by Julia London
“Yeah, but you don’t have trolls,” he said quietly.
“You know what? You did that to yourself. I’m not saying the Internet is fair or there aren’t evil beings parading as humans online, but you responded. You fed them red meat. And now you have to forget them, Victor. You know why? Because in six weeks, they will have moved on to the next victim and won’t remember your name. But where are you going to be then? Nowhere! Because you are too chicken to show your work.”
“Don’t yell at me,” he complained. “I know I let you down.”
He sounded like a kid. Carly drew a deep breath. “Okay. I’m about to say something in the kindest way I know how right now. You need to grow the fuck up. Life is a lot of hard work and sometimes all that hard work pays off and sometimes it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try.” She was suddenly reminded of a poster that hung in her high school gym. She and her cross-country teammates saw it every time they went out to the track. “Victory belongs to those who believe it the most and the longest,” she said now, repeating the poster. “Your mom and I believe it. Don’t you? Haven’t you believed the longest of anyone? Are you going to stop now because some nameless cretins got under your skin? You have a great collection and you’re so talented, and there are hundreds, thousands, who would kill to be in your shoes, and who are never going to have an opportunity like this, and you are throwing it away because you’re scared. You know who would really love an opportunity like this? Me. Me, Victor! I have worked so hard to get this for you! So get your ass on a plane and get to New York. Because if you don’t, there is no helping you. This is your shot at victory!”
She sounded like her old cross-country coach. She hung up before Victor could utter one more whine at her. And then she buried her face in Naomi’s pillow and cried. With regret, with exhaustion, with loss. This was it for her. She had nothing—no job, no clients. She had done everything right, and she had nothing to show for it.
Carly apparently cried herself to sleep. She never heard Naomi come in. She never heard her leave for work. She was awakened by the ping of a text. Her eyes were puffy, and she groggily groped for her phone. The text was from Victor.
Like . . . where are we supposed to go.
With a shout, she sat up. Victor was in New York.
* * *
Later, when Naomi and her roommates asked how Victor’s show went, Carly said it was great, but in truth, it was all a big blur.
They had worked all day Thursday and through the night. Friday morning, the place was a madhouse. There were models and makeup artists, hairstylists and seamstresses. People were ironing, people were rushing around looking for shoes or bags or the little bows that were supposed to go in someone’s hair.
Victor had found an inner well of strength. He was everywhere, perfecting the garments up to the last minute. There was a glitch with the sound, and Carly thought that was it, finally the death knell to this thing. But the sound guy got it up and running just in time. The show started fifteen minutes late, but the room was full, and the lights went down, and on a big screen at the back of the runway, a summer sky appeared with birds flying across.
When the music started, the first model appeared wearing the red suit. She had stark red eye shadow and a stick of hair about a foot long that stood straight up from her crown. The next piece was white, with the long sleeves Carly had worn.
Carly was impressed and relieved and happy, and also numb as Victor came out for the last walk down the runway when all seven pieces had been shown. She knew that for him, it wasn’t as much a fashion victory as it was a personal accomplishment, and he was beaming. He was proud of himself.
There was a lot of applause when the show was over, and then a crush of people waiting for a chance to tell Victor he was great. Some of his old cast members for Project Runway had come, and she watched him laugh and talk with them. He seemed like a different person. As if the weight of his show had been lifted from him at last.
After the show, Carly and June stood propped up against the same wall, June looking as exhausted as Carly felt. “I can’t believe you did it,” June said.
“What? I didn’t do it. You did it. Victor did it.”
“No, you did this, Carly. You got that boy off his ass. I don’t know how you did it, but that was all you. Let’s just hope it takes.” She pushed away and walked to where Victor was now talking to reporters. When he saw his mother, he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
Carly smiled. She supposed she ought to be in there, spinning the story just right. But she was too tired to think. She didn’t know where she went from here with Victor, or if she wanted to go with him at all. He didn’t pay her much, and even if he was her only client, she wasn’t sure it was worth the anxiety.
She wanted to call Max and tell him about her Calvin Klein. She wanted to tell him about this entire awful week. She wanted to know how his presentation went. She took her phone out and was remembering that he’d be in class just now when she became aware of someone sidling up to her. When she glanced to her left, she started. Carly would know that face anywhere—Ramona McNeil was as formidable in person as she was on the phone. She had a folder and a phone in one hand, a large coffee in the other, and a pair of eyeglasses perched on top of her head. Carly shoved away from the wall. “Oh my God, Ms. McNeil,” she said, and extended her hand.
“My hands are full.”
“Right,” Carly said, and dropped her hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
“So you’re Carly Kennedy of Carly Kennedy Public Relations?”
“Yes!” Carly said, smiling.
Ramona slipped a folder under her arm then yanked her glasses down to her nose to give Carly a good once-over. She looked to be around sixty-five or maybe seventy. She was impeccably dressed in a Chanel suit and flawless makeup, including the eyeliner that swooped out from the corners of her eyes. And she’d had so much Botox that her expression was completely unreadable.
