Chapter Text
I vividly remember the first dress I saw made in front of me. The client had brought in this long gorgeous veil that she wanted a dress to perfectly accent the lace patterning on the edges and yet any other bridal store had nothing she desired. My mama had let me sit in on the meeting, eager to pass on her trade to me. The client had been a dear friend of hers so apparently having me in the meeting was something she asked of. I had been amazed at the process as I sat in my own chair drinking my milk, watching my mom create something so beautiful, so effortlessly. Her hands would glide across the page quickly, she’d ask a few questions and the design would take a turn and quickly turn into a stunning gown on paper.
Whenever her friend had left, she let me try to help get to work on the dress. I was roughly seven years old at this point and my fingers were clumsy and slow but she was patient and taught me the tricks of how to pin the fabric so it held more with one needle, and more. I came to school the next day with more Band-Aids on my fingers than I needed, but it had been the most exciting part of my week.
Over the next few weeks the dress had started to take shape and the lace ball gown with a deep sweetheart and low back was finished and the woman came back for her last fitting. I had never seen anyone be that amazed and excited for an object before and I was giddy with excitement as she put the veil on with the dress and practically melted on the spot. My mom could never kick me out of her meetings after that.
The first question we always ask is how they met their significant other and where the wedding will be. It builds the idea of what their wedding will be like and the kind of person they are. From the moment the bride walks in and announces herself, I’m already trying to figure out what she wants. It’s become a sort of game me and my mama play all the time. Guess the dress. Some brides really love to throw you off course in their preference, but of course, there’s always a reason they come to custom wedding dress designers.
There are your average brides, that just have an idea on one item of their wedding, and then there’s the bridezillas – the ones that make so many changes it drives you insane. Some don’t even have a clue beforehand, but all they need is that one decision to help push them into the rest of the wedding.
I spend hours and hours of my days on the dresses for these women. The smallest detail is taken into consideration; if they don’t like anything of the dress; it’s changed, even if I have to start over completely.
My mama always said that the client’s happiness should be sewn into the dress since it reflects the most important day of her life and all eyes need to be on her. They should be able to look back on it and remember how beautiful and happy they were.
My seamstress says I spend too much time on the gowns sometimes, but I live up to my mother’s standards as best I can. These gowns show the brides personality, how she holds herself, they give her pride, hope, and confidence on her wedding day. Lace is used for the elegant, refined and poised. Ruffles accentuate the children at heart. A ball gown brings out the princess they dreamed to be when they were young. There’s a design for everyone. If they want an edge to it like no other you can even work leather into a dress. Custom means custom and that’s exactly what we strive to do. It’s definitely worth the tiresome work hours to see the look of glee when the client tries on the finished dress.
I remember the last dress I designed. Every night I worked on her dress, having to put Hanji, my right hand seamstress, to work as a guard for the doors to keep the woman’s fiancée away. It was a rather simple design that my mother had been adamant about doing herself but I had taken it on instead. The bodice had a plunging sweat heart neckline, with light frills around the neckline and a small rose off to the side. The skirt had consisted of light ruffles, each layer rimmed with a thin line of gold to accent her light blonde hair. She was so excited to wear it and each fitting, her smile grew wider and her last fitting she was in tears and she had fiercely hugged me and thanked me profusely.
The best part of the process has to be the beginning. It’s always a pleasure to watch the client’s reaction to a design that I drew out in front of them. They are so amazed and excited that they have finally found ‘it’. I had a client dropping by later today and to say I wasn’t excited would be a lie. The only thing I disliked about the new clients was the stares I got and the questioning looks that screamed, ‘can he really make it?”
Despite seeing examples of the dresses I’ve made, or having a friend recommend me, the one fact about me that is always left out is the lack of a right arm. There is always doubt in clients, one that I can only get rid of once I can get them in a dress.
I checked the clock; it should almost be time for my last client of the day. It was 3:54. I had about six minutes to work on this dress before I would be adding another dress to my workload. The current dress was rather easy; an A-line with a high neck and buttons all along the back. I didn’t have much to add on to the basic shape for the gown so I casually walked around the mannequin, scanning over any lumps or bubbles in the fabric. Finding none, I smiled warmly at the cloth, “beautiful.” I whispered to it, lightly dusting my fingers down the waist.
