Unafraid (Beachwood Bay)

by Melody Grace

  “My what?” I blink at him, confused, but he’s seen someone past me on the street and is striding forwards to intercept them. Or rather, her: a stylish-looking woman in a crisply-tailored dress, heading for the entrance of the nearest office building.

  “Hey, Alicia, great timing.” Hunter calls. “We just got in.”

  “Hunter!” The woman brightens, greeting him with air kisses on both cheeks. “Look at you, I didn’t believe it when your mom said you’d moved to the sticks.”

  “It’s not exactly the middle of nowhere,” Hunter laughs. He’s casual and easy with her, and I can tell that they’re old friends. “Just a couple of hours away. It’s a great little town, right on the shore. You should come visit sometime.”

  “Please, you know me,” Alicia laughs, tossing back her mane of glossy blonde hair. “I’d wither away and die without valet parking and takeout on speed dial.” She turns to me with a bright smile. “And you must be Brittany. A pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Hunter’s here…”

  She holds out a hand for me to shake, an elegant gold watch dangling from her wrist that’s probably worth more than everything I’ve ever owned.

  “Hi,” I say slowly, still trying to figure out what’s going on. “It’s, umm, nice to meet you too.”

  I give Hunter a baffled look, and he jumps in. “Alicia and I were at college together,” he explains. “Now she’s head of publicity for Jacob Main,” he names a big clothing designer based here in the city. “I thought you two should meet, so I arranged an interview for you.”

  I stop.

  “You did what?” I stare at him, my confusion giving way to spine-chilling dread.

  He’s kidding. He’s got to be kidding me.

  But Hunter laughs, proud of what he’s done. “See, I said you’d never guess.”

  My heartbeat trips in panic, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. Guess that I’d be dropped into the most important meeting of my life, with no warning or time to prepare?

  Oh God.

  “I have a conference call at three,” Alicia pipes up apologetically. “So we should head on up there. Do you have your portfolio?” she asks me.

  My heart lifts. A chance to escape this ambush. “No, I’m sorry,” I tell her relieved. “I don’t have it with me. Maybe we can reschedule—”

  “I’ve got it.” Hunter reaches into the truck and pulls out my portfolio, and a book of extra sketches. He must have taken them while I was getting ready upstairs, I realize with a sinking feeling. Hunter passes them to me. “Now you’re all set. I’ve got to run some errands, so call me when you’re done. And don’t be nervous,” he drops his tone, “You’ll be great.”

  “But—” My protest is lost under his kiss, and then Alicia is steering me inside, her high heels tapping on the polished marble floors. Before I can think, or turn and bolt down the street, we’re in the lobby, a huge, glass-covered atrium full of modern art.

  “I can’t wait to see your designs.” She chats pleasantly as we wait for the elevators. “Hunter here was raving about you, and if a guy like him can notice fashion, it’s got to be good.”

  I manage a murmur of agreement, but inside, I’m freaking out. How the hell could he do this to me? I’m not ready for this: Jacob Main was top of my list when it came to sending out job applications, and all I got was a photocopied rejection letter. And now, here I am, about to sit down and show them my designs?

  I feel a tightness in my chest, like the walls of the elevator are closing in on me. My skin prickles with panic, and I break into a cold sweat, clammy on the surface of my skin.

  How could he do this to me?

  The elevator dings as we reach the eleventh floor. “We’re right down here,” Alicia says, striding down the hallway. For a moment I’m tempted to hit the button and head right back down again, but then she turns, waiting with a friendly smile.

  “Great,” I whisper, following her.

  “We moved offices a couple of months ago, so still pretty chaotic.” Alicia leads me into a large, open-plan office. My mouth drops open as I follow her through the space, clutching my portfolio to my chest. Light is flooding in from full-length windows, and everywhere I look, there’s color and life. People consult fabric swatches strewn over a long bench, others work on computers at cool cubicles decorated with art and fashion magazine tears. Huge, over-sized photos from the Jacob Main catalogue are mounted on the wall, and all around us, there’s a buzz of activity and purpose.

