6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Over the past few days, Errol and I ran into each other from time to time. Words were exchanged, insults hurled, but nothing puts together the pieces of why he seems to get to me the way he does.
This plagues my mind alongside constant thoughts of Christian at every turn. I’m so focused on these two things, it takes a minute for me to notice someone is watching me. Looking up, my brown eyes lock on to the black of his. As if still warm from whoever he was talking to before this, he doesn’t look as off-putting as he usually does.
“I’m looking for Mira,” he says.
Putting down the pants I’m hemming, I look around the room, throwing my hands out.
“Well, she isn’t hiding, so obviously she’s not here.”
Folding his arms and leaning against the door frame, he says the next words slowly, like he’s unsure if I’ll be able to understand them if spoken at a normal pace.
“Do you know where she is?”
I push up the sleeves of my blazer, readying for what is obviously going to be another fight.
“No,” I lie.
Mira told me she was going to check with the camera crew if a shirt reads as black or blue on film, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“What are you working on?” Pushing away from the frame, he walks into the room and reaches for the pants I put down.
Snatching them up, I hold them to my chest, not letting him see.
“What do you want? Mira’s not here.”
“I want to see what you’re doing.” Leaning forward, he tries to pull the pants from my grip.
A slight game of tug of war happens between us, which is embarrassing as we’re both grown adults. He pulls and I yank, as we keep trying to bring it closer to our bodies. Like children, we both refuse to let go, yelling at each other as it stretches in-between us.
“Stop this,” I say, rolling my wrists as I move my arms towards my chest.
“Just let me see it,” he says through clenched teeth.
The sound of fabric tearing echoes throughout the room.
“Now look what you’ve done,” I say.
“Me?” He releases the pants and throws his hands up. “I literally just wanted to see what they were. You’re the one who went all my precious and snatched them like you were Gollum.”
Not liking the comparison, I stand, holding my work closer to the light to inspect the damage. All the stitching I just spent the last twenty minutes doing is undone.
“Great. Just great.” I plop back into the chair. Throwing the pants on to the sewing machine, I leave them to be future Farrah’s problem.
Not missing the opportunity to do what he originally set out to do, he lifts them up, looking them over.
“What scene is this for?” He flips them back and forth, checking out every angle. Contemplating whether or not to answer, I let us sit in silence while I cross my arms.
“Well?” He prompts, looking down at me, irritation clear in his eyes.
“It’s for Dante when he finds his father and has a heart to heart.”
“They’re a little flashy for such an emotional scene. We don’t need anything distracting from the words.” He stares them down, his mouth twisted and eyebrows raised like they have personally offended him.
I feel like he is holding my talent and looking at it like it disgusts him. The thought burrows into the deepest part of my nerves, setting them on edge.
“They’re fine.” My words lash out at his fresh face, trying to leave marks.
He steps back like he can dodge the tone of my voice.
“Dante has a personal style, and these are reflective of how he would dress, especially for a momentous occasion like seeing his father for the first time in ten years.” Standing up, I walk over to the rack and grab the top that’s going with it, feeling like I need to prove my point.
“His shirt is tamer, more casual, but the print on the pants brings a certain flare to his overall look.” I grab the bottoms from his hand and lay them out on the table with the shirt right over it. Splaying my hands open, I wait for him to take it in and see that I’m right. He lifts the two pieces of clothing and compares the fabrics next to each other.
“I don’t agree. I think it’s too much.”
The child in me, let out from our earlier fuddle, wants to remark that he is too much, but I know that won’t get me anywhere.
“What about it is too much?”
“I just think jeans would work just as well in the scene, if not better, than this over-the-top colorful detailing. I want everything in the scene to come across as subtle, so the explosion of emotions is more powerful.”
Begrudgingly, I can see his point, but I refuse to tell him that.
“While jeans might be the only thing you own, Dante has so far displayed a preference for other fabrics. I think it can work.”
He looks down at the rumpled denim currently clothing his lower half, face pulled into a perplexed grimace.
“I own other pants.”
“Do you? I have yet to see them.” I put the clothes back where they belong, and he follows me, crossing his arms.
“You don’t see me every day.”
Lately, it feels like I do. Even if that isn’t true, I see him enough to know that tight-fitting black and white tops and jeans are his style markers. No watch or jewelry to snaz it up, and not even an extra layer on top.
“I don’t have to see you every day to know you own four basic pairs of pants and maybe five shirts. You probably have three sweaters in your collection, two jackets and one belt. All in all, you’re pretty predictable and simple.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I assume I’ve guessed correctly, shaking his confidence a little.
Trying to regain it, he tucks his hands into his pockets and lifts his chest.
“I’m sure compared to you, that doesn’t seem like a lot, but not all of us can traipse around in a different outfit every day, never repeating.”
I smile smugly as I stare up at him through my eyelashes.
“What else have you noticed about me, Errol? Clearly, you have been paying close attention.” Expecting him to get flustered, I’m thrown off when I’m met with his dimpled smile full and threatening.
“I’m not the one who detailed out someone’s whole wardrobe. You’ve been staring so hard I bet you could guess my sizes.”
Easy, large top and size thirty-eight pants. His large frame would account for him being above the average of other men. But I should know this by looking at him. I’m a stylist.
“You do know it. Don’t you?” he asks laughing.
My lack of shock or outrage gives me away as I stare at him like the answer is obvious.
“So what? I work in wardrobe; it makes sense for me to be able to clock someone’s measurements. What doesn’t make sense is the fact that you’re still here. I told you forever ago that Mira is gone.”