“Marco!” I heard Hanji’s voice ring out from downstairs, “Client soon!” I glanced up to the clock, 3:57. I briskly walk down the hallway and glance in on my mother. Every time I expect to see a woman who’s fading. I expect her to have glassy eyes and a sallow face; something that would make me want to turn away – the smell of death in the air. I still have a small hope that she’ll know me.
She’s sitting calmly in her rocking chair, her eyes closed as she rocks back and forth and she looks content. The knitting needles and yarn have fallen off her lap and her hands rest on each other. The freckles are scattered across her face and her once thick dark hair that is now thinning and gray has been pulled up into a small bun. Her skin is pallid, yet her freckles are still sitting on her skin, determined to remain there. She refuses to let them fade. She looks serene and I feel guilty when I clear my throat to alert her to my presence. Lacy slowly blinks open her eyes and blankly looked to me and I smiled, “Lacy, would you like to sit outside or are you alright here?”
“I’m ok, thank you.” She hummed, a thin smile pulling at her lips.
I stand in the doorway for a minute, watching as she closes her eyes again. The birds chirp outside and I can feel the breeze come through the open window. She begins to rock back and forth again. I can’t help but wonder what it is like – to forget who your own family is. The ones, who care and love you, all disappear and you have no memory of them. I suppose you don’t feel anything. I back out of the room, “Alright, call for help if you need any ok?” How long have I been calling her Lacy instead of Mom?
I run through the checklist of everything I need to do in my head, pursing my lips as I remember I still need to get in touch with my sister. Soon I won’t be able to take care of our mother on my own and I’ll need the extra hands. Lacy shifts her hand and sets it back in her lap. I don’t bother checking the time and I turn around and gallop down the stairs, swallowing the lump in my throat.
The last time I called her mom was maybe a few years ago. She had been so terrified of me that day. She had no idea she had a son. She kept asking for my dad. I hadn’t known how to tell her that Maddox died when I was seven.
I hear squabbling in the kitchen and round the corner to stare at my two employees barking at each other. “What is the problem here?” I ask, my voice catching in my throat momentarily. I can feel the look I get from Hanji and I focus on the tall brunette in my kitchen, carefully holding two tea cups and it’s all I can do to stay calm, pretend everything’s normal.
“I almost dropped the tea on the lace in here.” Bertholdt mentioned his voice shaking as he moved the tea cups around, grabbing the kettle off the stove and pouring it into the cups. Hanji grunts before scurrying out of the room, bundles of fabric gathered in her arms. I grab the plate of crackers sitting on the counter and take them to the parlor and set them on the table. I shift the pillows around on the couch before slipping back into the kitchen. I move around some of the silk laying around and put them into the former dining room. Fabric took up every square inch of this house. I had to make sure to keep everything sectioned away from the kitchen, but I had the tendency to take my work with me, literally everywhere. I shoved things around on the table before finally coming across my sketchbook of dress designs. 4:03.
“Tea’s ready,” Bertholdt informs me and I nod, walking back into the kitchen and letting him follow me with the tray into the parlor. He sets it down before disappearing into the back of the house. I glanced around the room, making sure everything was in order before I went in search of a pen and pencil. Our clients always thought we were a quiet business, only busy around spring or a showcase, but my employees always managed to make this place hectic. I rarely worked in silence. I don’t know how they never heard the racket inside when they walked up to the front doors.
Bert helps me try to shove the rest of the fabric laying around into the work room and he leaves me in the parlor to go into the dressing room to tidy up. I hear the tires outside and then the slam of the car doors. 4:10. I heard the bell chime through the house and I take another glance at the room before deeming it acceptable and scurry over to the door and pull it open, flashing a bright smile, “Welcome to Lavender’s bridal!”
The woman was tall and brunette and adorable, a carton of fries in her hand. I liked her immediately, she had a sense of comfort with herself and her clothes were bright, colorful and looked incredibly comfortable. “Sorry we’re a little late, I had trouble getting this brat out of his apartment,” she gestured behind her with a fry before popping it in her mouth. “I also had to stop for fries. Do you want one?” She held the carton out to me and raised an eyebrow.