“What did you think of the show?” Carly asked.
Ramona looked across the room to Victor.
“His aesthetic is very avant-garde, wouldn’t you say?” Carly asked. “The thing about Victor is that whatever he comes up with will be editorial. And you have to admit that no one is doing work quite like him, besides, maybe, Christian Siriano, which is why, frankly, I think Victor is so interesting. He has this fantastic, unique ability to take something ordinary and turn it into very high fashion. This could be a great opportunity for you.”
Ramona snorted and looked at Carly again. “For me?” she drawled.
“Well, sure. After the show today, everyone is going to want a piece of what he’s got.”
Ramona chuckled. “Carly, you have an annoying tendency to oversell things. His show was good, but it wasn’t that good. I’m surprised you got him here, frankly.”
“He’s had a small crisis of faith. But he’s back on track.”
“Hmm,” Ramona said, looking Carly over. “Must be hard to work with an artist who doesn’t believe in himself.”
That sounded very much like Megan Monroe. First and foremost, believe in yourself! “I’m a big fan of his work. I really am. And he is so stupidly young that I couldn’t let him blow this opportunity. He doesn’t know yet that it would be something he’d regret all his life.”
Ramona leaned forward. “Nevertheless, I ought to kick you out of here for wasting so much of my time with him. And yet, I like you, Carly Kennedy. You’ve got some grit.”
Was that what she had? All she knew was that she liked solving problems like Victor. “Yeah, I guess maybe I do.” She smiled as she hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “I am so very sorry for wasting your time. That was never my intent.”
“Don’t waste more of it now. You have an application in our publicity department.”
Carly sighed. “I do. I’ll withdraw it as soo
n as I get to a computer.”
“I don’t want you to withdraw it. I want to talk to you about it. Can you be in my office by four today?”
Carly was certain she’d misunderstood. “What?”
“You don’t give up, and I like that. We could use someone like you. Someone who would go out and find the young talent for us. But talent that will deliver,” she said, pointing her coffee cup at her.
Carly’s brain couldn’t compute. Was Ramona McNeil offering her a job? “But . . . but I live in Austin.”
“You can’t move to New York? You applied, so I assumed you’d be interested in moving here. What have you got to lose by talking, Carly Kennedy? Four o’clock. My office. And, for the love of God, do not be late.” She walked away.
Carly stared after her, her mouth agape. Was this really happening? Was her dream really going to come true? She couldn’t even absorb it—she’d been working so long and hard toward this, and here it was, on a silver platter. She was . . . flabbergasted. Stunned. And . . . and something felt a little off in her chest.
She was walking without realizing it, trying to make sense of it all.
“Carly!”
She paused at the sound of Victor’s voice and turned around. “Hey! Great show, Victor! See? I knew you could do it.” A lie, but it seemed appropriate in the moment.
“Thank you,” he said and smiled sheepishly. “Hey . . . I’ve been a jerk. I’m sorry. But I wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t, like, hounded me every day. I owe you, man.”
Carly blinked. Something else she hadn’t expected and couldn’t quite grasp. “Oh. Wow!” She grinned. “You’re welcome, but you were the one who overcame your fears and put on this amazing show. It must feel fantastic.”
He nodded. “It does. I’m really glad I came.”
She smiled. “Me, too.”
“See you in Austin,” he said, backing away. “We’ll grab a Whataburger.” He turned and jogged back to where people were waiting for him.
Carly was not late to meet Ramona in her office. Ramona was not kidding about the job, either. The pay was decent—actually, at this point in her life, it sounded like a king’s ransom. After they discussed arrangements and start dates, Carly headed back to Naomi’s, her head spinning.
It was happening. After all these years of working hard to make it in Austin, she had absolutely nothing left to show for it or to lose. There was nothing keeping her in Austin except a dog and a couple of hearts she did not want to break. Hers, for one. And Max’s.
Twenty-Four
Late Saturday afternoon, Max received a text from Carly. She’d landed in Austin and asked if she could pick up Baxter. Max was happy to hear from her, eager to hear about her trip to New York, and eager to share his news, too.
Baxter and Hazel heard her before Max and Jamie did, and the two dogs raced to the door, barking and tails wagging. Max had to reach over them to open the door.
Carly was on his porch in a puffy jacket, jeans, and Uggs. Baxter launched himself at her legs with verve and missed. Hazel managed to plant her paws on Carly’s thigh.
“Hey,” Max said, and had to lean awkwardly forward, over the dogs, to hug her. He kissed her cheek. “You smell so good.”
“Thank you!”
Jamie appeared, wearing a paint-spattered apron and holding a paintbrush. “Duke,” he said. “Loyal and obedient. Likes dogs.”
Carly looked at Max.
“Jamie is getting his dog today,” Max said. “It’s a big deal in the Sheffington household. His name is Duke, he is loyal and obedient, and we have an appointment to pick him up in an hour.”
“Labrador,” Jamie added, then turned and disappeared into the house with Baxter and Hazel hurrying along behind him.
