Chapter 3
Tessa
The past week and a half of waiting for Giovanni’s whims has felt like a bespoke purgatory, curated just for me.
Carting myself over to his shop every day, I sit approximately twelve inches away from him as he silently beads for hours. I attempted to move my chair farther away on day two, but he dragged it closer, saying I couldn’t “oversee him” at that distance. Now, I’m practically in his lap.
Giovanni never asks me for anything. He never speaks while he works. Time passes at the speed of a shifting glacier in the middle of an ice age, which is just slow enough for me to overthink everything.
Overthink my design, overthink Milan, overthink him.
The only thing to distract me from all my overthinking is the bewitching way he works.
The tambour embroidery hook—slim and elegant—could almost be an extension of his hand. Threading fragile beads with the precision of a surgeon, he makes luneville beading look effortless. His fingers work with practiced focus. The hook dips, catches the beads, and pulls through the fabric.
But it’s not just his technique that distracts me…
It’s him. I catalog the slight tick in his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the small shake of his head that nudges the curl hanging over his forehead a little to the left.
Lately, thinking about him has become a habit that feels dangerously close to treason against my own mind.
Admiring the wood that brackets the tulle, I clear my throat and break our lengthy silence. “Is that maple?”
His attention remains on his embroidery. “It’s a rosewood frame. Sometimes I use beechwood for practicality, but my grandfather worked with rosewood, so I’m experienced with it,” he murmurs.
“Oh? I didn’t know your grandfather embroidered.”
He never talks about his family at work, at least not with me.
Giovanni pauses his movements and his eyes widen, almost like he’s surprised he shared that with me. He parts his lips, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say more. Instead, he mutters, “I need more metallic thread. I’ll get it.”
Finally, something for me to do. “I don’t mind getting it for—”
“No.” He briskly walks toward his office.
Trying to ignore yet another abrupt dismissal, I get up to stretch my legs. The sharp trill of my phone cuts through the quiet as I walk toward the front of the shop. Shit. Giovanni hates noise when he’s working. I rush to silence my phone before he comes back, but pause when I see who’s calling.
My father’s name stares up at me: Christopher Thompson. A confusing blend of apprehension and hopefulness floods my nervous system, as it always does when he calls me.
Don’t pick up. Don’t do it.
Chris Thompson is an opportunist. He always wants more from life. More traveling, more connections, more money. Always reaching for more, just never reaching for me.
Not entirely true, my psyche chimes alongside my phone—which I’m still debating on answering. Dad reaches for me when he needs access to my brother. My role was just repurposed. To him, I’m less of a daughter and more of a bridge.
I don’t know how my father always seems to know when I’m feeling low, but that stubborn shred of hope nudges my thumb to press the green button. My chest tightens as I clutch the phone and wait to hear his voice.
“Tessa? You there, Fashion Fairy?”
I flinch at his use of the nickname, knowing that he only got it from Mom.
“I’m here.”
“Fantastic! So, listen. I wanted to see if you’re up for grabbing lunch together next week. I’m in town after a long trip.”
I roll my eyes. Dad’s almost never in New York. Freelance journalism takes him abroad more often than not. Last year marked ten months in Japan. Before that, it was Peru.
“Sure, Dad. And should I forward this lunch invitation to anyone in particular?”
We both know the answer.
“Well, it’s been, what? Five years since we all last met up, I think. Maybe even longer. The three of us together again—can you imagine?”
Three of us. My stomach sinks, and a familiar bout of self-loathing kicks in. I know how these calls end; yet, I continue to subject myself to them.
I roll my shoulders back. “You must have a pretty vivid imagination, seeing as Daniel doesn’t speak to you anymore.”
When Daniel went no-contact with him, I think he assumed I would, too.
After all, I barely had a connection with our father.
The divorce was final mere months after I entered the world, and Dad was already in New York, leaving me with a thoughtful parting gift of growing up with the painful knowledge that I’m easy to abandon.
“Ah, you know your brother. So stubborn. It’ll blow over soon, especially with your help. How’s he doing, by the way? Must be pretty excited for the league’s award ceremony coming up.”
I bristle. “I’m not talking about Daniel with you.”
I’ve had nearly enough of this conversation, but something in me pauses. The three words I’ve tried to bury, time and time again to no avail, resurface in my mind: Maybe he’s changed.
I start negotiating with myself against my better judgment. Knowing Dad’s rarely in the country, it probably wouldn’t hurt to go to lunch just this once. What if he gets eaten by wild animals while on location, and I regret not seeing him when I had the chance?
I clear my throat. “I’d still be open to meeting, you and me, just this once. I guess.”
He hums, and I hear clicking in the background, like he’s typing on a keyboard. “Let’s not plan anything until we know Dan’s schedule. No use getting something on the calendar just to change it, and—”
I’ve spent so long rehearsing indifference that my hand comes up in a “stop right there” motion as if he was here to see it. “You don’t have to explain. Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. I’m probably too busy, anyways.”