I stepped aside and laughed lightly, shaking my head, “Please, come inside. I’m Marco.” I smiled, glancing towards the man following behind her and I felt all the breath leave my body as my eyes met with tawny ones. He froze in the doorway and his eyes flew wide. I forgot how to function momentarily, becoming suddenly very aware of how much space there was between us and how I was standing, how I was breathing – is it normal, was I being normal? Did I usually take this many breaths per minute? How often should I be blinking?
How are you supposed to be acting normal when Jean Kirschstein is standing in your foyer after seven years.
I suck in a thick, heavy breath and swallow, everything that’s scrabbling to spit out of my mouth slithers down my throat and I cough gently into a clenched fist.
Jean blinks and steps further inside and I shut the door behind him. It’s only been a few seconds but it feels like an eternity. Sasha is happily munching on her fries and eyeballing the place as if she doesn’t realize how thick and tense the atmosphere had gotten and I meet Jean’s eyes and I’m locked in a wordless stare. I can’t move and I feel every muscle going rigid. His gaze flickers and he’s not subtle enough to stop me from seeing how he lingers on the empty space by my right side.
It’s the kick I need to get moving again when his eyes return to mine with lightning speed, and he seems to be battling with himself over what to say; his face contorted with conflict. I twist on my heel and smile at Sasha, “Right in here,” I motion towards the parlor taking the fry she offers to me again. She gives the box of fries to Jean and wipes her hands on her jeans and follows my lead and sits down on the couch. Jean stares at me for a few seconds before sitting next to her and slouching back in the couch, slowly eating the fries, his eyes roaming over me.
Oh god. My face is burning. I can literally feel the temperature rising in my cheeks. I try to sneak a glance over at him and I catch his eyes instantly, noticing how his irises look gold when they reflect the suns light.
Breathe, you moron. I clear my throat clumsily, but my heart still bubbles and threatens to burst out of my chest. I try to train myself into what I normally do in these sessions with clients. Ask them about their wedding. How they met their fiancé. Get them in a sample dress.
I’m still malfunctioning when Sasha chimes in, “This is Jean by the way, I figured he would be a big boy and introduce himself; but I suppose he still is five inside.” Jean fixes her with a glare and then smiles sheepishly at me but before we get any other words in, Sasha’s talking again. “Have you seen him before? He’s that big professional dancer and part-time model.” She winks at me and I force a smile. She brings her hands up to his cheeks and pats them, ignoring his massive frown and grunts of displeasure, “I brought the grump with me ‘cause he’s kind of my stylist. Plus my boyfriend- fiancé- isn’t supposed to see the dress.” Her cheeks are flushed and she shoves a fry in her mouth unceremoniously.
“Nice to meet you, Jean,” I say politely, offering my left hand, ignoring the shift he goes through for the backwards shake. His grip is firm and he holds my gaze, swallowing thickly. I wish I could read him like I used to. He feels so far away and all I can wonder is what he’s thinking of me. Retrieving my hand I clench my fingers and I’m stumbling over what else I could say. What would I say?
Hanji and Berthodlt must have sensed the tension in the air and are remaining hidden for a reason. I gulp, peeling my eyes back towards Sasha and I can feel my eyes are wide, and I’m trying, I really am trying to be normal but this situation is something I had not been expecting for, really. I just hope I don’t look like a dear in headlines and that I’m hyperventilating even though I feel like I should have passed out by now.
“How did you and your fiancé meet?” I ask formally, twisting around in my chair for a more comfortable position. Talk to the bride. I feel stiff, my hand is gripping my knee and I’m basically hanging off the very edge of the cushion of my armchair. My feet are planted firmly on the floor as my only anchor and I resent everything about this moment for making things so awkward. I resent Jean for leaving all those years ago. I resent myself for letting it happen.
There’s a war going on inside my head and heart and I wonder how much Jean hurt when he left me. If he even hurt. I barely register when Sasha finally starts talking to me, “We’ve been with each other since kindergarten, and we started dating in my second year of College.”
I twisted my fingers away from the vice grip they had on my knee and smile, “nabbed him from the beginning?” I laughed and try not to focus on the way Jean’s cheeks start to turn prettily pink.
