starts to gather in front of the backstage monitors, anxiously waiting for our show to start.
To pass the time, we joke about the hat that Lamont nearly threw in the shredder yesterday, that one seam on a suit none of us could agree on, and how the late nights might finally be getting to us.
Anticipation floods my body, but not in an anxious way—in an eager way. I recite a few affirmations in my head… This will be my reality one day. I will design my own line. I deserve success.
Esme’s shoulder brushes mine as she joins the group, interrupting my mantras. “It’s almost time!”
As soon as the final model joins the queue on the ramp, the chatter dies down.
Our entire crew seems to lean closer to the backstage monitors at the same time, our eyes glued to the screens.
Every decision that’s led up to this point flashes through my mind: the thread choice, the bead placements, the pattern that didn’t make it.
But the memories aren’t alone. No, each one seems to be escorted by Giovanni as they walk my mental runway. His sour face when I suggested a different crystal placement, his deft fingers stringing hundreds of beads, the angle of his body positioned over the tambour frame.
One last collective breath.
And then the music starts, the lights drop, and the show begins.
With every model that goes, the elation grows among our group. Tittering with excitement, we give each other high fives and fist bumps when our most labor-intensive designs grace the catwalk.
I hold my breath as the last model takes her first step.
This moment feels massive. The loud beats of the music fade into a dull buzz as I watch the design walk—no, glide—down the runway.
The sculptural front of the gown is mesmerizing, the smoky blue color looking divine under the glow of the warm chandelier lighting.
The dress swells forward like a rolling wave, ebbing and flowing with each step.
I can’t pry my eyes from the screen as the model stops and hits a neutral pose at the top of the catwalk.
This is it. The split second when the dress goes from a fleeting moment to a forever memory.
Three… two… one.
We hear the audience gasp before the model even fully shows her back, and then—there it is—Giovanni’s appliqué. His nonno’s final piece.
It’s breathtaking.
The appliqué looks alive. Thousands of glass beads give it a crystallized effect that embodies etherealism. The embroidery refracts glimmers of light onto the train, which does nothing to distract from the architectural silhouette.
It’s as if the entire gown was kissed by starlight.
My gaze meets Giovanni’s across the swarm of people.
Both of us simply stare at each other at first. He throws me a lopsided smile, one I’ve never seen before, and my eyes widen as a mixture of pride and disbelief blooms in my chest. I shake my head in awe.
Giovanni nods in response, like he gets it, then starts walking my way.
When he stands in front of me, we don’t say anything, but our posture speaks for us.
Loosened shoulders, easy smiles, relaxed stances.
A sharp contrast to the tense body language and narrowed eyes we both sported when we began working on the appliqué.
“Hammered it.” His voice sounds softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I can’t help but grin as I give a gentle correction. “Nailed it, actually.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Hammered sounds better.”
Smiling, I shrug. “I agree. It does.”
Simultaneously, it feels like a chapter is ending while a new one begins.
We turn back toward the monitors and wait for the models to do their final walk.
It’ll be a victory lap, if audience reactions are anything to go by.
The crew whoops and hollers around me. Backs are patted, fists are bumped, and I’m swept up in a hug from Esme.
Still buzzing with energy, I replay the moment the model stepped on the runway.
The way the light bounced off the appliqué when she turned, how the entire audience gasped.
A bout of confidence sneaks up on me, whispering you could really do this. I knew I’d feel a sense of accomplishment after the design came to life on the runway, and I do. I also anticipated the sense of relief currently settling deep in my bones.
But what I didn’t expect was the wave of sadness that washes over me when I watch Lamont link his arm with the model wearing my design for his designer bow.
The desire to represent my own work—to show my own collection—still feels out of reach.
And the only reason I’m even slightly closer to achieving that goal is due to Giovanni Cattaneo, a man who made my lack of potential painfully obvious two years ago.
A man that’s helping me, not because he believes in me, but because I can offer him pretend girlfriend services.
The weight of our agreement hits me all at once.
How did I even let it get to this point?
The crash of adrenaline from the show’s conclusion, combined with the stress over our upcoming trip, has me feeling dysregulated. It’s like my body knows that my professional tasks are over, and it’s time to power off.
Except I have nowhere to go. I have to calm down before Lamont needs me again. Spotting a single-family bathroom, I head in that direction.
“Hey, babes, how’re you doing?”
One look at Esme, and my composure snaps. I yank her into the bathroom with me. Right before the door shuts, I see a very concerned pair of icy blue eyes staring directly at mine through the narrowing space.
Esme assesses my frazzled hair. “What’s going on, Tess?”
“I… I don’t know,” I mumble as I try to manage my emotions.
Esme opens her arms with the intention of giving me a hug. But everyone knows hugs make you cry when you’re already emotional, so I step back.
“Okay, okay. Take some breaths,” she gently instructs, locking the door.
I breathe in through my nose and out my mouth.
Esme grabs my hands. “Talk to me.”
“It’s just stress about the show… and Giovanni…” I frown, completely scattered. I’m not sure if I want to share the agreement I made with him, but my throat strains around the words trying to escape. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this secret to myself.
Before I can give it any more thought, the words tumble out of me all at once. “Giovanni’s going to be my boyfriend, Es. Starting tomorrow.”
Esme freezes. Her eyes move from me to the ceiling, where they stay for a few moments.
After the shock subsides, she blinks at me. “I don’t know what I expected when I entered this bathroom, but it definitely wasn’t this.” Her eyebrow raises. “Boyfriend as in he is a boy that is your friend now? Or boyfriend as in boyfriend?”
“The latter, unfortunately,” I admit nervously.
Esme chews on her bottom lip. “Okay… I feel like I missed several very important pieces of news. Last I heard from Peyton, you were investigating whether or not he encouraged the vehicular manslaughter of New York’s elderly population. You gotta catch me up, Tess. I don’t know how to help.”
“You’re doing great.” I give a shaky smile.
She squeezes my hands supportively. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
I nod. “When I was a little girl, I always felt—”
“Actually, why don’t we fast forward to the middle? I don’t know that I’m qualified to advise on the inner child stuff.”
“It always starts with the childhood trauma, though,” I add, grabbing a piece of toilet paper to catch a bead of sweat dripping down my temple before tossing it in the trash. “Okay. So, Giovanni and I are leaving tomorrow for Brescia.”
Still holding my hand, she says, “Yeah, I meant to ask you why you’re not taking the same flights as the crew.”
“Well, we kind of worked out an arrangement.”
“Um… an—” Esme exaggeratedly winks twice, “—arrangement? Because if so, I love that journey for you. Get yours, girl. I always thought he was kind of hot.”
My mouth drops in horror. “No. God, no. None of that.”
Her eyes light up with curiosity. “Tell me more—no, tell me everything. How long do you think we have in here before an angry PR rep kicks us out?”