16. Lemon
SIXTEEN
LEMON
One month later
Letting my head fall into my hands, I groan. Once Atticus found out that I wanted to be a clothes designer, he was determined that I make my own wedding dress, but despite his unending faith, support, and this amazing studio he had built for me, I can’t do it.
The lace is impossible to sew, the design I created would be ambitious for an experienced seamstress, and even though I measured and remeasured myself, the bodice I’ve made three times just doesn’t fit, and I don’t know why.
The version I made in calico did, and the lace replica is exactly the same size, using the same pattern, but my breasts won’t fit in the cups, and I’m an inch short at the back, and I don’t understand.
Tears fill my eyes, and a wave of sadness washes over me.
I can’t do this. Making a simple, pretty dress is one thing, but actually sewing my own wedding dress is beyond my capabilities.
But I can’t tell Atticus that, because every time I bring up my doubts, he just tells me he believes in me and that I need to have more confidence in how incredible I am.
But this isn’t a confidence issue. It’s a skills issue. I don’t know enough about sewing and construction to be able to create something this intricate.
The dress I’ve designed is my dream wedding dress.
It’s a fitted bodice that flows down into a flowing skirt with a train that billows out behind me and detachable romantic half organza and lace sleeves that cup the tops of my arms, then increase in volume and end in lace cuffs with tiny pearl buttons.
Drawing the sketch was easy, but actually making it is impossible.
The organza and lace should be sewn over a nude fabric that gives this sexy but ethereal feeling.
Only if the nude layer isn’t perfect, you can see it through the sheer organza.
The bodice has both boning and built-in bra cups, and even a single missed stitch is glaringly obvious.
So far, I’ve wasted hundreds of dollars’ worth of fabric and have a scrap pile bigger than the dress will be if I ever manage to finish it.
Atticus spoke to Cody about building me a studio as an add-on to the loft, but it’s going to be a few months before the additions will be finished, so a few weeks ago, this self-contained building appeared in the courtyard, fully decked out with everything I could ever need to make my dress.
At the beginning, I was excited to get started.
Only now, day by day, when I fail on every level, I’m wondering if I’m an idiot for even considering I could do this.
Dropping the bodice onto my worktable, I slide my feet back into my shoes and turn off the light.
When I open the studio door and slip out into the cool early evening air, I immediately hear Felix’s music, and I brace myself for the sheer volume of it to hit me as I slide back the warehouse door and step inside.
I don’t know how Felix usually works, but according to Atticus, in the past, after a few months, he’d still be sketching instead of having two six-feet-high clay models already made.
Just like I expected, my soon-to-be brother-in-law doesn’t notice me as I walk through the studio and toward the stairs that lead to our loft.
I’ve been living here for a month now, and I’m surprised by how at home I feel here.
Some of my stuff is still in boxes, mainly because I refuse to allow Atticus to ruin the apartment’s aesthetic with all of my random tchotchkes.
Although he’s determined that at least one of the rooms in the new addition will be a sea of pink fluffiness.
He tried to insist that we get the living room redecorated in my favorite color, but I refused because the loft is stunning, and I don’t love pink enough to want to change what’s already beautiful.
My legs feel heavy as I climb the stairs, and I’m not sure if I want to fall asleep or burst into tears by the time I push open the door to the loft and step inside.
Atticus is sitting on the couch, his drawing tablet in his lap, and I stumble over to him, sinking to my knees on the floor in front of him and laying my head on his thigh.
“Princess, are you okay?” he asks, immediately starting to run his fingers through my hair.
Opening my mouth, I try to speak, but the only sound that comes out is a half sob, followed by a torrent of emotion. Before I even realize what’s happening, I’m blubbering and crying so hard my shoulders are shaking.
“Come here, Princess. What’s going on?” he asks, gathering me into his arms and lifting me off the floor and into his lap.
“I…” I try to speak. “Can’t. Won’t. Can’t. I…”
“Settle, Princess, settle,” he purrs into my neck, rubbing my back and trying to get me to calm down.
As I shake my head, another bout of sobs racks through me so hard that I bury my face into his shoulder and cling to him, feeling completely out of control.
I don’t know why I’m so upset. I’m frustrated about the dress and the realization that I’m simply not experienced or talented enough to be able to make such a complex design.
