Chapter 34
thirty-four
AUTUMN
Trey: How’re you holding up?
Autumn: Just say it.
Trey: No. I don’t want to.
Autumn: Ok, then I’ll say it. You fucking told me so.
I’ve got a glass of rosé in one hand, and the latest issue of Citrine in the other.
Beneath the orangey hues of the early evening sky, the glassy surface of the lake is still, reflecting the sun as it sinks behind the trees.
I should feel relaxed, open. Expansive. My show was far from perfect, but it’s in the rearview mirror now, and I’ve had a little interest.
So why do I still feel like crap?
I know the answer, but I don’t want to think about it. Because I’m still disgusted. I’m still hurt.
My phone rings. I glance down at it, but it’s an unknown number.
“Who the hell…?” I mutter to myself, setting my magazine face down on the patio table.
I’m not in the habit of answering numbers I don’t know, but it could be something related to the fashion show.
It could be another boutique, interested in carrying a couple pieces from the line. So I answer. “This is Autumn.”
“Autumn Carroway?”
“This is she…” I set my wine glass down, too, so I’m not tempted to drink while talking.
“Oh, great. Hi—it’s nice to meet you, Autumn. I’m Ramona Wheatley, senior editor at Citrine magazine. How are you?”
Ho. Lee. Shit.
Did this bitch just say Citrine magazine? What the fuck?!
“Uh—” I stammer, trying to figure out how to work my vocal cords. My gaze jerks to the magazine, still face down on the table. Can someone see me reading this somehow?! Am I being watched? God. “It’s—it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m doing well.”
“Fabulous,” Ramona Wheatley says. “Listen, I got the prints you sent in, and they’re stunning. Honestly, gorgeous. I don’t know how we didn’t hear about your line sooner, but wow. We were blown away. Exactly the breath of fresh air we need in this world of fast fashion.”
I’m becoming more confused by the second. What the hell is she even talking about? Prints I sent over…? She must have me confused with someone else, because never once in my life have I tried to contact—or ever dreamed of contacting—
“We’d like to run a feature on you next month, if you’ll be available for an interview.”
It’s a damn good thing I’m not holding my glass of wine because it would be smashed to bits on the dock right now. As it is, I nearly drop my phone.
“Sure, I’d be available.” I snap to attention. I still have zero clue what’s going on, but I will happily meet with Citrine for an interview—I don’t even care if they think they’re talking to someone else right now.
“Oh, fabulous,” Ramona Wheatley gushes. “We’d also like to get some fresh shots of your women’s line, too.
I saw yesterday’s column in the Boston Current—the one covering your womenswear show this past weekend—and the models you brought in really nailed it.
I think if we get them with the male model—the one in the shots I’ve got here—it could bring everything together.
Any chance they’d all be available again? ”
“Well…” My heart’s jumping with excitement, but I’m still confused, and I don’t want to appear completely out of the loop in case Ramona Wheatley changes her mind.
“Could you jog my memory about the menswear shots? Which model it is? With the show this weekend, my mind’s been going a million miles an hour, and I’ve done various shoots… ”
“Right, right. Of course. The portfolio doesn’t mention a name, but it’s the same guy in all the shots.
He’s blond—kind of tousled, shaggy hair.
Angular jawline. Unique shade of blue eyes, very light.
Actually, one of our interns thought he looked familiar, like maybe she’d seen him on TikTok or something. ”
My stomach drops. It can’t be… I mean, how could it be?
I never took any pictures of Zeke modeling the menswear line.
I was going to get those shots at the show, but then.
.. Well, the fiasco happened, and I didn’t get the shots.
I’ve been meaning to get the clothes back from Zeke so I can hire someone else and at least get some pics for the website, but I couldn’t bring myself to face him yet.
Holy shit. Zeke still has the clothes.
“Oh, right,” I say, summoning my cheeriest, most in-the-know self for Ramona Wheatley, who I suddenly remember is still on the line. “Yeah, I think they’ll all be available again, but I’ll check with them to make sure.”
“Perfect. I’ve got your email here, so I’ll send you an invite later this week, and we can loop in all the necessary people. Congratulations again, Autumn! We’re really looking forward to the feature.”
“Thanks so much! I am, too.”
Ramona Wheatley tells me goodbye and the line clicks off.
I’m still stunned, but I’m ecstatic. I feel like I could jump in the lake and splash around for joy like a little kid, but I’m also still trying to fit the pieces together.
