Chapter 29
twenty-nine
AUTUMN
Autumn: Ummm are you on the way?
Autumn: Hey.
Autumn: EZEKIEL HOLLOWAY.
Autumn: Goddammit Zeke, answer your fucking phone!
It’s twenty minutes to showtime and Zeke still isn’t here.
I’m running around the boutique like a crazy person, making sure the rows of chairs are all aligned around our makeshift runway, that the gift bags for the VIP row are perfectly placed and the models dressed and in sync.
And although all the models were supposed to be here over an hour ago, Zeke’s still nowhere to be found, and my texts and calls are going unanswered.
To say I’m freaking out would be a huge understatement.
“Try him again,” Trey urges. He covers one of the model’s eyes as he sprays her head with hairspray. “He probably just overslept. I’m sure he’ll be here any second.”
I stand on my tiptoes to peer over the model’s head and down the sidewalk. Nothing. No one. The street outside is scattered only with a few random passersby, probably on their way to Brewed Awakening for their morning coffee.
I press the phone to my cheek, willing the incessant ringing to stop abruptly, for Zeke’s velvety voice to cut in, no matter how sleepy it sounds. I turn back to Trey. “Still no answer. You think you can fit in his clothes?”
Trey winkles his nose. “Honey. If I could fit in those clothes, Zeke wouldn’t even be in this show, and you certainly wouldn’t have—”
“Point taken,” I say loudly, cutting him off.
I know where that sentence was going, and I also see the interested way the model on the stool in front of Trey is looking at me.
Her curiosity’s been piqued. These girls are from the modeling school in Boston, but I’m pretty sure they all know Zeke.
At least, I heard quite a bit of whispering at this morning’s run-through when his name was announced.
The run-through Zeke should’ve fucking been at because he has no clue how to walk on a runway, and even if he shows up now… god. This is bad.
Just then, Lydia comes striding through the door, and I run so fast to meet her it’s a wonder I don’t bowl her over. She frowns at me at the same time I gasp out, “Lydia!”
“Wow, hey. Everything okay? Call me naive, but this isn’t exactly how I pictured you looking the morning of your big show. I thought you’d be exci—”
“I will be excited—once your fiancé’s stupid brother gets his ass in here!”
Lydia’s eyes widen. “Wait—Zeke’s not here yet? Didn’t you say he was supposed to be here at eight thirty?”
“Yep. But he’s sure as hell not here yet. I’m freaking out, Lyds.”
“Fuck.” Lydia chews her lips, casts a worried glance around the shop. I can tell by the disappointment in her eyes that she’s been down this road with Zeke before. “Okay. Um… Let me text Will. He can run down to the cabin quick and bang on the door. That ought to wake him up.”
“If he’s even sleeping! How do we know it’s that? I mean, what if he’s just bailed?”
Lydia’s fingers are moving so fast across her phone keyboard they’re a blur. When she finally stops her tapping, she looks up to study me. “Bailed? What do you mean? Did something happen?”
It’s a question I’ve been desperately trying to answer myself.
Things got a little weird last night after we found that drawing of Lena—the vibe had definitely shifted—but nothing really happened.
Knowing that Patrick’s great-grandpa killed his mistress and covered up the murder was a lot for me to take in, and I really wasn’t feeling like sex at that moment—which I thought was pretty understandable.
But Zeke seemed kind of offended, and sure, maybe I was a little harsher than necessary—but to just not show up to the fashion show he agreed to walk in? That he knows matters so much to me? He wouldn’t. Would he?
At that moment, Trey comes and drags me out of my thoughts, hooking both me and Lydia by the elbows and guiding us to the back of the room for a mic check. We’ve got ten minutes left. People are already starting to arrive.
“Testing, testing,” Dustin says into the microphone. He raises a tentative thumbs up to Trey, and Trey nods. “It’s good? Loud enough?”