“Oh hell yeah, I met him and just decided he was mine.” She grins, clearly proud of herself, her eyes reflected her bright smile and I fought to keep my smile. Think happy thoughts.
“Where are you two getting married?”
“We’re getting married at his mother’s ranch. It’s out in the middle of nowhere and it’s going to be a small wedding with just the close family and friends but, we’re just a little broke so it was the easiest option.” She smiled giddily, everything about her lighting up when she spoke about it. She carried on about the little details she added to try and make it seem more less country because his mother was ‘too southern sometimes’. I felt I had lost her as she continued because Jean had jumped in to try and get the session back on track, his hands fidgeting around Sasha’s shoulders and then giving her a blank stare as she looked at him blandly then back to me, “Sorry, all we need now is the dress.” She smiled sweetly as if she hadn’t just been on a rant about mason jars for the last ten minutes.
“Is there any dress you’ve had in mind?” I don’t bother picking up my sketchbook yet and wait for her to respond but she sits there quietly and she takes a deep breath and I can feel the next rant coming before she heaves out a heavy, ‘no’. “Have you tried on any?”
“We were in a store for about half an hour trying on everything but nothing really-” she waved her arms around helplessly before she finally got the right word, “worked.” She still seemed to be in question over the right word and I could see Jean roll his eyes next to her. I quirked an eyebrow and chuckled softly, I was finally starting to feel in my element as we got closer to putting Sasha in a dress and the tension in the room seemed to be lifting.
“I’m assuming half an hour is an understatement?” I questioned Jean, my voice surprisingly steady for how my heart was deciding to beat madly against the inside of my ribs. Maybe I actually would pass out. It’s a possibility.
“Oh god, understatement of the fucking century,” He says, sliding forward in his seat and looking me dead in the eye and then over to Sasha. I realize his accent is gone and I don’t know if I’m thankful for it or devastated. I probably would’ve had to cancel the appointment right then and there if he still had the thick French accent he had all those years ago.
I laughed lightly and then smiled warmly at Sasha, “Would you like to try on some of the dresses that we have currently? It would help me to hear what you like and dislike about them, and then we can work from there, yes?”
Sasha seems to relax and she nods, her smile falling back into its place and I motioned for her to follow me and asked for Jean to wait there. We go over some other details as I lead Sasha back into the fitting room like what her budget was and when the wedding is and I was relieved to find Hanji inside, working on the veil for one of the dresses I was currently finishing up. “Sasha, this is my seamstress, Hanji, she’ll be helping you dress if that’s alright?”
Sasha nodded; her boisterous attitude all but disappeared. Sometimes getting the right dress turned into therapy. If they had had a rough time previously, it could stick a thorn in their side and make them insecure. I had seen it happen too many times where the bride-to-be burst into tears because she wasn’t in love with her dress and her wedding wasn’t ‘destined’ to be. It put a little more pressure on me, but it was always worth it to see them glowing with pride and excitement at the end. I pulled out several dresses for Sasha to try on and laid them out, letting her pick which one to try on first and then I slipped out, letting Hanji take over until Sasha was ready.
I strolled back into the parlor and leaned in the doorway, shoving my hand in my pocket and stared at the floor as Jean looked up. Out of my peripheral he looked tense, his fingers twisting and his thumbs pressing into his hands. He kept taking glances up at me and then back down to the table in front of him.
“Been a while,” I whisper. The air feels thick and clammy and his head snapped up, the tawny eyes boring into me as I pushed myself off the doorway and walked over to my armchair, heavily dropping myself down into it. I see him give me a once over which quickly turns into a thrice over and I bite back the grin that’s trying to curl across my face. “Six years?” I mutter, scratching at the tip of my nose.
You should look at him, Marco. You should just throw yourself under the bus and look at him.
“Seven.” He deadpanned. I blinked up at him, feeling my stomach drop at the look he’s giving me. I feel like somethings just lodged itself in my chest, some solid bundle of guilt and pain and fear that’s going to keep me from breathing normally again. I should be the one to hate him, I have every right, but I can’t and I realize I still want to hug him. I want to press my nose into his shoulder and breathe in the chocolate axe and cheap shampoo and never let him fade away again.