How the hell did Citrine get a portfolio of my work—a portfolio that doesn’t even exist?
My phone buzzes. By now I’m a little nervous—like, who else has my number? Barack Obama? Mark Zuckerberg? Maybe the ghost of Steve Jobs is calling to offer me a job at Apple. Honestly, the call I just finished felt equally outlandish.
But nah, it’s just Trey.
Trey: Did you see this?
I frown. It’s a TikTok link, which again makes me nervous, because I’m pretty sure I know exactly who’s going to be in it. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it.
Sure enough. It’s Zeke. Just seeing his face, the way his pale blue eyes light up when he grins at the camera is enough to make my chest tight. Ramona Wheatley was right—his eyes are a unique color. And I didn’t realize until this moment just how much I missed looking straight into them.
“Hey everybody,” Zeke says, waving to the camera. “I’ve got an announcement—sort of a bittersweet one.”
I chew my lip. I simultaneously do and do not want to know what he’s going to say, but I keep watching. Trey sent me this because he thinks I should know.
“I’m gonna be pausing my account for a while.
Like, I’ll still be around, and I’ll probably release a podcast episode here and there, but my time’s gonna be pretty limited.
I finally took all the haters’ advice and got myself a real fucking job—like, an honest-to-goodness, nine-to-five, sit-your-ass-at-an-office, pays-your-health-insurance real job.
Which, I guess, is a good step, right? You gotta grow up sometime. ”
Although Zeke’s smiling, the light in his eyes has dimmed a bit. I doubt anyone who only knows him through the camera would even notice, but I do. I’ve looked into those eyes a lot this past month.
“So, yeah. It’s a long story why I decided to go for it, but it’s something I had to do.
If you guys want to keep following—here and over at the podcast—it’d mean a lot to me, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back.
” Zeke throws up a peace sign. “Anyway. Keep it real, guys. Don’t bug the ghosts in your house and they won’t bug you—actually, that’s a lie, they will—and don’t ever play with ouija boards. I mean that one. Stay spooky, y’all.”
The video ends.
And the pieces are clicking together.
Didn’t Zeke say he had a friend from college who was always hounding him to come work for him?
And that the friend worked at some high-end marketing firm?
I didn’t think my heart could be racing any faster, but here we are.
Because after watching that video, I’m even more sure Zeke’s behind this thing with Citrine.
Almost instinctively, my fingers find the pendant Zeke gave me.
Lena’s pendant. Despite how pissed I’ve been, I haven’t taken it off.
I know how much that podcast meant to Zeke.
How much the freedom of a non-traditional income called to him.
How knowing random people across the globe found his gifts entertaining made him feel worthy.
And he gave that up… for me? He gave that up for the chance to get me noticed by my favorite magazine?
Fuck.
I stare at the glassy, gently rippling surface of the lake, thinking back to that time only a few weeks ago when I stripped myself bare and joined Zeke in the water. It makes me smile, remembering how nervous I was. How far out of my comfort zone I was, but how determined I was to do it anyway.
Zeke brought out that side of me again. That night, I didn’t just strip my clothes off.
I also started stripping back the layers of protection I’d built around myself.
Opening up again, letting myself be vulnerable—physically and emotionally.
And, fashion show fiasco notwithstanding, Zeke took excellent care of the tender parts of me that I shared with him.
I scroll back through Zeke’s TikTok until I find the one we filmed together, the one where we’re dancing by the docks.
I realize I never watched it. As I do now, taking in our stupid little dance and our giggling, childish selves, it hits me.
There’s joy on my face in this video—joy I haven’t seen on my face since…
god. Probably since I got married and everything went downhill.
I guess being with someone who let me be myself with him, who believed in me and celebrated my creativity, made a difference.
And what’s more… I think it’s rubbed off.
Because, as I slide my phone into the pocket of my jean shorts and down the little bit of wine that’s left in my glass, I realize something.
I believe in myself now, too.
I’m not just former trophy wife Autumn Carroway anymore. I’m a powerful, talented woman. An accomplished designer. A risk taker. I’m stepping into my own person, and I have Zeke Holloway to thank for helping me get there.
Leaving my wine glass and magazine on the table, I run into the house and grab my car keys. As I jump behind the wheel and speed off down the driveway, I don’t even have a plan. I have no clue where I’m going. I just know I’ve got to get to Zeke, and I’ve got to do it fucking now.