“It’s fine,” I say. I’m having a hard time caring about the volume level of the microphone when there’s no one to model my menswear line. It feels a little like putting the cart before the horse.
“Hey,” Trey says, putting an arm around my shoulders and squeezing.
He looks down at me, and I can tell he’s trying to stay relaxed for me.
“I was thinking—what if we switch the order a little bit, have the women walk first? I know it won’t match what we’ve got on the programs, but it’d buy us a little more time. ..”
I take a deep breath in, mulling his proposition over. He’s right. Zeke’s probably just running late, and having the women walk first wouldn’t be the end of the world.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Atta girl,” Trey says. “I’ll go let the models know. They’re good to go with hair and makeup, so it shouldn’t be a problem. You stay here and breathe. Everything is going to be just fine.”
Trey strides off toward the office, where the two female models are sitting out of sight, long nails clacking as they scroll mindlessly on their phones. I feel a little bad at how bored they look, but I thought Zeke was going to be here. I was counting on him to be the life of the party.
By now the VIP guests have all arrived, prompt and prim and polished, and I hope my smile doesn’t look too slapped on when I greet them.
As the reporter for the Boston Current arrives to shake my hand, I try hard to project confidence.
But behind my enthusiastic, on-top-of-things demeanor, my chest is about caving in on itself from panic and pure, white-hot rage.
I can’t believe Zeke would do this to me. I can’t fucking believe him.
At one minute to showtime, I’ve got Erin and Nina—my models who actually showed—lined up behind our makeshift curtains, ready to strut their stuff at Trey’s cue.
We’ve got their outfit changes ready to go, a platform set up next to the runway for the photographers to snap some artsy shots, and a style book with glossy photos of the season’s pieces in the hands of our front-row influencers.
There’s still no sign of Zeke, and according to Will, who just texted Lydia back, his car’s not home, either.
Fucking great.
Trey strides out on stage, and from where I stand, peering out from behind the curtain, I see him flash a dazzling smile at the modest, yet highfalutin crowd.
“Goooood morning, Hawthorne Bay! First off, I want to thank everyone for coming. The Velvet Noir autumn collection is absolutely stunning, and we’re so thrilled you’ll all get the first look today.
There has been a slight change in schedule, however, and we’ll be starting with the women’s pieces instead of the menswear. So, without further ado…”
Trey gestures a sweeping hand toward the tech crew at the back, and the bass of the music starts at the same time as the lights dim. Without missing a beat, the first model pulls the curtain smoothly aside and steps confidently out onto the runway, just like we practiced this morning.
As she struts her way down the aisle, a cool, closed-mouth smile on her striking face, the crowd oohs and aahs over the pieces she’s wearing: a pair of patchwork leather moto leggings I stitched together myself, and a hot pink trench coat over a slinky, white tank top.
Every single piece has been salvaged and upcycled, using only the highest quality material I could find.
None of this fast fashion BS—my pieces are meant to last a lifetime.
The first model reaches the end of the runway, gives a practiced spin, and starts back the way she came while Trey details the pieces she’s wearing.
Giving the second model a look that says “you got this”, I duck out from behind the curtain and skirt my way along the wall toward the back of the store to try Zeke one more time.
My heart’s pounding. What if something’s seriously wrong? What if he got in some kind of car accident? Went off the road and is lying in a ditch somewhere, and that’s why his car wasn’t at home when Will went to—
My whirling thoughts come to a sudden, screeching halt as Zeke walks through the front door.
He’s got on aviators, and he’s pulled a trucker hat down low on his brow.
Although my blood’s still pretty much frozen, I force myself to move, barely feeling my legs as I slink behind the crowd and yank Zeke to a corner near the door.
I obviously can’t see my own face, but with how much rage I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure I must look absolutely terrifying. I feel terrifying.
“Hey,” Zeke rasps. Although he flashes me a half-hearted grin, it only lasts a second. He looks like absolute shit. Too bad I don’t care.