“I’m leaving. I was just checking on your work. Making sure you aren’t wasting our time by producing the mediocre stuff you seemed to do the first time around.”
My ears burn from the anger sweeping up my neck to the very tips of them. It’s one thing to be belittled for my work. It’s another to be put down for work that isn’t even mine. I want to tell him that. Set the record straight. But that would require me to throw Mira into the fire and slowly turn her as she roasts. Not ready to do that just yet, I let it go.
“If I had ever heard of you, I’d be able to remark on your work as well. Clearly, you have yet to do anything noteworthy.”
A look of hurt flashes across his face, as if my words skinned away his bravado to reveal his underbelly, his usual air of superiority now gone. I can’t help but feel like I knocked him down so low, he can no longer measure up to his standards. Afraid I’ve possibly gone too far, I’m about to apologize when Mira walks back into the room, grabbing his attention. The subtle outline of sadness in his face is replaced so quickly, I have to wonder if it was ever there at all.
“Hi Errol, sorry for making you wait, I’m ready for that meeting.” She places the top she is carrying down on the table, turning to face us, question mark heavy in the pout of her lips. I can imagine how we appear standing toe to toe, looks of agitation on both our faces.
“No worries, let’s go.” He follows Mira to the door, but stops for a moment to call over his shoulder, “Change the pants.”
My irritation sparks as he gets the last word. I try to ease the tension that seeing him caused by rolling my shoulders. If he mentions it to Mira, I’ll have to change it anyway, so I might as well get started on doing that now.
At least his issue with my work is actually something I’ve done. Tossing the torn trousers into our reject pile, I go back to the rolling rack, looking through the jeans we have for the right pair. A gray denim fit with wide bottoms looks like a good choice. Now just to fit it to the actor’s measurements.
I get to work on finishing the alterations, then jump into my next project. Soon after Mira enters the room, bouncing on her feet like she has no worries.
“How was the meeting?” I look up from the sewing machine.
“Good.” She slides into the chair across from me. “We are on track with timing for completion, and things are going well. I just wish Errol wasn’t so involved. He has an opinion on everything.”
Tell me about it.
I nod along happy to have found an ally in my war with him.
“He is the worst!” I throw up my arms.
She cocks one eyebrow and tilts her head.
“I don’t know if I would go that far.”
I would beg to go further.
She leans forward to rest her hands on her knees.
“What exactly is your beef with each other? I noticed it at the pool party, and just now when I walked in.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“He’s insufferable, and I’m doing my best at putting up with him. I’m not a saint though, so at times I lower to his level.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I may be who you report to, but he has a lot of say on this set. I would try to get on his good side.”
Unfortunately, to do that I would have to learn to tolerate his cocky demeanor, and that just isn’t possible.
“No thank you,” I say, shaking my head.
“Plus, he is hot and single. He was out with this girl I know, Piper, last week.”
That makes three different people he’s been out with in less than a month.
“That’s community dick Mira. You deserve better.”
She laughs, but the starry look in her eyes doesn’t leave. Let her go for him if she wants. I definitely never would. No matter how much my heart races when he comes near.
Later that evening, I walk into the house to silence, letting me know Monty isn’t home. Without anyone around, I strip down to my underwear right at the front door and make my way into the kitchen. In need of ice cream to wash down this day, I grab a carton of mint chocolate chip from the freezer before heading to the couch. With my phone in my hand, I can finally give my attention to the piled up notifications from today.
Each one acknowledged means I get another bite as a reward. When I get down to my emails, my screen fills with a name I was starting to think I would never see. I lurch forward, placing the container on the coffee table and unfolding my legs from underneath me.
My heart beats faster as I slide up to open the email in full. In plain black and white, Christian has finally given a response. I read it again and again as the two sentences permeate my mind.
“Stop calling. It’s over,” I say out loud, needing to hear the words. Needing for them to be real. Stop calling. It’s over , is all he has to say to me after months of no reply. After all the phone calls and texts, is this all he is going to give back? The realization of how pathetic I’ve been slams into me as his words circulate in my mind. This whole time I have been reaching out to a man who wants nothing to do with me. He has shown me time and time again that he doesn’t care about me, and I’ve been trying to prove to myself that he does.
Sure, I deserve a conversation, but to what end? How many times am I going to call or text him so that he can tell me the reason he cheated? How much longer am I going to patiently wait for a response? Why did it even matter? It won’t change anything; it makes no difference. Or will it? I need to know why my best friend of ten years, the man I love, cheated. What is becoming evidently clear is that I’m never going to know.
My fingers rub away the tears as soon as they fall. They are heavy with all of the weighted disappointment that this response is.
I move to put the ice cream away, needing something stronger. Grabbing a bottle of gin from our makeshift bar, I slide back into the comfort of the sofa. No need for a glass, as I sip right from the bottle. I sit this way drinking away my sorrow until I hear the turning of a key in the lock. Monty pushes through the front door to find me slouching in my underwear glass bottle pressed to my lips. Dropping her back pack by the shoes, she looks at me, questions lingering in her shifting eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
I hold up my phone, and that is all she needs to see before she is making her way over to me. She grabs it from my hand, puts in the code, and brings the email up to her eyes.
“That son of a bitch.” Shucking off her jacket, she slides onto the couch next to me and pulls me into her arms.
I melt into the feeling of her comfort, hoping it takes away some of the sting. As she strokes my arm, I nudge my ego, trying to get it to stand up again. No more calls from me, no more texts. If Christian is done with me, then I’m done with him too.