  “We’re partnering with a major store for their summer line next year,” Alicia adds, “So everyone’s working double-time getting the designs set right now.”

  People look up curiously as we pass, checking me out. I feel their gazes slip over me, and can’t help but notice the looks of surprise and disapproval that follow. In an instant, I’m taken back to high school, walking the hallways in one of my hand-me-down, homemade outfits that’s so obviously not the latest fashion.

  My heart plummets. This ambush happened so quickly, I didn’t even have time to think about how I look, but now I’m here in the office, surrounded by gorgeous, glossy women, it hits me just as hard as the feelings of inferiority that haunted me all those years ago. I’m dressed all wrong for this.

  The outfit I hastily assembled for a casual day back in Beachwood Bay is way out of place here in the chic surroundings: my boots are scuffed and ratty, my cut-off shorts worn through in places, and God, I’m wearing a bikini top. In the city! What kind of hick kid must they think I am?

  By the time Alicia shows me into a large office with sweeping views of downtown, I already want to curl up in a ball and disappear, but the ordeal is only just beginning.

  “This is Maxwell Anderson, he’s in charge of our design team.” Alicia introduces me to a sharply-dressed man in dark-rimmed glasses, waiting in one of the designer lounge chairs.

  “Umm, hi,” I manage, wishing my hands would stop shaking. Everything about Maxwell screams style, from the pocket square poking out of his jacket pocket, right down to the spotless white sneakers he’s wearing. He’s intimidatingly cool. “It’s great to meet you. Thanks for making time—”

  Maxwell snaps his fingers and gestures for my portfolio. I hand it over, watching with my heart in my mouth as he flips over the last five years of my work and sweat and tears with barely a second glance.

  Alicia gives me a sympathetic smile, as if to say, ‘don’t worry.’ “Where are your main interests?” she asks, taking a seat on a silk-covered couch and gesturing for me to do the same. “We’re primarily a womenswear company, although we’ve been branching out with a limited, high-end accessories line. Shoes, some handbags.”

  “I… Clothes.” I stutter. Well, duh. “I mean, womenswear too. I’ve been mainly experimenting with repurposing fabric,” I add in a halting voice. Damn, Brit, why can’t you pull it together? I try to swallow back my insecurities and continue. “A lot of lingerie too, the lace-work and details, if you look…” I trail off as Maxwell slams my portfolio shut.

  He fixes me with a slow look from head to toe that leaves me cringing. “Jacob Main is a high-end company,” he says, with a slight sneer to his voice. “Our customers are affluent women. Fashionable. Elegant.”

  The accusation in his voice is clear. I couldn’t be further from his ideal if I tried.

  I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. “If you look at my book,” I try, my voice coming out a whisper, “I’ve been working on more sophisticated designs—”

  But Maxwell doesn’t take his gaze off me. “Where did you go to school?”

  “I, ah, didn’t.” I slump lower in the seat.

  “It shows.” Maxwell tells me bluntly. “Your sketches are messy and unfocused. You have no formal drafting skills, and I dread to think what you’d do if we let you near the real fabric.”

  I feel a rush of shame. I was so proud of that portfolio, spending hours selecting my very best designs and photographs. Now, Maxwell’s words are like daggers, cutting through my foolish del
usions. All this time, I was just kidding myself to think I was worth anything at all.

  A sob rises in the back of my throat, but I force myself to swallow it back. I can’t let him see what his words are doing to me, I can’t give him the satisfaction, but I just want this to be over, for me to be anywhere but here, with this snobby man ripping apart all my secret dreams.

  “She’s got a strong design sensibility,” Alicia tries to speak up. She’s leafing through my sketchbook. “See, this dress is gorgeous. Just our kind of thing. Look, Max—”

  He gets up. “We’re looking for something very specific here,” he declares, giving Alicia an irritated look. “If you want my advice, I’d find something else to do with your time. When it comes to fashion, you’ve either got it or you don’t. You, my dear, do not.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “And Alicia?” he adds, turning to her. “Next time, remember I’m on a schedule.”

