De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  When I walk into Maisie’s room with coffee in hand, Natasha is sitting with her on the bed. They both look up, but only one of them smiles.

  “You’re late this morning, Ollie.” Maisie smiles and holds up a cup of coffee.

  “I apologize,” I say, setting the cup I’d brought next to her on the bedside table. I step closer, bend over and kiss the top of her head. “Good morning, Maisie.”

  “Good morning, Ollie.” She squeezes my hand as I sit next to her opposite Natasha.

  When I wince, she lifts my hand. “What have you done?”

  “It’s fine, Maisie, just worked out a little too hard.”

  “Good Lord, I’d say so.” She pulls my hand up and looks at it.

  I hear Natasha take a sharp breath in, but I don’t look at her.

  She stands and announces, “Well, I’m gonna get going, Maisie, I’ll see you next week.”

  Maisie reaches for her. “I look forward to it.”

  “Me, too,” Natasha says before kissing her cheek.

  As she walks out the door, without saying a word, I watch. When she’s gone, I look back at Maisie.

  She holds up my hand. “This have anything to do with the fact you two didn’t say a word to each other?”

  I toss my shit in my bag after telling Maisie goodbye, letting Bass know I’m going to catch a flight back today, and call to make sure the plane stalls until I get there.

  When I pass her room, I see the door open, which isn’t unusual, but when I see a red leather book on the ground, I can’t help myself from grabbing it and shoving it in my bag.

  In the car, I can’t stop my leg from bouncing. I have no clue what the fuck I’m doing right now, it’s fucking stupid, so what if she’s pissed at me. It’s what’s best for her. But no, I can’t leave it the fuck alone.

  When I walk onto the jet, she looks up from the chair and scowls.

  “Why are you here?”

  I tap my ear, reminding her she has in her earbuds.

  “They’re not even on.”

  “Then why are you yelling?”

  “Because, Oliver, I left because I needed a break from you! Why are you even here?”

  Because I can’t imagine another week of you thinking of me as a giant dick, or worse, not thinking of me at all.

  “I don’t know what your problem is, Oliver. But when I walked onto this plane just over two weeks ago, you looked at me with such disdain it reminded me of middle school. It made me feel,” she pauses and shakes away whatever it is she was going to say. “Then you watched me like I was something volatile. Other times, when I dared look at you, you looked at me like you’d seen a ghost. Since then, you’re so hot and cold, and honestly, I can’t handle it, Oliver, not right now. Not with so much going on.”

  When she starts to walk toward the door, I move to stand between her and the exit. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t do this with you.” The first tear falls and with it my heart.

  “Tell me what you want me to say!”

  “I want to know why!” she yells back at me.

  “I was fucking terrified of you, okay?”

  She laughs haughtily, “Oh please.”

  Now forced to cover my fucking slip up, I tell her, “I don’t do good with new people.”

  She throws her hands in the air. “Well, I’m not new now, and still I watch you sit uncomfortably when I’m in the room. I watch you nearly run when given the chance and then other times, you’re fine. You taught me how to ride a bike, Oliver, I thought–” She stops and bats another tear away. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve put my trust in you too many times only to have you push me away. It won’t happen again.”

  “It’s not my intention to–”

  “I understand that, I do, but you need to understand I have lived my life pushing myself to not give a damn what anyone thinks of me. I’ve walked away from people who treat me the way you have been. One minute they are smiling at me, the next I’m an inconvenient part of their lives or a problem for them. Even my own father, stepmother, stepbrother, half-sisters, my family, Oliver, so no, I’m not dealing with that from you, and not because I don’t give a damn, but because I can’t.” Her hand covers her heart, the place the pain resonates.

  I reach out to console her and she jumps back. “Don’t, don’t do that, just leave me alone.”

  When she tries to walk around me again, I move to stop her. “I’ll leave you alone, okay? Just don’t leave.”

  She turns on her heels and marches to the back of the plane and I let her.

  Half an hour into the flight and my heart’s still beating the fuck out of my chest when I gain the courage to try to right this.

  When I walk back, she’s asleep.

  It pisses me off that she can sleep like that, like all is well with the world, when it’s fucking not.

  I sit down and stare at her, trying to will her awake. She doesn’t wake until the plane’s about to land. When those eyes open, she’s looks at me.

  I ask her, “Did you sleep well?”

  “Not a wink.” She sits up and unbuckles her seat belt before heading toward the bathroom.

  When she comes out the flight attendant peeks in and tells us, “Please fasten your seat belts.”

  As soon as she walks back toward the cock pit, I lean in, “I apologize.”

  “Don’t,” she warns.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. Just leave it alone.” She looks out the window next to her seat, away from me.

  “We need to get along, Natasha, we need–”

  She turns to me and smiles. “I can fake it, Ollie. Can you?”

  She’s being sarcastic, and it pisses me off. “Fuck no, I can’t.”

  With that bullshit smile on her face she tells me, “Well, that’s your problem. I’ll do just fine. Maisie, Bass, Mom, they’ll never know. So, Ollie, you need to figure it out.”

