Chapter 8 The Tailor
THE TAILOR
ALICE
“His name is Ori?” I ask. The name rolls off my tongue, sweet in its shortness.
“It’s short for Orazio,” Harley says.
His shoulder bumps into mine as we walk down the street. He’s got the garment bag holding my dress slung over his shoulder, and the plastic crunches with his every stride.
I wring my hands together at my waist. I don’t know why I’m nervous to meet this mystery housemate of theirs, but my skin crawls every time I think about him.
“You all have very unique names,” I say.
“As do you.”
I puff air between my lips. “No, I do not. I’m a regurgitation of my mom and grandma.”
“How so?”
We reach a strip of sidewalk that desperately needs a makeover, and I hop over the cracks in the stone, careful not to step on one. It’s a strange dance, avoiding the idea of bad luck. But I’ve grown superstitious in peculiar ways, and I don’t take chances anymore.
Whenever I think of a car crash while driving, I tap the door three times, kiss my knuckle and lift it to the air, like some kind of prayer to a god I don’t worship.
When I see a coin on the ground, I always pick it up, because to walk away from fortune is ill-advised, but I put them in a jar that I never pull from, because what’s good luck to me was someone else’s bad luck first. And I always end conversations with a variation of my love, even if it’s only a heart.
I know that when I stop doing these things, that’s when shit will fall apart.
The one day I fell asleep on the couch and didn’t send my daily ‘Sweet dreams. I love you. I miss you.’ text, was the last day I got a text back.
So, I avoid the cracks in the pavement as if my sanity depends on it.
“Alice?”
“Huh?” I glance up from the concrete. “Sorry, I spaced out.”
“You’re good.” Harley laughs. “You were saying something about your name?”
“Oh, right,” I say as we turn onto Arbor Ave and its smooth sidewalk. “Nana’s name was Lacie. Mom’s was Celia. Mine is Alice. Can you spot the trend?”
Harley hums, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Think butterfly and flutter-by. Listen and silent?” I say, trying to guide him to the right answer.
It must click, because his expression lights up. “They’re anagrams.”
“Yep.”
“I think that’s cool. You don’t?”
I shrug. “I go through phases. It’s much better than being a junior, but it would be nice to have a name fully my own. I don’t know, most people don’t get it, or say I’m being overdramatic when I try to explain.”
“I don’t think that’s being dramatic,” Harley says, adjusting his hold on the garment bag.
“Carving out your identity is hard enough as it is. I can imagine it added a layer of complexity to growing up that most wouldn’t be able to relate to.
” He pauses, then adds, with a thoughtful smile, “Especially if they’re deep thinkers and feelers like us. ”
I huff a laugh. “You know, only a few others have said as much. And all of them have become my best friends.”
“Well, that’s something to look forward to.” Harley seems to grow inches as we come to a stop at Curious Suits only seconds pass, but it feels like hours before the man who makes them appears.
Gooseflesh rises on my arms, and I inch closer to Harley. There’s a thickness forming in the air, an invisible fog of fear rolling over us.
Why am I afraid?
Nervous, I get, but afraid?
My throat bobs around nothing as a mountain of a man is revealed; black hair, expertly styled and long enough to softly curl around his ears, sits above somber navy-blue eyes.
Strong features carve out a pale face like marble.
His nose is set slightly to the left, a bump clear on the bridge, as if he’s broken it before, and his jaw is lined with dark, neatly groomed stubble.
He’s in a simple shirt—a black short-sleeve that shows off thick, muscled arms. The material has a luxury sheen to it, as not to take away from the formality of the navy slacks it’s tucked into.
A silver-buckled black belt shines at his waist, and a matching watch glints at his wrist.
A dark, foreboding aura emanates from him as he stalks to us, dress shoes clicking with each step.
Without a doubt, this man is a predator.
Not in the will-murder-and-kidnap-you kind of way, but in the will-ruin-your-life-if-you-let-him-in kind of way.
“This is the friend you’ve been telling me about?”
I blink out of my daze, and the blood drains from my cheeks as I realize Ori’s scrutinizing gaze is set on me. My head tilts back to meet his eye. He’s massive, inches taller than Harley—he’s got to be at least six-four.
Harley’s hand falls on my shoulder and squeezes. “Yes, this is Alice.”
Ori’s expression darkens. “Alice.”
His voice has a deep timbre, gravelly yet rich. It’s the kind of voice you want to hear when you fall asleep, to wrap around you as a lullaby. But the way my name flicks off his tongue… it’s rough, as if it tastes like ash to him, bitter and unpleasant.