  Maxwell strides out. I stare after him. I’m numb, feeling dizzy and faint, like my hopes and dreams are laying shattered in pieces on the floor.

  That wasn’t an interview, it was annihilation.

  “I’m sorry.” Alicia looks guilty. “He’s not usually so blunt. We’re under a lot of pressure right now, with the deadline—”

  “It’s fine.” I manage to find my voice. I reach for my portfolio and sketchbook with shaking hands. “He was just being honest.”

  Honest about the fact I’m a talentless hack, who never should have even stepped foot inside the building.

  “Have you finished that dress yet, the purple one?” Alicia asks, as I get to my feet. “I’d love to see it when it’s done.”

  I shake my head. “It was just a sketch.” Why bother finishing it now, when it’s clear it’s a waste of my time?

  “Oh, shame. Well, thanks for coming all this way.” Alicia hovers, awkward in the doorway. “And send my best to Hunter. I saw his parents at lunch just the other week, such a wonderful family. They’re coping so well.”

  I nod dumbly, then grab my stuff and hurry back the way I came, through the sprawling office, full of people with actual skill and talent, living a dream that will never be mine.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  I hit the elevator button angrily, already fighting back the deja vu of every time I was rejected and left on the sidelines, every time someone sneered and whispered dirty names behind my back. She’s just a crazy slut. She’s nothing.

  What made me think I could ever make it in a place like this? I’m not good enough.

  You’ll never be good enough for them.

  The elevator arrives, and I step inside. How could Hunter do this to me? If he’d only warned me, I could have been better prepared. Worn something cute and stylish, rehearsed my answers, instead of stammering away like a thoughtless idiot. I could have braced myself for rejection, instead of getting slammed out of nowhere. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference, and Maxwell still would have seen through me, written me off as the foolish kid I really am. But at least I could have been ready for it. Maybe I would have stood a chance…

  Hunter had no right to do this. I grab a hold of my anger, and focus on it, trying to block out the wave of miserable heartbreak, and that too-familiar feeling that I’m not good enough. Rejection and disappointment will break me in two, but anger I can work with. Anger is my friend.

  By the time the elevator arrives back down in the lobby, I’ve pulled myself together, clenching my jaw to hold in the tears. My phone buzzes with a text.

  I know you’re kicking butt! Call me when you’re done.

  I stare at the text, my blood running cold. He doesn’t even realize how completely out of line he was. But why would he? Everything comes so easily to him, he’s never known what it’s like to fail, to be turned away, over and over again. He has no idea. This is my life, my dream, but he thinks he can come waltzing in and fix everything.

  I hit ‘delete’ and head outside. Hunter’s truck is still parked out front, but I keep walking, on and on down the city streets, waiting for the desperate ache in my chest to subside. I don’t know where I’m heading, I just know I have to keep moving. And with every step, I fight the treacherous whispers of self-doubt lurking in the back of my mind.

  You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.

  You’ll never be good enough for him.

  I take the bus back to Beachwood Bay, rejection still thick in my veins. With every mile that rolls by, it hardens into resentment; Maxwell’s dismissive words beating in my skull.

  “You either have it or you don’t. And you, my dear, do not.”

  I stare out of the window, letting the world outside blur into ribbons of green and brown speeding past. He’s just some pretentious asshole, I tell myself. His opinion doesn’t matter to anyone else. He didn’t even want to give me a shot: he made up his mind about me the minute I stepped through that door, all the amazing designs in the world wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  And whose fault is that?

  I look up and realize we’re driving through the outskirts of town now. I rub my eyes and focus as I see a familiar turn-off. The road up to Hunter’s ranch.

  “Stop the bus!” I yell, before I have a chance to think about it. “This is my stop, right here!”

  The bus shudders to a stop and I scramble down, still clutching my useless portfolio. I want to head home and collapse with a drink and a hot bath, but something pushes me on up the winding road towards the ranch. Anger, still coiled tightly in my veins—all my rejection pushed into a sharp point of bitterness.