Dad smacks his lips together. “Alrighty then! Talk to ya soon, Fashion Fairy.”
My eyes start to sting. “Yep.”
For a moment, I stand frozen, phone still pressed to my ear like he hasn’t hung up yet.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hopeful for some version of a relationship with my father.
And it’s those slivers of hope that prevent me from completely telling him off—and telling Daniel about any of this, period.
I always thought it was Daniel’s fame that interested Dad, but maybe it’s something else about him, too. Something I must lack. Because, the truth is, it’s not just my father that’s invited me into a relationship built with expectations I will never meet. It’s my own boss. It’s Giovanni.
Thinking of Giovanni reminds me that I’m standing in his shop, and I need to pull myself together before he comes back.
I slide the phone in my pocket and busy my hands by picking up the first thing I can grab—one of the dusty sewing guides that decorates the coffee table, The Complete Guide to Sewing.
The weathered edges of the book feel flimsy beneath my fingers, and I sigh.
Foundational Sewing was a required class in fashion school, but it could’ve been called Computer Programming.
All the sewing machines were automated; you could simply select your stitch with the press of a button.
There was a small unit on hand sewing with the most basic stitches, and I was so terrible that my TA asked if I’d been sewing drunk.
I avoided taking any additional sewing electives after that.
But now, as I inch closer to the goal of designing my own line, I’m determined to try again.
In an alternate universe—one where I’m featured in Vogue and Giovanni enjoys working with me—I might ask him for help.
Instead, I’ll pray my sewing sobers up with online tutorials and needle pricks.
“What are you doing?” A deep, distressingly sexy voice cuts through the silence.
I flinch, dropping the guide back on the table and hiding my hands behind my back like a criminal.
“Why were you looking at The Complete Guide to Sewing?”
I spin around to see his eyebrows raised in curiosity. I’d leave to avoid answering his question, but I don’t want him to tell Lamont I’m slacking off.
I place my hands on my hips and try to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “Was I not allowed to read it?”
His eyebrows knit together. “If you think you can just rifle through my things and leave with no explanation, you’re barfing up the wrong tree.”
“It’s barking up the wrong tree!” I raise my voice, waving my hands around in exasperation.
He narrows his gaze. “If anyone’s barking, it’s you.”
“Oh my God, Giovanni. You drive me up the wall.” I take a step in his direction.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, almost like he’s enjoying this, and he answers with a step of his own toward me. “And you’ll drive me to an early grave.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your window of time for an early grave has passed.”
“I’m only five years older than you.” We’re so close now that the force of his exhale pushes a few strands of hair away from my face.
“Five years is a long time. People can get a whole degree in that amount of time. Have a few kids. Compete in the Summer Olympics. Build two Eiffel Towers.”
“Oddio, Tèssa.” He wipes a hand down his face, breathing heavily. “Sometimes, you just don’t see it.”
Now the toes of our shoes are touching, and my breaths get shallower. He always gets under my skin, no matter what I do. It’s so… so…
“Why are you guys standing so close to each other?” a small, sweet voice pipes up.
Giovanni and I look down at the same time and his chin bumps my forehead. Dear Lord, we are horrifically close.
Taking a giant step backwards, I rub the spot where his skin touched mine as Giovanni disappears from view. When I look down, he’s hugging a young boy, playfully putting him into a headlock. The boy, maybe nine years old, laughs and swats at Giovanni’s arm.
Giovanni bats the child’s hands away. “Can’t take it, ometto?”
Just as I’m about to ask who is this adorable child and what is he doing in your Little Shop of Horrors, a pretty woman stumbles through the door, nearly dropping the massive casserole dish in her arms.
“Shit—I mean, shoot. Michael, you’re tracking mud from the playground into the shop. Can you take off your shoes, sweet pea?” She sets the dish down on a nearby table and beelines for Giovanni, throwing her arms around his neck. “Hey Gi. I know it’s not much, but we were rushing today.”
“I’m pretty sure this could feed a family of eight, Lu. It’s perfect, thank you.” He grins, pulling back to kiss her cheek.
Wow. A genuine Gio smile. When was the last time I saw that in the wild?
My stomach twists. I don’t know if it’s from bickering, hunger, or happening upon Giovanni’s Secret Family, but after a long day of work, this is the Red 40-dyed cherry on top of the worst figurative sundae I’ve ever eaten.
The woman (his wife?) appears normal enough, attractive in a paisley pattern sundress that may as well have been made for her (was it?). Her curly blonde hair matches that of her (their?) son.
I clear my throat, and Sandra-dee Incarnated turns around, appearing to notice me for the first time. A polite and professional smile graces her face.
“Sorry,” she says, “we don’t take evening appointments. You’ll have to call and set something up.”