Max grinned at Carly and brushed hair from her face. “Hey, gorgeous. How are you?”
“Good! Tired. By the way, have you heard from our parents?”
“You mean apart from the dozens of wedding photos last night? Not a peep. You?”
“Nothing,” Carly said.
“I guess they are having a good time.”
“Eew, don’t,” she said with a playful grimace. “Mia has been blowing up my phone. She’s convinced there is some big conspiracy underfoot, because she can’t get hold of Mom or Dad. But forget them—I’m dying to know how your presentation went,” she said as they walked into the living room.
“It went well,” he said. “It went very well, better than I expected.” He was waiting for the right moment to tell her that it was him. By some miracle, he was the one being put forward for tenure. He sat on the couch and pulled Carly down beside him.
“And the other professor? How did she do?” Carly asked.
“She was good,” he said. “Very interesting.” She’d been so good that he’d felt himself sinking during her presentation. Alanna was impressive. When Max was summoned to a meeting with Dr. O’Malley yesterday, he’d assumed it was the meeting where the department chair would explain to Max that he was a good scientist but not ready to be put forward for tenure. Max had come to terms with it. So he’d stopped by O’Malley’s office on his way to teach an undergraduate class and walked in, reached across the desk to shake O’Malley’s hand, and said, “I want to thank you for the consideration. I understand that it’s a difficult decision, but I was grateful just for the opportunity to present.”
“Don’t thank me,” Dr. O’Malley said. “You did the work to get there.”
“Yep. Well, again, thank you.”
Dr. O’Malley looked at him strangely. “Don’t you want to know the next steps?”
“For . . . ?”
“Dr. Sheffington . . . I called you here to inform you that the committee has recommended you for tenure. Your dossier will go to the dean, and if he agrees, you will next present to the university tenure committee.”
Max had been so dumbfounded, he could only stare at him.
Dr. O’Malley graced him with a rare smile. “Did you hear what I said? We’re putting you through for tenure.”
It was odd how the brain worked, how cognitive distortion could take a very logical thing and make it illogical. Because this all seemed illogical to Max. He said, “Alanna . . .”
“Yes, Dr. Friedman is very good. But she doesn’t quite have the breadth of research to support her work that you do.” He reached his hand across his desk. “Congratulations, Dr. Sheffington. It is well deserved.”
Max had been so stunned that he’d almost missed Alanna walking in to O’Malley’s office as he was walking out.
“But, hey, I want to hear about your trip,” he said. “How did things go?”
“Horrible, to start,” Carly said. “Victor was a no-show on Wednesday.”
“No way,” Max said. “What happened?”
“He read his social media feed again and freaked out. But I trotted out some of the motivational things my high school cross-country coach used to say, and you know what? It worked like a boss. Better than it ever worked on me! Victor showed up on Thursday, and somehow he pulled a show together, and all things considered, it was actually pretty damn good.”
Max grinned. “I’m not surprised. You seemed pretty determined to make it happen. But I have to know, did you wear one of his designs to the show? Please tell me you did and describe it in detail.”
She playfully punched his arm. “You loved those sleeves, admit it. However, I did not wear them. Victor ended up showing the red and white pieces. Remember those?”
“Like I could ever forget?”
She laughed. “See? You will never forget the name Victor Allen. But since he’d cut up so many, he needed every extra piece and I had to wear regular clothes and Max? I love regular clothes.” She laughed and laced her fingers through his. “Something else happened.”
Her eyes were shining. She was happy. “What?” h
e asked.
“You know how I wanted a job in New York? In fashion publicity, or at least in publicity?”
He nodded.
“Well . . . I was offered one. One that I’d applied for, the one I really wanted. At one of the biggest fashion magazines in the country.”
Max’s breath hitched in his chest. “What’s the job?”
“Working in the publicity department and scouting new talent. Oh my God,” she said with a squeeze of his hand. “It’s my dream job, Max!”
He tried, he really did try, to be ecstatic for her. “And it’s in New York?” Dumb question, but he needed to hear her say it.
Her smile dimmed. “Well . . . yes.”
“But what about . . .”
She knew the question he couldn’t quite voice. What about us?
“It’s what I’ve wanted to do for so long,” she said. “I’ve worked really hard to get this opportunity.”
“I know.” Max didn’t know if he was angry or resigned or what. He felt suddenly empty. Of course he knew that was her goal, but he hadn’t expected this, not after the kind of luck she’d been having. He damn sure wasn’t ready for this.
“And . . . it’s the only solution I have to my job situation. I mean, I can live with Mom and your dad, but I don’t have work, especially now. And I—”
“You don’t have to explain it, Carly,” he said, interrupting her before she twisted herself into an explanation she did not need to give. “I understand.”
“But wait, Max, wait,” she said and caught his hand between both of hers. “What if you came to New York, too?”
He gave a quiet laugh.
“I’m serious! If you’re not getting tenure here, can’t you get a job there? NYU, maybe?”