His eyes fall to the dog tags around my neck and the silence is starting to kill me. “How’s your mom.” He asks quietly and I can feel my heart jump up into my throat. It’s a simple question but I imagine my mother upstairs, listening to the birds chirping and her book resting in her lap. The picture perfect view of serenity, but she’s wasting away. Forgetting how much she used to love bugging me about the boy sitting on the couch now. I would never get to hear her joke about the ‘sex talk’. Jean leaned back casually on the couch, crossing his foot over his knee and I watch the movement, my throat going dry.
“F-fine,” I blubber, “she’s fine.” Where’s Hanji and Sasha. I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair, focusing on breathing. I feel like it’s turned abnormal and the more I focus on it, the more I can feel myself heating up. Jean’s watching me carefully and I glance down the hallway, unsure of where to look. He’s apparently worked on how impulsively he used to spit words out because he’s holding his tongue even though he looks like he’s about to burst at the seams.
Finally Sasha comes around the corner, pulling the dress up so she can walk out, and she’s practically shining. Jean perks up and shifts forward in the chair, and I stand up, guiding Sasha to stand in front of the full length mirror. The dress she’s wearing is one of the last one my mother designed before she started being unable to recognize me. I bite my lip and stand behind Sasha as she twists and turns to admire the dress.
“This is beautiful.” She hums, more animated since she got into the dress.
I smile and feel the surge of pride for my mother and gently prod her to elaborate, “What do you like and dislike about this dress?”
“Oh I don’t know.” She glances at me nervously before staring at it again, running her fingers across the plunging neckline. “I think I would like this to be not so much a deep-” she bites her lip, searching for words. I smile softly and nod, she twists again, showing off her backside and then a mischievous grin suddenly flits across her face and she turns to me, “I don’t want to show a lot from the front but what about the back?”
I cock an eyebrow and smile, a daring bride. Beautiful. I step closer and motion with my hand on her back, “how low do you want it to go?” My hand has dropped to the small of her back before she’s nodding and I grin, “Edgy. We can do that.”
She takes a moment longer before she smiles again, and then looks at Jean and then glances to me, her eyes flickering between us. “What do you think, Jean?”
“Stunning.” He smiles and I’m frozen to my spot, my blood running cold. His smile hasn’t changed and it’s still the toothy grin he used to give me all the time. They both glance at me and it takes me a few moments to realize that I’m not just glancing at him; I’m full-on staring. I rub my thumb across the pad of my fingers and I glance back up at Sasha.
“Did you have more to try on, or are we going to sketch?”
“I tried on the others, but I didn’t think I really liked them.” She twists again, her eyes scanning over her figure, “Could we add lace to it?” She looks to me, her eyes bright and excited.
“Of course,” I nod and help her walk back to the fitting room to change back. I don’t meet Jean’s eyes as I sit back in front of him and flip through my sketchbook to an empty page. I sketch out the shoulders and torso of a woman and leave the front and back bare, waiting for Sasha to return.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly, rubbing his palms along his jeans.
I watch the motion of his hands, this is his attempt at conversation, but it brings up the searing pain of the memories of the screams and the sudden blinding pain of my arm. I don’t remember how long I stayed silent, but I notice Jean’s nervous ticks quickly escalating. How he rubs the back of his neck and runs his fingers through his hair. His knee is bouncing out of control and his hands have tiny tremors in them as he rubs them along his jeans, “so dancer, huh?” I croak. He looks dumbstruck and then he lets out a titter.
“Yeah, never guessed that one coming eh, Bodt?” the side of his lip quirks up but it looks forced and more of a grimace.
I remember that morning seven years ago, the way we woke up, legs intertwined, and his arms wrapped tight around me, holding me so close. I had kissed his nose lightly and he had moaned, tugging me closer into his chest. It was a bittersweet moment and I can still feel the pain ripping through my chest at how he had tried to shrug off his feelings as he tugged on his pants. “We were drunk,” it still rattles me when I hear it. His eyebrows furrowed; his French accent was still thick then and his voice was gruff with sleep and sex. I can picture what he was like when we woke, how happy he was before I asked if he wanted coffee.
I can’t stop asking myself what I did wrong.
