Work Text:
staystitch (n.) - a single line of stitching intended to stabilize the fabric before sewing.
“Can I help you?” The woman is smiling politely at Dieter, but her confusion is apparent.
“I’m here for the class.”
“The class?” Her lifted brows shadow lines onto her forehead. “You’re here for the class?”
“Yeah.” Dieter digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a fistful of flyers, folded into a thick bundle. He shuffles through them until he finds the right one, then holds it up. “The sewing class.”
“Oh.” She takes the paper, eyes skimming over it. She tilts it back towards him, her finger tracing a line of the print. “Did you see this part? ‘Sew Your First Skirt’?
He shrugs, shoving the rest of the wadded-up flyers back into his pocket. “I don’t care what we make.”
“Well, okay.” Her smile shifts into something that looks a little more genuine, her cheeks rounding. “Then let’s go make your first skirt.”
Dieter had been sober for thirty-nine days when his sponsor Maury told him he needed to – quote – get the hell out of the damn house.
“You can’t stay holed up in there forever, Bravo.” Maury poured a third creamer into his Styrofoam cup of coffee and squinted at Dieter through the steam as he stirred. “Boredom’ll do you in. Find a damn hobby.”
So after the meeting, Dieter had beelined from the church basement where his AA group met straight to the coffee shop down the street. He hadn’t drank much coffee before he got sober, but now he swigged it nonstop. And this place had good coffee – plus baristas who were decent at pretending not to recognize him – but he wasn’t there for either today.
He was there for the community bulletin board. It took up the wall nearest the bathroom and was absolutely jampacked with flyers and announcements. He stood in front of it and read it from top to bottom, stoically removing every single flyer that advertised a class of any kind. By the time he was done, the board was checkerboarded with empty patches of cork amid advertisements for dogwalkers and work-from-home scams.
On day forty-one he took an ASL class and managed not to make a single joke about being good with his fingers.
On day forty-two he learned CPR – his certificate was Scotch-taped to his bathroom mirror and the screenplay the instructor had given him was buried in his recycling bin.
He learned to make vegetarian black bean soup at the organic food co-op on day forty-three – the leftovers were in two quart-sized Mason jars in his fridge, behind last night’s Chinese takeout.
Day forty-four was the Holy Strollers. He wasn’t sure what he expected from a group of Christian mall-walkers, but he did like the tiny Bible Reverend Billy had given him; it was exactly the right size to keep his nightstand from wobbling.
And now on day forty-five? A sewing class at the East Village Creative Reuse Center. He’d never been to this place before. Which makes sense: he’s pretty sure it didn’t exist when 18-year-old Dieter bolted from this midwestern city for Hollywood. He didn’t plan to ever come back here, but he also hadn’t planned to blow up his life nearly thirty years later.
The place feels cozy but crowded: shelves stacked with folded fabric and baskets of yarn, tables heaped with canvases and tubes of paint, bins stuffed with ribbons and sequins, buttons and beads. And at the very back, three folding tables are neatly arranged in a U-shape. There are two chairs at each table. Of the six, only one is still empty.
Dieter slides into it, next to a teen girl whose mouth drops open in recognition. He keeps his gaze forward, leaning into his forearms on the table as the woman from earlier strides to the center of the U.
“I’m so glad you all could make it tonight.” She smiles brightly at each student in turn, her hands pressed together in front of her chest – her nice chest, Dieter can’t help but notice. “I’m Abigail Truett and I’ll be your instructor. Over the next four weeks, we’ll design, draft, and sew a skirt just for you. It’s going to be really fun!”
Dieter’s not sure if he believes that. More fun than the bean soup, maybe. But he’s had some really fun evenings in his life and they almost always involved removing clothes instead of adding some.
Oh, well.
“Sir?” Shit. He realizes the woman – Abigail – is staring right at him. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t.” He angles his thumb at the girl next to him. “She was talking.”
He hears the teen’s gasp and has to smother his grin.
“I said everyone needs to find a partner to take their measurements, but I’ll be yours. Since you’re the only –” he swears the instructor’s eyebrow arches the tiniest bit – “gentleman here.”
“Sure.” He remembers the smile he used the time he got whats-her-name to come home from the Vanity Fair party with him and he tries for that one now. “You can measure me.”
The room fills with buzzing chatter as the other students huddle together, taking turns with the measuring tapes that are scattered on the tables.