Ori’s intensity slides to Harley.
“Alice?” he repeats, my name a cursed question.
“As we have established.” Harley huffs an awkward laugh and pushes me towards the door next to the mirrors. “We don’t want to waste your time. We know you’re very busy. So, let’s get her into the dress so you can work your magic and then we’ll be out of your hair!”
It happens fast; Harley flicks on the light in the dressing room, shoves the garment bag into my hands, and closes the door in my face, leaving me to stare at the woodgrain in confused stupor.
“Well, that was fucking awkward,” I mutter.
I notch the garment bag’s hanger on the hook sticking out of the wall, unzip the bag, and reveal the dress Jessa’s lending me.
Though, it’s more like she’s gifting it to me, since we’re altering it to suit my smaller frame.
It’s a beautiful dark blue gown, with butterfly sleeves, a deep v neckline, and a full silk skirt.
I can see why she hasn’t worn it yet, it doesn’t seem her style. Far too soft for all her sharp edges.
Harsh but muffled conversation filters between the angled slats in the door. I try to eavesdrop as I pull the dress on and step into my heels, but it’s too hard to make out the words.
The hinges squeak when I exit, and I wince, hating how loud they ring out, cutting off Harley and Ori’s conversation. I shoot them both a tight-lipped smile, bunch the dress’s skirt in my fists, lifting the hem well-clear from my unbuckled heels, and shuffle over to the mirrors.
Harley’s beaming expression appears over my shoulder as I step onto the alteration’s platform—his pure awe reflected in the pane causes my smile to turn shy.
Ori joins him, though his countenance is much harsher. He’s assessing in his perusal of my form in the mirror, with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Are your heels broken?” he asks.
My fingers clutch the dress tighter. “Um, no?”
“Then you need to buckle the straps,” Ori says, circling me. He yanks open a drawer in the small dresser set next to the mirror, pulls out a magnetic tray of pins, and kneels before me. “Don’t be stupid and cause yourself to trip. You’ll break an ankle.”
“Ori,” Harley scolds.
The tailor tucks a few pins between his lips and reaches for my dress. He tugs it from my clenched fingers, muttering, “I can’t mark the new hem if you don’t let go.”
“Shit. Sorry,” I say, dropping the fabric.
The dress billows to the floor, a web of wrinkles fanning out from where I fisted the fabric. Ori glares at the creases, and a long sigh releases from his nose—it strikes me as the kind of drawn out sound a brooding dragon would make.
“I’ll have it steamed before you pick it up,” he grumbles, then ducks his head to pin the hem to its new length.
“Thanks,” I say.
I find Harley in the mirror and give him a look—the pinched-faced side-eye that screams what the hell, dude?
Harley mouths out sorry. Then, adds out loud, “It looks great on you, Alice.”
“Thanks, Harley,” I say, forcing a chipper tone despite the tension in the room. Harley’s a sweet guy, but the man slowly marking his way around my ankles has me on edge.
“I don’t think we need to do anything to the waist. No wonder Jessa never wore it. This definitely wouldn’t have fit her right.” Harley fills the space with his nervous chatter. “What do you think, Ori, doesn’t it fit Alice perfect?”
Ori peers up at me through thick black lashes.
It’s a slow glide—up my thighs, to the dip of my waist, and through the center of my chest, where it stops.
It lingers there, over my heart, where my rings lay perfectly in the V of the bodice.
The lighting in the room doesn’t change, but shadows overtake his expression.
My pulse thunders in my ears, erratic as I wait for him to ask about them.
He doesn’t.
His perusal continues. Up my neck and over my chin, my lips, my nose—I watch him catalog each of my features with terrifying precision.
Then his gaze meets mine, and it’s as if he sees right through me. My skin is window glass, transparent, and it chills, frosting over in the shadow of his midnight blues.
“Sure,” Ori finally says.
It takes me a second to process the single syllable. But by the time I open my mouth to snark a reply, Ori’s head is ducked and refocused on his job.
Sure. I scoff internally.
Sure. I roll the word, unspoken between my tongue and cheek, as he refuses to meet my eye for the rest of the appointment.
What an asshole. Can he not manage to be cordial to a customer? I mean, I’m not paying, according to Harley. But still. I don’t even know him.
Sure. The word repeats, ringing in my ears. It’s the most half-assed of yeses; the response you give when you don’t give a crap but don’t want to cause a stir.
Why does that one word feel like a rejection?
And more confusingly, why the fuck do I care?