  As the plane descends, my heart beat increases with the anxious feeling that I’m running out of time. I have to do something, say something now.

  “She was a girl that lived with us.”

  She looks at me with concern and confusion in her eyes.

  “Grace, she lived with my family.”

  “Why was that so hard?” She stops and her eyebrows raise. I swallow, hoping to dampen my dry throat. “And you cared for her?”

  I nod and clear my throat. “Very much.”

  The tires hit the runway as we stare at each other.

  I blow out a held breath and tell her, “I don’t talk about her. Bass and Maisie don’t even know.”

  She whispers, “And they won’t, not from me.”

  When the plane comes to a stop, she unbuckles and stands, but doesn’t walk away.

  I look up at her.

  “Oliver, would you like to go get lunch?”

  “Are you angry at me?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Good, and thank you, but I think it’s best I don’t.”

  Sadness etches her face and she nods. “Well, have a good week.”

  I nod back. “You too, Natasha.”

  I watch her walk off the plane and allow myself to take in what feels like the first breath I’ve taken in over a year since I came face to face with my past.

  I take in another deep breath hoping it won’t burn like the last, but it does.

  Because she’s not Grace.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Natasha

  My head spins from the past few days as I sit in my dorm room. A normal girl in my situation would be overjoyed by the fact that every dream she’s ever had is coming true.

  I laugh at myself when I recall something Mom said earlier today, ‘Normal was never God’s plan for you.’ I was even born different. But I suppose, the way life is turning out, I wouldn’t want normal, even if my imagined Prince Charming knelt before me with an opened Tiffany box displaying the perfect platinum ring surrounding ten carrots, and a promise of a happy
ever after. Not if it meant missing all the things life or God has brought to me.

  But a little less chaos would be welcome. With all the changes around me, Mom’s pregnancy and new love, Maisie’s cancer, Stella’s dad’s illness, college, the new line, and of course, Oliver, I needed to try to distance myself from the majority of it and try to focus on all the things that brought me joy, preferably, one blessing at a time.

  This morning, after the issue with Oliver, I spoke to Mom. Not about Oliver, but about Stella. I told her I needed to see her, and that I needed to tell her before news got out that my designs were going to be used for de le Porte’s winter line.

  She agreed. Although I would miss seeing her, Bass, and Maisie, who has come to be so very cherished to me in such a short time, this coming weekend, I would be glad to avoid Oliver.

  I know he doesn’t want to hurt me, I know he wants what’s best for this potluck family, and I say that with all the love I’ve always had for potluck dinners and now, French cuisine style lunch buffets. However, there isn’t much more I can do to make him see he can trust me. And to be true to myself, I need to step back and let him figure that out for himself, just like I had already figured out I trust him.

  For a few hours now, I’ve thought about all he shared while he thought I was sleeping. I still can’t believe all he endured, or that I had enough restraint to lie there and pretend I was sleeping while he told me all he did. And I can’t stop wondering about Grace. I have a million questions, maybe even more. Where is she? Is she okay? Does he love her? And because I’m curious by nature, me staying away from Paris this weekend will also give him a reprieve from… me. It hurt when he refused my offer for lunch today, but when I got past my feelings, I knew he too needed a break from me. Understandable.

  To escape the thoughts, I turn on my laptop and go to YouTube to search for anything new I’d missed from James.

  After watching an hour’s worth of his older videos, affording me the chance to sink into a somewhat normal mindset, I sat on my bed and began flipping through my phone to look at the pictures I’d taken of the gowns.

  Some of the very fabric cut with my own hand, fabric I could have only dreamed of playing with before. I pinned the pieces together, then fed pieces through machines, stitching them together. Then hanging them on the mannequins. I watched my dreams come together, piece by piece, stitch by stich. It was truly amazing.

  A knock on the door and then it automatically opening tells me without looking it’s Shana before she even says, “I thought I heard you in here, get ready, we’re going out!”

  “It’s Sunday,” I laugh.

  “I’m sure you were taken to church all weekend with your hottie in Paris. Which reminds me, God, I hate my life, I’m so jealous, which is your fault, so come on, let’s go!”

  Before I can tell her, I don’t want to, she’s out the door, and I’m dragging my butt out of bed to get ready to go out, on a Sunday night, so I can tell Shana the truth. She doesn’t have to be jealous, because he and I aren’t together.

  Sitting in front of the mirror, applying makeup, I construct the most elaborate details of my break up with GQ Joe and feel completely ridiculous doing so.

  “I’m not sure how you find these places,” I laugh as Shana pulls me into the bar.

  “Something about the name just calls to me,” she giggles as we walk up to the oak bar at The Spread Eagle.

  “Two pints,” she tells the bartender.

  Before I can object, she all but yells, “You don’t have class until noon tomorrow, so no excuse, plus they’re out of sparkling water.”

  “Har, har,” I laugh.

  Having never had an alcoholic beverage before makes me nervous, but I don’t want to tell her that, although I assume she knows already, since we’ve been out a dozen times and I’ve never drank.

  We sit at a pub table just a few feet from the bar and I look down at my first pint. When I lift it up and take a sip, I want to spit it out, but I don’t.