  He had no right to do this to me.

  The sun is setting by the time I make it up the hill to the ranch, making the red paint on the barn glow, warm against the dusk light. There are a couple of horses in the paddock, and hay baled outside the stables, but everything is freshly-painted, quiet and still. This is Hunter’s life right here: picture-perfect and serene. I feel a tight clench in my chest, thinking of the places I grew up, just a few miles away. Run-down bungalows with old cars rusting in the yard; the years living out of a trailer park; late-payment warnings like confetti in the hall. He has no idea what I’ve been through, but still, Hunter thinks he can make everything right.

  “Brit!”

  I hear my name called and look up to find Hunter riding towards me from the fields on a large bay mare. He pulls up the horse and slides down, barely pausing to loop the reins over a fence post before striding towards me. His face is stormy, jaw clenched tight. “Where the hell have you been?” He grips me by both my arms, holding me tight, surprising me with his anger. “I called your cell like a million times. I’ve been worried sick!”

  “I shut it off.” I say, trying not to feel a ripple of guilt at his panic. You don’t owe him anything, I remind myself. This is his fault.

  “Are you OK?” Hunter demands, his blue eyes blazing down into mine. “What happened? How did you get home?”

  “I’m fine.” I wrench away from him. “I took the bus. You shouldn’t have worried.”

  Hunter’s mouth drops open. “Of course I worried!” he yells, his voice rising. “I even went back to the office to try and find you, but Alicia said you left ages ago. I was driving around the city for hours, just looking for you!”

  “Well, the search is over.” I snap, sarcastic. “I’m here!”

  “I don’t understand what’s wrong with you, to just go running off like this. Is this about the interview?” Hunter demands, his blue eyes still dark with anger.

  I turn to ice. “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing,” Hunter says, “Alicia just told me it didn’t go so great.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  “So you freak the fuck out and go AWOL?” Hunter’s voice rises. He’s breathing heavy, his whole body taut with tension. “Did you even think about me for a second, what I was imagining? You could have been in an accident, you could have been de
ad!”

  I finally snap. I take a step back, glaring. “This has nothing to do with you!” I yell. “Why can’t you see that? This is my life! I wouldn’t even have been there if it wasn’t for you!”

  “What are you talking about?” Hunter looks confused.

  “The interview!” I yell. “The whole fucking ambush. You had no right to interfere like that, but you had to try and play the hero!”

  “I was trying to help!” Hunter protests.

  “Well, I don’t need it,” I shoot back. “I don’t need anything from you!”

  “Dammit, Brit, won’t you let me do one thing for you?” His voice rises. “Why do you have to keep everyone at arm’s length like this? Why do you have to make everything so hard?”

  There’s a sound behind us. Hunter looks over my head. One of the stable hands is lurking in the doorway of the barn, watching us fight.

  Hunter turns back. “Let’s take this inside,” he tells me through a clenched jaw.

  “I’m not staying.” I tell him, but he grabs my arm again.

  “Just get inside the damn house, Brit!”

  Hunter propels me up the steps and into the main house, his hand firm on my arm. I feel a familiar rush of heat at his touch, burning through my shirt, but I pull away the minute we’re inside. I can’t let my body betray me now, not after everything, not with all this violent emotion whirling in me, the anger I know is right.

  Hunter doesn’t seem to notice the charge. He ignores me, striding over to the kitchen area, and running water from the faucet. He rinses his hands then bends to duck his whole head under the tap. He stays under for a moment, so I catch my breath and look around the space. Wooden beams, full-length windows, a living area with cracked leather couches, a staircase leading up to the loft bedroom. Rustic and homey, clean lines and wide open spaces. It’s all so damn Hunter, I can’t take it.

  What the hell am I even doing here? This is what being impulsive gets me. I wanted to just unload my anger and disappear, but now I’m stranded out here with him. Alone. And he’s looking so damn good. “Take me home now.” I tell him, clenching my hands into fists at my sides. My heart pounds, my body still wired with angry adrenalin.