“Don’t hey me. Where the fuck have you been?” I hiss. “You were supposed to be here two hours ago—the show’s already started.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I got here as fast as I c—”
Zeke cuts off abruptly, and a weird look comes over his face as his throat contracts. It’s kind of dark in here, but I’m pretty sure his lips are white.
I draw in a long, trying-to-keep-my-shit-together breath—because why the hell is he being so weird?—and that’s when I smell it. Tequila. It’s practically seeping out of his pores. Now everything’s starting to click into place.
“Have you been drinking?” I demand, my voice still low. I’m staring at him, but he doesn’t meet my gaze, just keeps looking at the runway in this strange, wistful way.
Zeke nods, his shoulders slumped. “Last night. But look, I brought the clothes. I said I’d walk, and I’ll—”
He can’t even get through the sentence. Without any warning, he turns and stumbles to the door, barely managing to slip outside before he hurls all over the sidewalk.
I can’t hear the splatter over the booming of the bass—and thank god the crowd’s been fully captivated by whatever spell Trey and my female models have cast—but seeing Zeke blow chunks outside my shop is a whole new fucking low.
For him. For me. For whoever’s gonna have to clean it up. Probably Trey—I don’t know.
One thing I do know is there’s no way in hell Zeke is walking in my show like this.
I slip out the door behind him and stand there a moment, watching while he gulps in breaths of fresh air. He’s still bent down with his hands on his knees. When he finally turns to look at me, he straightens, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re out,” I say, pointing a finger at his chest. He reeks of alcohol, and now of vomit, too. “I needed someone to model menswear in my show—if I’d wanted a frat boy, I’d have called a fucking frat.”
“Autumn. I’m sorry. I’m good now, I can do it—”
“Oh, fuck off,” I spit. “You are not good. You just threw up all over the sidewalk. No way am I letting you anywhere near my pieces or anywhere near that runway. Some of us, unlike you, have actual businesses we’d like to not wreck—although you’ve sure as shit wrecked whatever trust I had in you.”
Zeke stares at me, stunned. “Jesus Christ, you’re dramatic. I threw up. You act like I killed s—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off again. Because I am having none of it.
“You don’t get to talk. This is my business.
It’s my show. And you knew how much it mattered to me—you knew.
Are you even sober right now? I hope so, otherwise your sorry ass will have to wait for big brother to come give you a ride, like the absolute child you are. ”
“Wow.” Zeke lets out a low whistle, turning away from me with a scoff, like he can’t believe I just said what I did.
I don’t wait for him to reply further, though. I’ve got things to do, a show to run. And quite frankly, I don’t care if I hurt his little feelings or not. Boo fucking hoo.
I leave Zeke out on the sidewalk, slipping back inside without a look behind. The models have pulled off their outfit changes without a hitch, and Trey’s grinning into the microphone as he details the second set of pieces they’re wearing.
Thank god for Trey. Thank god.
As I make my way back behind the curtain, I wait for a pause in Trey’s emceeing to beckon him over to the side of the aisle.
He holds the microphone away from us, covers it with his hand, and leans toward me. “Is Zeke here? I saw him walk in, but then you both disappeared.”
I shake my head. I want to tell Trey what happened, but I can’t bring myself to. Not right now, with the music still going on and the lights still dimmed. I need to keep my head up, keep the show going—and I can’t do that if I’m wallowing in self-pity.
“No menswear today,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Our model couldn’t make it.”
Trey meets my eyes. He nods, but doesn’t ask questions, just squeezes my arm and hops back to his post. Trey knows me well. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s livid for my sake, but he also knows when I need space.
And so, drawing on the same well of strength I always fell back on when things went to shit with Patrick, I buck the fuck up and pull it together. Menswear line or no, this show must go on. No hungover, vomiting mess is going to be spewing chunks at Boston socialites this morning.
No, sir. No, ma’am. You’re fucking welcome.