“Sir, if you’ll come over here.” The instructor is waving Dieter to one side of the space, far from the other students. She has a measuring tape – bright flamingo pink – draped around her neck that she slides off with a brisk tug.
“Dieter.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not sir. You can call me Dieter.”
“Oh, okay.” She passes the measuring tape into her left hand and holds out her right. “I’m Abby.”
Her hand is strong and warm – a solid, capable hand. He thinks he’d like to keep holding it. It feels nice.
But she slides it from his grip. “Now, Dieter, if you don’t want to make a skirt, I’d be happy to help you make something else.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for your first project, maybe a pillowcase? Or a tote bag?”
“People make pillowcases?”
“Yes, people make pillowcases.” She keeps pulling the measuring tape through the circle of her thumb and pointer, and Dieter is having a hard time not staring at that.
“Would you need to measure me?”
She smirks. “Not for a pillowcase.”
“Then a skirt’s fine.” He thinks he might be flirting. He’s not sure the last time he flirted, not in a way that didn’t feel ironic or transactional. And he’s beginning to think this woman either doesn’t know who he is or simply doesn’t care. Not that it matters: either of those would be welcome.
“If that’s what you want.” Abby steps closer to him, her tone businesslike, but he can see the crinkles of amusement at the corners of her eyes. He notices there are sparks of gold in her irises, warm like her skin, even under these sickly fluorescent lights. “Raise your arms.”
He does, straight over head, the hem of his t-shirt lifting enough to show a sliver of his belly. She reaches around his waist, circling him with the measuring tape. As she pulls it snug, her knuckles barely graze his skin.
“Thirty-four.” She lets the tape loosen and it falls limp at her side as she steps back. “We can skip the hip measurement.”
“Do I get to measure you now?”
Her cheek dimples as she turns to walk away. “Nice try.”
---
“You coming to dinner with us, Derek?”
Dieter’s been at Aqua Aerobics for five straight days – the lone male and the only student who doesn’t remember the Great Depression – but his classmates still haven’t learned his name.
“Can’t, Hazel.” He wraps his towel around his hair in a towering turban and gives her his best boy-next-door grin. “I’ve got sewing class tonight.”
It’s true – he does. But also it’s only four-thirty. He may be sober but he’s not eighty.
---
“You came back.” Abby’s smile seems genuine when he strolls into the store fifteen minutes early.
He shifts his sunglasses down his nose to peer at her over the top. “Gotta finish my skirt.”
“Well, this week –” she moves from table to table, placing rulers and markers on top of the thin paper spread out at each station – “we’re only making our patterns.”
“More measuring?” He arches an eyebrow and feels a fizz of satisfaction when she laughs.
“Nope.” She stops in front of him, holding out one of the markers. “Just math.”
He frowns dramatically as he takes it. “I don’t like math.”
“Don’t worry.” She brushes past him, waving at the other students who have started streaming in. He catches the scent of her perfume – clean and sweet. “I’ll help you.”
She does, too. Even in the classroom full of other students, she somehow manages to be right at Dieter’s elbow whenever he gets stuck.
“Okay, so for this part—” Abby leans over his shoulder, her fingertip pointing at the top of his skirt pattern – “you can’t use a straight ruler. We’ll use the French curve.”
“The French curve?” He turns to look at her as she hovers next to him. There’s a freckle high on her cheekbone he hasn’t noticed before. No, not a freckle – what’s the right name? A beauty mark. That’s right. That’s what it is.
“The French curve.” She picks up a ruler that has a swooping edge and places it on the paper, squinting as she slides it to connect to the points. “There. See how it makes a nice, smooth curve?”
He’s still looking at the beauty mark. “It’s pretty.”
Abby turns to grin at him. “I think so, too! Nice to meet another fan of the French curve.”
He considers telling her he’s a fan of a lot of French things, but she looks so pleased he can’t. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.” She pats him on the arm as she turns to walk away. “You’re doing great.”
Class is over too quickly. It seems like in no time at all, Abby is moving from table to table, gathering up the supplies. “Next week we’ll finally start sewing! We’ll put together the muslins you cut out tonight and check our fits, and then pick out your fabrics for your skirt. Does anyone have questions?”
Dieter raises his hand, and she smiles softly at him. “You don’t have to raise your hand, Dieter.”
“Oh.” He lowers his hand to point at the single sewing machine on the table he shares with Kylie the still-gawking teenager. “Are we going to have more sewing machines?”