Sasha comes bounding out of the fitting room then and perches herself on the couch next to Jean, “Alright ladies, who died?” She smiles brightly and laughs easily and Jean and I force a laugh along with her. Jean’s still glancing over at me periodically and I pull out the pencil and ignore how my skin feels cold and clammy as I talk out my design to Sasha, trying not to focus on how Jean’s eyes are focused intently on me instead of the paper. The pencil scratches against the paper and I can see that I’m leaving prints in the paper. The lead snaps just as I finish it and I lean back slightly, checking it out before dropping the pen on the table. The dress has a light A-line skirt, a deep sweetheart neckline and remains backless. Lace appliques are put around the side by her hip, which branch out down the length of the skirt like vines and wrap around the small of her back and just underneath her breast.
She’s stunned into silence before she slowly reaches forward and the smile is so bright I fear I’ve been blinded momentarily. “Oh Marco, it’s absolutely stunning, I can’t wait until it’s done.”
I smile proudly, “thank you. If you talk to Hanji she can help schedule when to come in for a fitting and we’ll let you know if you can come in earlier.” She’s still staring at the design and flashing it in Jean’s face when I finish talking and she nods slowly. I laugh, “You can take that to Hanji if you’d like, she’ll need to see it anyways.”
She nods numbly again and stands up, slowly walking back into the fitting room, keeping her eyes pinned to the design. I stand up and grab the pencil, dropping it into the jar with the rest. I hear the couch groan as Jean stands up and I turn around towards him, crossing my arm and clutching my side. I see the flash of pity in his eyes and finally I fix a glare on him and he seems taken aback. You’re the last person I expected to pity me, Jean.
He swallows thickly and he rolls his shoulders back, a determined look flickering across his features, “Marco,” he chokes on my name. It feels like a punch in the gut and my chest aches. I’m not supposed to be the one in pain here. “Marco, I- I’m sorry.”
I grip my side tighter but I’m stuck in my spot and he takes a cautious step forward. His apology feels fake and so false despite how his voice shakes. It has no meaning when he’s still so far away from me. He’s aged and while he still looks the same, I can see the changes the years have put on him. His hair still refused to be styled in any other way so his sandy mop of hair lies unruly on his head and his tawny eyes are still as determined and fiery as ever. I know nothing about this man in front of me. All I know are of his horrible failed attempts to catch the cheerleaders eye at football games and how many marsh mellows he could shove in his mouth in our junior year.
His eyes mirror mine and we’re watching each other with nervousness, eyes wide and terrified. I shake my head and step back, “I can’t.” I murmur, unsure of what I’m referring to. I can’t forgive him yet, I won’t mess with his mixed signals again. There isn't much more I can take before I’ll break. I’ll shatter and there won’t be enough glue or tape to try and piece me back together.
“Marco,” he whispered, “what?” he’s frantically drawing straws and I wince, twisting away from the wall and walking towards the stairs. Away. I’m running away again. Was our distance my fault? I need to get away and envelop myself in the folds of lace and silk. I need to re-imagine myself functioning. I need to focus on my mother. I can’t deal with this. It’s my fault.
I can’t-
My head feels light. My whole body feels heavy and my vision starts to get fuzzy. I can barely make out the stairs and I reach forward but my arms feel too limp. Everything just looks like blocks of color. Not here. Not now. Jean’s voice fades out behind me and I feel weightless. I feel arms securely wrap around my torso and I feel like dead weight.
The next thing I know I’m lying on the floor, a figure leaning over me, his eyes filled with concern. Green eyes. Bertholdt. I should’ve noticed the signs earlier. My skin still feels clammy and I try to sit up but Bert presses a firm hand to my shoulder, “Don’t move yet, Marco.” He orders. “How are you feeling?” Where did he come from? My eyes flicker around the room and I notice Jean standing by the stairs, shooting glances up at me occasionally, his head turned down and he’s focused on his shoes. He looks as white as a sheet, his hands curled into fists by his sides. Sasha and Hanji come out of the fitting room and I hold back my groan.
