26
Lia
When we leave the hotel in search of breakfast, I already have my red leather duffle bag with me, stuffed to the gills with favorite samples of my work.
Crochet pieces, of course—skirts and tops and sweaters—but also pieces I’ve sewn, and a few embroidery samples as well.
I want to show range and versatility as much as skill, want the flexibility to adapt to her expectations.
This has to go well. It’s the only action item in my newly determined career direction.
A solid step towards at least two out of three of my goals (make good fashion and—hopefully—make good money, too).
If it fails, I have no Plan B, other than continuing my pathetic reliance on craft fairs and clipped Market Basket coupons.
But until then, Owen and I wander through the Champs de Mars, a nutella and strawberry crepe in my right hand, a croissant in his left. We pretend we speak neither English nor French as peddlers try to hock their wares: silvery keychains, Eiffel Tower statuettes, felt berets in crimson and navy.
My outfit is overplanned, even by my standards.
I did as much research on Joséphine as I could.
Not to mimic her style, but to pull threads of it into my own.
Professional but creative, textures that intrigue, feminine and masculine together.
I ended up in a red silk blouse with a square neck trimmed in lace, wide-leg pants, and an unstructured charcoal blazer.
The outfit isn’t a safe choice, but—rounded out with crimson kitten heels and a matte red lip—I’m confident she’ll love it.
“Hey, hang on,” Owen says, pulling me from my clothing-based reverie. “This angle is incredible, with the Tower in the back and the Sun over there. Here, give me your phone.”
“You really are trying to get on my good side this week, aren’t you,” I say, handing it over.
I’ve certainly dated women who were happy to help me take pictures for my socials, but the men I’ve dated almost always whined about it.
Owen, however, has jumped into the process headfirst. Knees bent, one eye closed, testing angles, giving options, telling me, “a little to the left and then turn your body towards me… perfect.”
When I look through the results, I’m genuinely impressed.
“These are actually fantastic.” I reach a teasing hand up to pinch his cheek. “There might be an artist in you after all. How are you so good at this?”
“Are you gonna make fun of me if I tell you?” he asks.
“Possibly.”
“I watched a YouTube video about how to take good pictures for your girlfriend,” he admits.
My chest stretches and compresses at once. Momentary panic, fight against change, but then something stronger—excitement. Warmth. Thrill.
“For your girlfriend, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, pulling my hips towards his. “My girlfriend. That okay with you?”
Girlfriend doesn’t have to mean serious. Girlfriend certainly doesn’t have to mean forever. I’ve had plenty of casual girlfriends in my adult life.
But now, with him, it feels more dangerous. More like the edge of a cliff. A knot in a thread I’ll never be able to untie—that will either be with me forever or will have to be cut loose with a sharp blade to the heart.
I love this man, and I’m horrified about it.
So I don’t answer him directly.
Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck as I say, “You know, it’s pretty Sophie-and-Andy of us to come to Paris together before you even called me your girlfriend. You really couldn’t have asked me like two weeks ago? Do things in a normal order like boring people?”
He bends his face closer to mine, our noses almost touching as he says, “You hate boring people.”
I feel myself softening in his arms. “I do, don’t I?”
Then he’s kissing behind my ear, down my neck, holding me against the solid wall of his body. And the beautiful thing is? No one even cares. It doesn’t matter that this display is quickly becoming indecent. It’s Paris—the city of love and horny Frenchmen and Owen’s wet mouth on my skin.
“Come on,” I say, finally pulling away before I can lose myself completely. “I want to get to the shop early.”
While Sophie tends to panic in stressful situations—all emotion, no logic—I am the opposite. I crave cold, hard facts as I evaluate my performance and make a plan to move forward.
It’s this quality that has me summarizing my meeting with Joséphine in simultaneous verbal and written analysis, Owen listening from across the black metal of our café table, twin porcelain cups of espresso perched between us.
“She basically said the role is mine. At least, I think she did. There were some idioms and ca y est’s floating around that I’m not sure I interpreted correctly.”
“You had the meeting in French?” His eyes are saucer-wide.
“No, no, mostly English. Just tidbits of French at the beginning and end to make her like me.” My spiral-bound notebook is open on the table.
I turn to a fresh page and draw a vertical line down the middle—pros and cons.
“But it sounds like she wants me to consider her compensation structure and give her an answer soon.”
“So she’s not considering other designers?”
“She did, but she said none of them were a good fit—pas compatibles.”
“Then that’s it, you did it! What are we still doing here? We should be having champa—”
“Wait, wait, wait. I can’t celebrate before I’ve even figured out if the offer is good.”