Abby’s shoulders drop just enough Dieter’s sorry he asked. “Well, we rely on donations and we only have these three. But don’t worry. We’ll make it work.”
---
“No new relationships for the first year, Bravo.” Maury is on his second cup of coffee and the meeting hasn’t even started.
“I know.” Dieter swipes his finger through the frosting on the slice of cake he’s cradling on a napkin. It’s Addison’s one-year today and she’d requested red velvet with cream cheese.
“Do you?” Maury’s voice is harmless, but his blue eyes behind his Coke-bottle glasses are razor-sharp. “Because you keep talking about this sewing teacher.”
“You’re the one that said I should find a hobby.”
“Sleeping with your sewing teacher isn’t a hobby.”
Dieter scowls, slurping the sweet white frosting from his fingertip. “I’m not sleeping with her.”
“Welp, just make sure—” Maury pours another cup from the half-full pot – “that you don’t try to.”
---
“Oh, my.”
Dieter’s early again this week, but it takes him a moment to realize that’s not why Abby’s surprised.
He rests his hands on his hips and meets her gaze. “You said we were supposed to wear bike shorts tonight.”
“I suggested –” she’s grinning from ear to ear, and he realizes he doesn’t care if she’s laughing at him or with him, because he just likes to see her smile – “that everyone wear bike shorts under their clothes. So they could try on the muslins and not feel uncomfortable as we fit them.”
He shrugs. “I don’t like to wear clothes under other clothes.”
“Well, that’s possibly too much information, Dieter.” Abby tilts her head to the side, eyes scanning quickly over him. “Did you want to untuck your t-shirt?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Do you think I should?”
“Maybe for Kylie’s sake.”
He returns her grin as he yanks the hem of his thrift-store tee from the waistband of his snug spandex shorts. “Better?”
“That’d depend on who you ask.” Her eyebrows flit up for a second, long enough for Dieter to feel the pleasant feeling again: flirting, just because. But she’s already moving away, waving for him to follow. “I need to show you something.”
Abby stops at the back of the room, pointing to tables; instead of the three sewing machines, there are now six. “Do you know anything about this?”
He may not be Sidney Poitier, but he can give a performance when he wants to. “Know anything about what?”
But he definitely knows. He’d spent two hours after Aqua Aerobics yesterday with Hazel and Ida, who’d only been too excited to help when he asked them what they knew about sewing machines. They’d led him to a tiny shop situated between a health food store and a dog groomer and had done all the talking for him when the whiskered elderly man appeared behind the counter.
Dieter knew Abby wouldn’t want new machines; even after only two weeks of knowing her, he’d learned she liked things with history: things that could be saved. The old man excitedly led them to the back where he showed off refurbished machines: classics, he said, and Hazel and Ida agreed. The shop owner had been so pleased to send these three machines back into service that he didn’t even blink at Dieter’s request that they be delivered here as anonymous donations.
Abby lifts her chin, eyes narrowing as she looks at him. “Not you?”
Dieter thinks about Step Four: a searching and fearless moral inventory. He thinks maybe he doesn’t want to be a person who lies anymore.
He nods. “It was me.”
A smile breaks across her face. “They’re beautiful. That was really kind of you.”
He feels flushed and pleased – and relieved that telling the truth has made her look at him like this. “I thought you’d want older ones? Not something new.”
She blinks slowly at him, nodding. “Everything deserves a second chance.”
---
“Abby?” He aims for the voice he used in Macbeth, the one with timbre and depth, and thinks he might have overdone it when all the other students turn to stare at him. Oh, well. At least it worked: he’s got her attention. “I need help.”
She’s there quickly – the scent of her soap is familiar now, as familiar as the way her eyebrows knit together as she casts an appraising eye over his muslin. “Is it the waist?”
He nods, letting go of the tea-colored fabric he’s holding up in his fist. It drops, slipping down to tenuously cling to his hips. “Too big.”
“Easy fix.” She crouches in front of him then, her fingers pinching at the side seams. “Normally we’d take in some at the darts in the back, but you don’t really need darts in the back.”
“Did you just say I have a flat ass?”
“Not a good idea to make me laugh when I’m holding these.” She slips a fine, silver pin into the gathered fabric on one side and then repeats the maneuver for the other. “There. Does that feel better?”
He swishes his hips side to side, and then in a sweeping circle. “Feels like it’ll stay up.”