“I’m fine. Just peachy,” I snap, slowly pushing myself up. I glare at Bert and plead with him silently to let me up. He leans forward and wraps an arm underneath my armpit and lifts me up, guiding me towards a nearby chair and making me sit down. I realize my mistake of moving too quickly and groan, leaning forward as my vision swims again. I can hear Sasha say she has to leave and to thank me for the design. Jean’s voice doesn't sound until the door swings open and I hear words that resemble my contact information and a cold chill runs down my spine.
I can feel eyes on me and I briefly look up and my eyes catch Jeans and I feel numb. He looks devastated. He gives me a weak smile and ducks out of the door, saying goodbye to Hanji. I think he says goodbye to me as well but my head is swimming. I can see the car driving out of the driveway and my chest tightens.
I got to watch him leave me again.
“What did he say?” I speak up, taking deep breaths and finally lifting my head slowly, Bert watches me carefully before slipping away into the kitchen.
Hanji looks back to me, confused and walks over, “He wanted to get your number so I gave him your number and the house number. Should I have given him your email?” She looks devious and I give her a blank stare before I shake my head and lean forward again, pressing my forehead into my palms, hoping to get rid of how light headed I still feel.
“No you did fine.”
Hanji hums with pleasure and waits for a moment before Berthodlt returns with a glass of water and then she slips back into the fitting room, turning the soft music back on and continuing her work on the veil most likely. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Bert asked, prying my hand away to set the water in it. I glance up at him and notice how nervous he looks. The sweat is evident on his forehead and I nod curtly. Bert narrows his eyes and then slides back on the floor, resting against the staircase.
The house is quiet for a few moments except for the sound of the birds chirping and the sound of a TV turned on in the bedroom upstairs. Bert must have been with Lacy. I take a couple sips of water and close my eyes, trying to focus on the soft voices from the fitting room and not to the harsh ringing in my ears.
“Marco?” Bert speaks up softly, as if he was worried he’d startle me. “Do you want me to call anyone? I have to leave soon.” I blink my eyes open and glance at him, taking more sips of the water. “I promised Reiner I would pick him up from the station.” Bert leans forward from his position on the floor, folding his gangly legs in front of him. I smile weakly and shake my head in small increments.
“No I’ll be alright. I’ll call you later if it will make you feel better.” Bertholdt smiles and sits there for a moment before pulling out his phone and announcing he had to leave. He untwists his legs and stands up, taking my glass and refilling it before giving me a once over before deeming me healthy and slips into the fitting room to talk to Hanji before saying his goodbyes and slipping out the front door.
I grabbed a cup of tea and sat outside for a moment, hearing the soft voices inside from ‘I love Lucy’ and feeling the cool breeze brush my skin. My mom used to always tell me stories about how she watched that show with my father and he would always try to act out an ‘I love lacy’ show. Apparently I used to star in them all the time. There were numerous pictures in my mama’s old office of me in an oversized suit pretending to be Ricky.
The stars are out tonight. They’re usually out – the summer skies are always so clear in Trost – but tonight I actually take time to look at them. I try to pick out all the constellations I remember from college. Jean used to always try and point out the constellations that matched most of my freckles. He’d run inside and come back with a marker and connect my freckles together with careful lines, giving them their own names. They never were very eloquent names, but he wouldn’t ever let me argue about them.
He had also claimed he could count all my freckles in one night too.
He got in the forties before he fell asleep, curled on my side, his hand resting on my hip where a pool of freckles laid, the constellation he had named, ‘cluster fuck minor’. His fingers had been spread out on my skin, the marker off to the side in the grass. My mother had found us in the morning, lying in the grass, curled around each other. She hadn’t said a word when I woke up, wide eyed and frantic. She just smiled and set the two cups of coffee down on the table and walked back inside, humming.
She always wanted us to be a couple. I think her and Harriot always planned our wedding when they thought we wouldn’t notice. They were never discreet with their wishes for us to date and whenever mama had a chance, she would call over Harriot and they would enjoy their afternoon tea while talking over how to trick us into dating. They always made sure that we were in earshot. Or they just had very, very poor planning.
Our moms stayed in contact when we went to college, but they never knew what happened between us and I can’t stop feeling guilty because of it. I could never tell my mom anything about my life anymore. All I’d get back in return is a blank and confused look.
I was a stranger to her.