“Amel—Lia, you know I’m a lawyer, right? Get it from her in writing and we’ll go over it together. Your industry knowledge and my legal background. We’ll make sure you get the deal you deserve.”
“I don’t want to extort her.”
“Who said anything about extorting her? Regardless of her intentions for fairly or unfairly compensating you, a lawyer with your best interests in mind should review the document. Please, at least let me take a look? You don’t even have to take any of my advice.”
“Okay, fine. Yeah, you’re right.” Then a spark of an idea flits through my mind—a dream in the Parisian haze. “And hey, if this design licensing path starts to take off for me, maybe you can be my legal counsel on a more permanent basis.”
A smile stretches across his face, elbows pressing into the latticework of the table. “I’m very expensive, you know.”
“Name your price,” I say, mirroring him.
“Expertise like mine? Priceless.” His eyes flit down to my lips as he says, “I’ll accept my payment like this,” and kisses me.
“Ew,” I laugh against his lips. “Such a fucking cheeseball.” Still, I let his hand wrap into my hair, holding our lips together over the café table for a lingering moment before I remember the matter at hand and pull away.
“Okay, okay, be serious. I have a decision to make.”
He raises his hands. “Sorry. The floor is yours.”
“If I do this, it’ll be really hard to predict my expected revenue.
She’s offering a small advance, and then I’ll be making twelve percent royalties from each sale of my designs, which from my research seems more than standard.
And her shop is successful here in Paris, but the Boston location will be new, so it’s hard to translate existing sales data into meaningful projections. ”
My pen scratches numerical approximations into the paper in time with my words.
“And for the amount of time I’ll have to spend designing over the next three to four months, or longer if my contract is renewed, I could easily take a net loss on income for the year. It’ll be a huge amount of time away from cultivating social media partnerships and paid exhibits around the city.”
I picture my calendar, carefully curated for the rest of the year already. The fear of letting it go and falling into the unknown.
“And wait—” I say, holding up a finger when I see Owen starting to respond.
“Before you tell me to take a chance on myself and blah, blah, blah—this is not an abstract aspirational exercise. If my income goes down this year, I almost definitely won’t be able to make rent at my current place.
Though… if I have to move to a random town at least I’ll be farther from Connor. ”
“That’s not good enough,” Owen says. “He needs to leave you the fuck alone. He needs to never think about you again.”
“And how should I accomplish that, Owen?” I snap. “I’m focusing on my professional life crisis right now, not the personal one.”
“No, I know, but you’re right. It’s a consideration.” He falls back in his chair, hand running through his hair, eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Fuck. I mean, just come move in with me.”
“No,” I reply immediately. “Stop that. How many times do I have to tell you we’re not Sophie and Andy?”
Owen’s head is in his hands. “I really want this for you, Lia.”
“It doesn’t even matter if I move,” I explain. “If I take this job, Joséphine wants someone to act as a brand ambassador in Boston. That means going to more events around the city, plus having a real presence at the store on Newbury Street. My whereabouts would be publicly advertised all the time.”
“Then say no.”
“I would be saying no to the entire job.”
“Surely she would understand, if you expla—”
“I’m not going to tell a prospective employer that I’m too chicken shit to attend public events on her behalf because of my ex-boyfriend. Be serious.”
“It’s your safety,” Owen says. “It needs to be your top priority.”
I cross my arms stubbornly. “Actually, I get to choose what my top priority is.”
He scratches a broad, considering hand across his beard, already exhausted by this brief conversation. “Look, can we maybe put a pin in this for now? It’s your birthday week, and we’re in Paris, and I really just want you to have a great time while we’re here.”
I keep pouting with my arms crossed. My bottom lip might literally be sticking out.
He stands and moves to my side of the table, kneeling next to my chair. “Come on, gorgeous. Don’t worry about it now. The interview went well, and the future will wait. Let’s enjoy our last day here while we can.”
The words are meant to placate me, but they sting like acid.
This is supposed to be the best week of my life, and suddenly all I can think about is the spiraling reality waiting for me back home.
I don’t know what to do with my job. I don’t know what to do with Connor.
I don’t even know what to do with Owen anymore—this thing between us that was supposed to stay casual but suddenly feels real, heavy, moving with a will of its own.
It’s not safe anymore. Not for my heart.
Not for all the tender parts of myself that I’ve tucked away.
The uncertainties braid and twist together until my entire life is knotted around my middle, the weight pulling me down, down, down.