“Well, that’s the bare minimum we can hope for.” She’s grinning at him from waist-level and he suddenly realizes Maury might be right; maybe he does want to sleep with her. “But is it comfortable? Not too tight?”
“Feels good.” He offers her his hand. When she takes it, he something familiar courses through him: a sort of liquid warmth spreading from his head to his toes. But no hangover with this one. He gently pulls her to standing; her hand stays in his a beat longer than it has to.
“Now the fun part. Let’s pick out your fabric.”
He chooses a corduroy – eggplant purple – and doesn’t even crack a smile when Abby asks if he’s sure he likes the ribbed texture. She helps him pick out a second fabric, too, for lining the waistband: she calls the small piece of soft cotton a “ditsy floral print,” her eyes lighting up.
“One of my favorite things –” she lowers her voice, tilting her head towards him like she’s confessing – “is hiding something special on the inside of the things I make. Something pretty and unexpected.”
Dieter wants to tell her that he thinks she is both pretty and unexpected as well. But he doesn’t.
Instead he nods. “Only for you.”
“Or for anyone else lucky enough to see it.” Her eyes meet his as a new kind of smile pulls at her cheeks. She reaches out her hand and he holds his breath, but she only gives his shoulder a gentle nudge. “Now go cut out your pattern.”
---
There is only one cutting mat; Dieter keeps letting others ahead of him in line, until class is over and his fabric remains untouched.
“Abby?” His voice sounds overly loud in the quickly-emptying room. “I didn’t get mine cut out.”
“Oh, shoot.” She glances at the clock on the wall, frowning. “I thought I’d given us enough time.”
“Kylie was just really slow.”
Fuck – he didn’t realize Kylie was still here until he hears her snort. Somewhere in the last three weeks she’d moved from being enthralled with him to being annoyed by him and he's glad. Better than her sneaking pics of him for her social media. “Sorry, Kylie.”
“Whatever.” She heaves her tote bag onto her shoulder and flounces out.
“I hate to ask you to stay, but –” Abby chews the edge of her lip – “if you have twenty minutes I can help you get that done so you won’t fall behind?”
“Twenty?” He has hours – so many hours – to fill every night. He’d be happy to stay here until daybreak.
“Maybe less.” She gives him a lopsided grin. “If you’re okay with losing a fingertip or two.”
It ends up being closer to an hour – Dieter can be surprisingly incompetent when he needs to be. But she’s patient with every question, never rushing him, so when she finally asks him a question? He doesn’t mind answering it.
“Okay, now snip these, just a tiny bit.” She points to the marks on the edges of the pattern pieces, nodding as he does it. “Perfect. So, what made you want to learn to sew?”
He wonders which answer wouldn’t scare her off: wouldn’t make her eyes dim a little as she looks at him, wouldn’t make her think of him as broken or damaged or dangerous.
But Step Five: admit wrongdoings.
“My sponsor said I needed a hobby.”
Her chin lifts just a little, and she blinks quickly. “Your sponsor?”
“For AA.” Dieter picks an imaginary piece of lint off the corduroy, playing-pretend so as not to look at her. “I’ve been sober for fifty-nine days.”
“Oh.” He isn’t ready to look at her. “Can I tell you something?”
That does it. He lifts his eyes to her face. “What?”
“You picked –” she taps her fingers on the fabric spread out in front of him – “the best hobby.”
She looks…fine. More than fine, really? She looks pleased.
“This wasn’t the first thing I tried.”
“Oh? What was first?”
He lists them for her: ASL and CPR and the cooking class and Aqua Aerobics and crocheting and birdwatching and something called Python that he thought was going to be with snakes but was actually with computers. By the time he’s finished the list, she’s grinning.
“But this has been the best one, right?” Her smile tells him she expects a yes.
“I don’t know.” He shapes his face into an expression of careful thought. “Goldie showed me how to crochet a scarf in only two hours.”
Abby lifts an eyebrow. “The scarf you wore last week?”
He nods.
“You should get your money back.”
The laugh that breaks out of him is real, from deep in his belly – makes his cheeks almost hurt. And the way she’s looking at him makes him feel light as air, plus a little like he could cry. That’s a thing he’s been learning here in recovery: he’s feeling a lot more emotions and sometimes that more happens all at once.
He clears his throat, and blinks hard. “Your class is my favorite.”
“Good.” She gathers the scissors, the remnants of fabric, the pattern weights, and he feels the window of time with her begin to close. “Because we have another week together and you still need my help.”