But this doesn’t feel like it’s just frustration coming out of me as emotion.
This feels bigger, like a dam has opened up inside of me and now that it’s burst, there’s no way of slowing down the flow.
“Princess, talk to me. Are you hurt?” Atticus asks, still stroking my hair.
I shake my head, but I’m still crying too hard to speak. Instead of pushing me, he simply holds me tightly while I cry it out, blubbering all of my emotion onto his shoulder until my sobs finally subside into shuddering silent tears.
Atticus must sense when I’ve calmed enough to speak, because he gently pries me off his shoulder and holds me just far enough away that we can look at each other and have a conversation.
“Princess, tell me what’s happening?” he says softly, like he’s worried he’ll trigger another bout of sobs if he speaks too harshly.
I shrug, and it feels so inadequate, but I don’t know how to articulate what’s wrong with me.
“You don’t know why you’re upset?” he questions.
Sucking in several slow breaths, I shrug again. “I can’t make my dress.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m not good enough,” I admit honestly.
“Don’t say that, Princess. You’re incredible. You just have to believe in yourself,” he assures me, like the absolute best cheerleader in the world.
“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “The stitchwork is so complex, and I either mess it up and have to throw it away, or if I actually get it right, it doesn’t fit, and I don’t know why.
I’ve measured the bodice a hundred times, and I know that the measurements are right, but when I try it on, it’s too small, and I don’t know if it’s the fabric, or the pattern, or if it’s something else that I’m just too inexperienced enough to recognize.
But I can’t do it. The wedding is in two weeks, and even if I were to work on it every moment between now and then, it still wouldn’t be finished, because I can’t do it. ”
Like my words have shocked him, he blinks down at me. “Princess.”
“Please don’t try to give me a pep talk right now, Atticus.
It won’t help. I have wasted hundreds of dollars’ worth of lace and organza because I stupidly picked the most impossible fabric.
If I were making my whole dress out of calico, I might be able to finish a very rough version, but I’m not, and I can’t do it. ”
“Lemon—” he starts again, but I keep talking.
“I can’t do it, Atticus. People go to school for years to learn how to make clothes, and as much as I wish I could, I can’t make my wedding dress just from watching YouTube videos. We need to postpone the wedding.”
His expression goes from soft to hard in an instant. “That’s not happening, Lemon. We’re getting married in two weeks, and that’s final.”
“Well then, I’m going to be wearing my sweats.”
“You don’t own sweats,” Atticus says, a hint of warning in his tone.
“Well, maybe in two weeks I might be able to sew myself some,” I hiss, feeling my tears suddenly heating into anger.
“Princess,” he warns.
“Don’t Princess me, Atticus. I can’t do it.
I can’t. I cannot make my own dress. It’s too hard, and I know you want me to do this, and you’ve spent so much money on my studio and all the equipment and all the fabric.
And I want to do it. I want to be capable, but I’m not, and all this pressure to be as good as you think I am is making me feel like I’m losing my mind.
” My ire spikes hot, then fades into fresh tears in an instant.
Sighing, Atticus pulls me back into his chest and holds me tightly while I cry. When I finally feel the tears dry up, I pull back and wipe at my face with my hands. “I think we should cancel the wedding.”
“No,” he growls so hard I swear I hear his jaw crack.
“I’m not who you think I am. I’m not a seamstress or a designer.
I serve cakes in your sister’s store. And I know you want me to be ambitious and talented, but I’m not.
I’m just a girl who likes pretty dresses, and I can’t be who you need me to be.
I’m not a sexy submissive or some talented artist. I’m not special or someone who’s going to become a household name.
You’re a star, and I’m just a member of the audience, and even though I wish I could pretend to be who you want me to be, I can’t, and… I think we should cancel the wedding.”
“No,” Atticus growls again.
“Atticus,” I growl right back.
Lifting his hand, he covers my mouth with it, silencing me with an angry scowl. “Are you done?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You’ve had your say. Now I get to speak. Okay?”
Rolling my eyes, I nod.
“Thank you. Now, I’m going to start by saying we are getting married in two weeks.
There’s no canceling or postponing. We’re getting married because I’ve waited long enough, and I won’t wait a minute longer.
Now that we’ve clarified that, we can deal with all the other bullshit that just spewed out of that pretty mouth of yours. ”