Chapter 46
This tent is crowded. I pull the cardstock invitation from my breast pocket and stare at it again.
It’s been a week since I accepted a job with Mason Architecture here in Atlanta and moved into their cozy library office in a restored craftsman home. I trace over Andie’s handwritten note at the bottom of the invitation.
It’s not a confession of love or an offer of forgiveness, but it’s enough. There was no way in hell I was going to miss this day. So I put on a suit for the first time since my conversation with Hammersmith—the one she’d fixed the cuff on, and the first pocket square she gave me—and showed up ready to offer her everything I can think of.
I locate my seat only to find it buttressed on either side by Leslie and Patrick. Kendra sits on Patrick’s other side, beaming. When I sit, Patrick smacks me on the back. “Damn, I’m glad you showed, man.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I shake Leslie’s hand. After I take in Patrick’s Miami Vice–style suit, I tell him, “You look good.”
“Kendra picked it out.” He smiles sheepishly.
“Where’s Jamie?” I ask Leslie.
“Backstage.” He gestures in that direction. “He’s been working with Andie for the last few weeks.”
At my frown, Patrick tells me, “We’ve been trying to talk to you, but you won’t come out from under that rock you ran to.”
Just as the lights lower, I say, “Next week. We’ll hang out for real.”
My heart pounds against my rib cage and I hold my breath, waiting for what’s next.
Music starts up—a steady, throbbing beat coming from speakers mounted on the stage. A projector casts a spinning kaleidoscope of flowers on the stage.
The first model emerges in a structured dress. The bodice flares out at the model’s waist into a curved, voluminous skirt. When the model walks, the fabric shimmers in the lights, and I’m not quite sure how Andie pulled off the effect. It all looks a bit like armor—a chest plate to protect a soft heart beneath it, a Spartan shield formation forms the skirt—and it doesn’t take me long to understand. Geometric. Triangles.
The dome in the gardens at the Colonnade.
I swallow the lump in my throat, waiting for what’s next.
It’s structured, too, but Andie’s taken the triangle panels from the first bodice and opened them to make a sort of vest worn over a simpler gown. The bodice has a spray of rose gold beads arching over the model’s hip and curling up toward her navel. The fabric of this skirt is softer, too, moving a bit more with the model’s walk around the runway.
With the next dress, the outer shell is gone. It’s a simpler silhouette, with a skirt that appears liquid under the stage lights. I itch to run it through my fingers to see if it feels as cool and refreshing as it looks.
Each dress flows more naturally than the one that came before it. It’s a carefully crafted narrative of a bride coming undone. When the tenth dress emerges with a plunging neckline and beaded bodice, my mind is back in Andie’s studio, making her mine.
She let me in. She begged me to break down her walls, and I did. But I didn’t think I’d have to offer my own heart up on a platter to keep her doors open. It’s terrifying, but I’m ready to do it now. No running this time, I’ve made sure of that.
I can only hope she chooses me.
The final dress is a slip of a thing, hardly any form to it at all. The model’s shoulders are bare, with nothing holding up the bodice, and with no visible fastenings. I’m not exactly sure how Andie got the ethereal, loose shape to stay on the model without falling off. It looks like some kind of magic as the skirt flows into a short train on the runway. The crowd around me oohs and ahs as the model struts by.
As the parade of models comes out in their dresses again, in a line, I hold my breath. Andie emerges arm-in-arm with the final model, beaming.
I gasp when I see it. She’s carrying a bouquet and wearing the dress she wore on our wedding day, except she’s modified it. The most jarring change is the color: it’s a bright crimson. But she also shortened the length on the skirt to her knees. When she’s close enough, I can see how the edges of the dress are raw—she left it unfinished, messy, even going so far as to undo the beading around the neckline as it scoops over her breasts—I find myself standing, my legs propelling me toward the back of the stage.
No running away. It’s time.