  “So, tell me all about that hot as fuck boyfriend of yours,” Shana grins.

  I nearly choke on the second sip of the room temperature liquid yuk.

  I might as well get it over with.

  “We broke up,” I shrug.

  Her jaw drops but instead of saying a thing, she walks over to the bar and I watch as the bartender pours two shots.

  Damn!

  And then two more drinks are poured.

  Double damn!

  She walks over carrying the drinks on a small tray.

  She sets it on the table, reaches over and pulls the pint away from me and sets it next to hers before placing the two new glasses in front of me.

  “You need a drink,” she sighs as she sits down opposite me.

  “Um, I had one, and now I have two.”

  She pushes over the shot. “Now you have three.”

  I shake my head., “Girl, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Tequila is the cure for a broken heart.”

  “Who said my heart’s broken?” I laugh.

  “Damn girl, I didn’t consider you to be a love ‘em and leave ‘em type.”

  “I’m not,” I shrug. “It’s just.”

  I pause and consider my next words. My next lie.

  “It happens,” she nods. “Let’s do a shot.”

  Yeah, let’s.

  Mindlessly, I pick up the shot glass and toss it back, like I’ve seen in movies.

  Gasoline, pure gasoline, runs down my throat, hits my stomach and threatens to come right back up.

  I cover my mouth, fearing it’ll fly right out as fast as it went down.

  She laughs and points to one of the two drinks she had set in front of me with the gasoline.

  My facial expression must tell her I don’t trust a damn thing she puts in front of me because she smiles and tells me, “I think you’ll like it.”

  I scowl.

  “It’s nothing like tequila. It’s Apples and Pears, sparkling cider, with alcohol.”

  I take a cautious sip and it helps remove the gasoline taste. I take a bigger one and it helps even more, but still it’s there. I drink down the entire glass.

  Setting the empty on the table in front of me, I inhale a breath that doesn’t burn anymore as I feel heat spread in my chest, my neck, and across my face, along with a smile.

  “It’s good?” she asks.

  “It is,” I grin.

  An hour later and I’m drunk.

  “I always imagined I’d get buzzed before getting drunk,” I laugh as Shana pushes a third glass of sparkling Apples and Pears toward me.

  Then she leans in and whispers, “Don’t look now, but I think ex and ink is here?”

  I ask, “Who?”

  “Your ssss-exy ex, he’s here.”

  “He is not.”

  I stop when a glass of water hits the table in front of me, and when I look over my shoulder Oliver is standing behind me, but he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at Shana. “You forgot something.”

  She shrugs. “No, no, I didn’t. I spilled something.”

  I look back as Oliver walks around the table and stands beside me. I notice his shirt is soaked.

  “Shana,” I scold her.

  She doesn’t look at me, she glares at him. “He deserved it.”

  “Is there a problem?” I look back and see a tall woman standing beside him now. She’s tall, built like a goddess, and has skin as dark as night. She’s freaking gorgeous.

  “Yeah, skank,” Shana begins.

  “Who the fuck is this little shit?” The woman steps toward Shana, and Oliver puts his arm between them.

  “I hope when you’re going down on him later, you taste her le chat. And just so you know, that’s French for pussy.”

  I glance at the woman, ready to expose my lie when I see her face break into an amused grin as her eyebrow quirks and she steps toward Shana.

  Oliver reaches out and takes her wrist. “Celine, I’ll deal with this.
”

  Still looking Shana up and down, she nods. “Yeah, you do that.” She turns to me and shakes her head. “Nice to meet you, Natasha.”

  Confused, I look at Oliver, his face is stone and his eyes narrowed. I look back at her as she walks away and yell to her back, “Um, you too.”

  I look at the floor, not wanting to meet Oliver’s angry black eyes, when I hear Harry, “Hey, you started without us.”

  I swear I hear Oliver growl and I look up to see him glaring at Harry and his friend, Charles.

  Shana makes the introduction. “Hey fellas, this is the guy who was keeping Natasha away from the full college experience, taking her away the past few weekends and then–”

  “Natasha.” Oliver pulls out my seat without warning. “A moment.”

  As soon as my feet hit the floor, I realize just how much the Apple and Pears had affected me.

  “I gotta pee.” I pull my arm away and look around for the bathroom. Once I see it, I take a step and nearly fall on my face.

  Except I don’t, because a very big and inked arm wraps around my waist, lifts me up, and walks through the crowded bar toward the bathroom.

  When he pushes the door open, I wiggle out of his arms and he sets me on my feet. I stumble toward the stall door and pull it back to open it and nearly fall again, but I don’t.

  Squatting above the toilet, one hand on each of the walls beside me, I moan out loud when I finally release the contents of my bladder.

  Once I’m done, I wipe, stand and steady myself as I push the door open and walk out.

  When I see Oliver glaring at me, I raise my nose in the air, place my hand on the one thing I know for sure is unmovable, the wall, and slowly make my way to the sink to wash my hands.

  “This… this… this.” I suck my lips in to stop from stuttering and I immediately feel the embarrassment of it. When I look up in the mirror, I see him behind me shaking his head, giving me a look of disappointment.