19. Antonio
— ? —
Antonio
The jacket doesn’t fit.
Or rather, it fits everywhere except the shoulders, which are about half an inch too narrow, which Cassandra informs me is entirely my fault for having “annoyingly athletic proportions.”
“I designed this for a normal human,” she says, tugging at the fabric across my back. “Not someone who apparently does secret push-ups when no one’s watching.”
“I don’t do secret push-ups.”
“Then explain these shoulders.”
“Genetics. My father was a fisherman.”
She steps back, studying me with the critical eye I’ve come to recognize over the past weeks - the look that means she’s solving a problem in her head, running through options and modifications and structural adjustments.
The atelier is quiet except for the hum of the sewing machine she was using earlier, and late afternoon light streams through the windows, catching dust motes in the air.
Sixteen weeks pregnant. That’s how far along she is now - ten weeks since she told me in that hospital room, nine weeks of helping at the shop and learning to be present and trying to earn back what I lost. The morning sickness has finally eased.
Her belly has started to round in a way that’s visible now, a gentle curve beneath her loose blouses.
She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but there’s something different now - a confidence that wasn’t there before, a settledness in her own skin. Building this atelier has given her something back that I didn’t even realize she’d lost.
“I can let out the shoulder seams,” she says finally. “It’ll take about an hour. Can you stay?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She gestures for me to take off the jacket, and I hand it over carefully, watching her examine the stitching with quick, practiced fingers. She frowns at something near the shoulder seam, then hands it back.
“Put it on again. I need to see how this pulls when you move.”
I shrug back into it, settling the weight across my shoulders.
This is what I volunteered for - modeling pieces for the lookbook she’s putting together, a small catalog to show potential customers.
No publicity, no press release, just me standing in her clothes while she figures out how they photograph.
It was her idea, actually. She mentioned needing someone to model the unisex pieces, and I offered before I could think better of it.
“You realize this is different,” I said at the time. “Usually there’s a whole crew telling me what to do.”
“Then this should be easy. Today you only have to listen to me.”
So here I am, in the back room of a Calabrian atelier, being fitted for a jacket by a woman I’m still technically married to and desperately in love with.
“Arms up,” she says, and I comply, holding still while she pins a new seam line. “You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’re shifting your weight back and forth. That’s fidgeting.”
“I’m trying to stay balanced.”
“You’re trying to look at what I’m doing. Stop it. You’re throwing off the drape.”
I force myself to look straight ahead, at the dress form in the corner that’s wearing one of her other designs - a deep green gown that she’s been working on for weeks. It’s stunning, even half-finished. Everything she makes is stunning.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“At pinning seams?”
“At all of it. The designing, the fitting, the…” I gesture vaguely with one hand. “The making things that didn’t exist before.”
“That’s called a job, Antonio. Millions of people do it every day.”
“Not like this. Not with this much… intention.”
She pauses, a pin between her fingers. “Intention?”
“Every choice you make matters. The fabric, the cut, the way a seam falls. It’s not just clothes - it’s communication. You’re saying something with every piece you create.”
“What am I saying with this jacket?”
I think about it. The clean lines, the structured shoulders, the way the fabric is substantial without being heavy. The deep emerald color, the pockets deep enough to actually hold things.
“Competence,” I say finally. “Seriousness. Someone who wears this jacket is someone who gets things done.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then she goes back to pinning, but there’s something different in her expression - a softness I haven’t seen in a long time.
“That’s… actually what I was going for.”
“I pay attention sometimes.”
“Apparently so.”
***
The fitting takes two hours, including the modifications.
By the end of it, the jacket fits perfectly - snug across the shoulders, tailored through the waist, the kind of garment that makes you stand up straighter just by wearing it.
Cassandra photographs me from multiple angles, directing my stance and the position of my hands with the same precise attention she brings to everything.
“Turn slightly left. No, your left. Chin down. Relax your shoulders - you look like you’re about to give a press conference.”
“I’m trying not to blink.”
“That’s worse. Blink naturally. Look like a person.”
“What if I’m not sure how to look like a person?”
“Then fake it. You’re an actor. Pretend you’re playing a human being who knows how to stand still.”
I laugh despite myself, and she captures the moment - the click of her camera coinciding with what must be a ridiculous expression on my face.
“That’s the one,” she says, checking the screen. “That’s the shot.”
“The one where I look like an idiot?”
“The one where you look real.” She turns the camera so I can see. “See? Human. Approachable. Like someone actually wearing the clothes instead of displaying them.”
She’s right. In the photo, I look relaxed in a way I rarely manage in professional shoots. The jacket looks good - better than good, actually. It looks like something I’d choose to wear, not something a stylist dressed me in.
“You’re good at this too,” I say. “The photography.”
“I learned on runways. You pick things up.” She sets the camera down and starts organizing the other pieces we haven’t shot yet - a linen shirt, a pair of trousers, a scarf in deep burgundy. “Thank you for doing this.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know I don’t have to. I’m choosing to.” She meets my eyes. “You’ve been… helpful. These past weeks. More helpful than I expected.”
“Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“It’s called professional feedback. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. My head is enormous now. Swelling by the second.”
She almost smiles. Almost.
We work through the rest of the pieces as the afternoon fades into evening. The linen shirt photographs beautifully, the trousers need minor hemming, the scarf turns out to be the star of the collection - Cassandra drapes it a dozen different ways, finding angles I never would have thought of.
By the time we’re done, the light through the windows has gone golden, then orange, then the deep purple of approaching dusk.
“I should let you close up,” I say, hanging the last piece on its designated rack.
“Probably.” But she doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, she stands by the window, looking out at the street, her silhouette outlined against the fading light.
“Cass?”
“There’s a beach,” she says. “About an hour south of here. My parents used to take me there when I was a kid. You can see the sunset over the water - the way the light turns everything gold and then pink and then this deep orange that looks like the whole sky is on fire.”
I wait, not sure where this is going.
“I told you about it once,” she continues. “Years ago. The sunset I always wanted to see again, the one we never made it to because there was always a shoot or a premiere or something more important.”
I remember. A conversation in bed, in the early days of our marriage, when we used to talk about the things we wanted to do someday. She described a beach in Calabria, a sunset that had imprinted itself on her childhood memory, a place she wanted to share with me.
We never went. Something always came up.
“Would you want to go?” I ask carefully. “This weekend, maybe?”
She turns from the window, her expression unreadable. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“I’m asking if you want to see the sunset you’ve been dreaming about for twenty years. With me. If that counts as a date, then yes.”
“What if it doesn’t count as a date?”
“Then it’s two people who happen to be married, watching the sun go down from a pretty beach. No pressure either way.”
The pause draws out. I can see her weighing it - the risk of saying yes, the cost of saying no, the complicated territory we’ve been navigating for months.
“Okay,” she says finally.
“Okay?”
“Saturday. I’ll text you the directions.”
“I can pick you up…”
“No.” She holds up a hand. “I’ll meet you there. Let’s keep this simple.”
Simple. Nothing about us has been simple in years. But I’ll take what I can get.
“Saturday,” I say. “I’ll be there.”