The last time I had talked to Jean’s mom was a few years after Lacy had been diagnosed. Harriet hadn’t taken it very well and had told me through her broken sobs that if I ever needed help to let her or Jean know. I still had yet to ring her.
I heard the muted ringing of the landline inside and I rolled myself out of the chair, careful not to spill any of the now cold tea on me. I slipped through the open door and set the tea down, quickly grabbing the phone, “Hello, Lavenders Bridal.” The line is quiet for a minute and I frown, leaning against the counter debating about speaking up again when a voice finally speaks up.
“Marco?” His voice is thick and surprisingly low.
“J-jean?” I stammer, my grip around the phone tightening.
“A-are you alright?” He sounds nervous. His voice is quivering, my knuckles turn white from how hard I’m clutching the phone and I start to focus on my breathing. I sit down in a chair, focusing on the grain of the table.
“I’m fine. Berthodlt is making sure of it.” I joke. Bert had already called me in the time I was outside to ask me how I was doing. I could also hear Hanji upstairs, chatting animatedly to my mother about Sawney and Bean, her two gerbils and Lacy’s interested, muffled responses even though Hanji was interrupting her ‘I love Lucy’ watching.
There was a relieved sigh, “good,” I can almost imagine the genuine smile on his face and my chest aches. It shouldn’t hurt this much to talk to an old friend.
“Did you need anything, Jean?” My question sounded cold and I grimaced at my own voice. The silence overwhelms me for a moment and I fear he’s hung up but then I hear a muttered curse.
“Eur, are y-you-” he cuts off and then I hear him take a heavy breath, “areyoufreeforcoffeetomorrow?” he spits out in a jumble of word vomit and I bite my lip to refrain the chuckles that dare to spill out.
“Yeah, I can be. What time?” I’m thankful it doesn’t come out too quickly because my chest is pounding, my heart trying to bust out of my rib cage.
He seems flustered. He hadn’t expected that. I can hear his spluttering mumbles of curses. I hardly realize I’m grinning as he answers, “H-how about two?”
“Sounds good,” I hum, impressed with how well I’m managing keeping my composure. “Hanji gave you my number yeah?” There’s a tiny hum of acknowledgment on the other side and I chuckle, “Ok, just tell me where and I’ll meet you there.” Another hum, “See you tomorrow Jean, good night.”
“Yeah, bonne nuit, Marco.”
Fuck. I feel weak in the knees. I remember how whenever he got so nervous or angry he slipped into phases where all he spoke was French. I had started to learn the language to try and figure out what he was saying. We used to say goodnight in French all the time. I expect the line to fall flat but it never does and I almost hang up the phone, but I catch a sharp hiss on the other end, “Jean? Are you still there?”
“Shit-fu- yes. I, euh, no. Night ba-” he curses loudly again and then the line dies off. I snort and hang up the phone, taking deep breaths to calm my nerves. I pick up the cup of tea in the sink and run water in it, rinsing it out and then maneuver it into the dishwasher. I pull out my phone and pocket it again upon seeing the lack of any new messages and then I hear Hanji walking down the stairs and I stroll out of the kitchen to meet her at the foot of the stairs.
“How is she?” I ask. My voice sounds depleted; I hadn’t realized I was so tired. My body feels heavy and I want nothing more than to lie down in my bed now and sleep for years.
“She’s in bed, she wanted to read but then she fell asleep before I even got the book to her.” Hanji smiled the book was still in her hand. “I didn’t know she liked McCarthy.”
I laughed sharply, “She doesn’t. It bothered her how he never used quotations.” I took the book from her hands and twisted it around to read the back. “Thank you Hanji. I’m sure she appreciates the help. I sure do.”
Hanji smiled and ruffled a hand through my hair, “You let me know if you need any more help tonight Kiddo.”
“Thanks Hanji.” I said softly, rocking away from her touch and shaking my head to try and fix my hair. I set the book down and walked with her to the door. She grabbed her keys and bid me goodnight, walking outside to her car. I slowly shut the door and trudged up the stairs up to my room, leaving the door open in case Lacy called.
I slipped under the covers and curled around in them, facing away from the cold empty space next to me. The house was silent except for the soft wails of the wind and the crickets singing outside.