---
“Bravo, have you ever considered –” Maury drums his fingers on the tabletop between them, a one-two-three-four that sends ripples across the tops of their coffee cups – “not always getting what you want?”
Dieter tries for devil-may-care nonchalance. “That’s for people who can’t get what they want.”
He’s made Maury laugh exactly zero times in the last two months, so no part of him is surprised that his streak remains unbroken.
“You gotta figure out your own stuff first, or else you’re just handing it off to someone.” Maury’s tapping changes pattern: shave-and-a-haircut means their time is winding down. “If you like this woman? Like her enough to wait.”
---
He can’t get the fucking thread through the fucking needle, and it’s starting to piss him off.
Kylie managed it right away, her thread slipping right through the eye; she’s already slipstitching her waistband facing, a smug smile on her face.
“Fuck.” The curse is under his breath – barely a whisper – but Abby’s head still snaps up. Her eyebrows are lifted: a question. He points to the needle in his fumbling fingers with a frown. She nods, striding towards him.
“So, here’s your problem.” She lifts her reading glasses from the collar of her blouse and holds them out to him. “Old eyes.”
He takes the glasses – the plastic earpiece is warm from where it’s been resting against her skin. “My eyes are fine.”
“Put those on and say that to me again.” Her hand is resting on her hip as she smiles at him.
He slides the glasses on and – shit. The tiny eye of the needle is suddenly visible; he slides the thread through with ease.
She winks at him: it’s broad, her cheek lifting her mouth into a half-smile. “Told you.”
“Can I keep these?”
She lifts the glasses from his face, her fingertips brushing over his temples with a softness that makes him want to close his eyes and ask her to do it over and over. “Nope. But let me know if you need to borrow them again.”
His stitches aren’t perfect – in some places the fabric pulls and puckers – but he’s still pretty damned impressed with himself when he ties the final knot. He realizes there are only two students left in the classroom. Everyone had left as they’d finished: their new skirts tucked into a bag, their folded pattern pieces stacked neatly on top.
He waits for the other woman to finish, pretending he’s still working. He finally looks up when he hears the front doorbell jangle announcing her departure.
“All done.” He holds up the completed skirt for Abby’s appraisal.
She brushes her finger over the waistband, gives the zipper a tug, pinches the fold of the hem between her fingers. “Nice work. Did you want to model it for me?”
He thinks she’s joking. But he’s not sure. “Did you want me to?”
“Depends.” With her hands, she lifts herself to sitting on the table, crossing her ankles and letting her feet swing. “What’s under those basketball shorts?”
He glances down at the shiny polyester shorts. “Me.”
“Then we should probably skip the fashion show.” She nods towards the skirt. “Did you like making it?”
He thinks about this. “I liked coming here every week.”
“That’s good enough for me.” She’s leaning back into her palms: her eyes are soft and there’s this little smile on her lips and everything about this moment tells him he should kiss her. Not just that he should, but that she’d welcome it, and he really really really wants to kiss her. But he can’t forget what Maury said.
Because he does like her, and yeah: more than enough to wait.
“You know –” she draws the words out, her head tilting – “I teach a new class every month.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“What’s next month?” He rocks onto his toes, pushing his hands into his pockets as something hopeful zips beneath his skin.
“Next month we’re making shirts.”
“I wear shirts.”
“I’ve noticed.” She’s smiling. He thinks she might understand.
“Then I’ll be back.”
---
The jacket is made of crimson velvet, the smooth nap nearly shimmering in the evening light. His trousers are in a worsted wool, smoky charcoal gray; he’s particularly proud of the hems that he spent a full hour carefully blindstitching. The batiste of his shirt feels crisp and cool against his skin as he waits on the sidewalk, hands tapping against his thighs.
Finally, Abby comes out of the store, smiling slyly over her shoulder at Dieter as she locks the front door.
“Did you wear everything you’ve made in the last ten months?”
“Not everything.” He crooks his elbow and offers her his arm, grinning as she slides her hand through. “Skirt doesn’t go with this jacket.”
“Too bad.” She gives his arm a squeeze as they walk towards his car. “You’ve got nice legs.”
“You do, too.” He lets his eyes move over her from head to toe, taking her in. “I like that dress.”
“Wait ‘til you see the facings.”
“Think I’ll get to?” He opens the car door, and she pauses, smiling up at him.
She reaches to rest her palm on his jaw, then lifts onto her toes to kiss him on the cheek.
“I can almost guarantee it.”