The Designer

by Aubrey Parker

  “The grounds seem nice,” I say, looking out the window again.

  “Do you have a phone?”

  But no, dammit, I don’t. I realized that hours ago, while bored waiting. It’s charging on the counter in the shop. I left too quickly to remember.

  “It’s at home.”

  Andre reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone. “Take this so someone can reach you when the flight is ready. And if I could be so humble as to make a suggestion, if you plan to explore?”

  “Please.”

  Andre points out the window. “If you go straight down that path, there’s a grove of peach trees that’s not to be missed.”

  The campus is beautiful. Rolling hills, trees in bloom. With my back to the buildings, I can’t even tell civilization is near. The hospital — and the spa, apparently, though I haven’t partaken — is silent. I can’t even hear cars. From what I saw coming in, people get around the complex on golf carts.

  I close my eyes, strangely peaceful. I would never have imagined — after fighting with Hampton yesterday, and especially when he called and rushed me away from home — that I’d feel this tranquil. The frenzy seems months behind me.

  I’m wearing Converse rather than more sensible meeting attire, so the path is easy. It’s patted down red dirt in the middle of a grassy span, not formal at all.

  The peach grove is exactly as Andre promised: not to be missed.

  The trees are all in bloom, bedecked with tiny flowers. Their scent fills the air, sighing through a soft breeze. There is a small clearing in the center, with a ring of pretty stone benches around the edges. They are neither simple nor ornate. They fit this place perfectly.

  I sit.

  After a while, the weight of the day catches up with me, and I realize how tired I am. I look around and see that I’m utterly alone.

  I lay back. The bench is long and, considering it’s made of stone, surprisingly comfortable. The grit has been worn away from use, and the stone itself is mostly smooth. I’m able to fit entirely, from head to foot.

  After a few seconds, feeling the heaviness of my body, I’m fully at peace. I reach down for my purse, make sure it’s zippered, then set it under my head.

  I’m not going to fall asleep or anything.

  But of course, I do.

  “Am I supposed to kiss you or something?”

  My eyes open to Hampton, silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky.

  “What?”

  “I said, am I supposed to kiss you?”

  I blink. I roll my head, then shift to sit up. Falling asleep on a stone bench maybe wasn’t the best idea. I slept well, but I’m going to pay for it.

  I’m trying to process his words, but am still too stupid from slumber. Apparently, I can’t understand language until I’m fully awake. I can only feel the emotions. One is curiosity. The other, to my embarrassment, is excitement.

  … kiss you …

  I get a mental flash of Hampton leaning down and pressing his lips to mine. It takes me another second to understand why the thought makes me uneasy, but then I remember: I was dreaming about him just now, too.

  “Like Sleeping Beauty? Maybe Snow White.” When I don’t respond, he says, “Haven’t you ever seen a Disney movie?”

  There’s a crick in my neck, and I can tell by a cursory fluff that my hair is a bird’s nest.

  “Oh. I get it.”

  “Have you been here the whole time?” he asks.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  That wakes me up the rest of the way. It was around 3:30 local time when I came down here, according to Andre’s phone. How could that much time have passed? But I can see that the light has changed and stretched the shadows of the peach trees.

  “That’s crazy,” I say. “I guess I was tired.”

  He’s looking at me funny.

  “What?”

  “You have …”

  I’m drooling. Oh hell, that must be what he’s staring at.

  But he reaches above my right ear, and I feel a small tug as he removes a twig. His fingers brush my face just above the eyebrow. The gossamer threads of my dream make me shiver.

  “Are you cold?”

  I straighten up, then brush myself down.

  “I thought you’d call Andre’s phone to find me.”

  “It’s a company phone. They’re all location-tracked. Andre said you were going to the grove, so I checked, and you were still here.”

  I wish he’d stop looking at me that way. Like he can see through me. He found me sleeping, joked about kissing me, and now looks like he’s X-raying my head to sift through thoughts and flustered dreams.

  Time for this silly business to end.

  I stand, then try to act like I’m cool and in control. Naturally, I find two more twigs in my hair. “Are you ready to go?”

  He raises his hand, shows me his briefcase.

  “It would have made more sense if you’d just called.”

  “Actually,” he says, pointing past me, “the airstrip is only about a half-mile that way.”

  “We came in a car.”

  “The car had to drive all the way around. This is a shortcut.” He rolls his shoulders, shakes himself out. “I’ve been cooped up in meetings, and I’m about to sit on a plane. I need the walk.”

  “You don’t know clothes,” I say, pointing down, “if you think those are appropriate hiking shoes.”

  Hampton looks down, too. His pair cost a thousand dollars, easy.

  I think he’ll smile. It’s a lighthearted joke in the middle of a fruit tree grove.

  But he doesn’t.

  “I told Andre you’d leave his phone on one of the benches for him to pick up later.”

  It takes me a moment to dig the phone out of my purse. Hampton doesn’t wait. He rolls his eyes, turns his back, and starts walking without me.

  “Let’s go,” he says. “The pilot is already waiting.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  HAMPTON

  “NEVER GIVE MONEY TO A girl you want to fuck, dude,” says the guy with no neck.

  Aaaaand … that’s enough of that. I grab Mateo by the arm and pull him aside. I think for a second that his meathead posse will come with us, thinking this is a game of Follow the Leader. Thankfully, they stay with Evan. The group of muscleheads and hippies seems as fascinated by Evan as ancient people might be by a golden idol. They know he invented LiveLyfe, and they’re all on LiveLyfe. What are the chances? Clearly, he’ll want to be their best friend and talk to them for hours.

  “Are we about done here?” I ask Mateo.

  “You don’t like the scenery?” He extends an arm, gesturing at the vista. It’s breathtaking, this mountain Mateo wants to buy. Almost literally. Like, the first time he dragged me here, I almost couldn’t breathe from looking at it.

  “I don’t like the company.”

  “I’m insulted,” Mateo said.

  “I didn’t mean you and Evan. I meant that group of idiots you’re trying to hire.”

  “I’m still insulted. Those are my guest ambassadors.”

  I look back at the group, clustered around Evan enough to swallow him. Maybe I should be fairer to them, but all I can think of is those ‘90s movies where strapping instructors party, have sex, buck the system, and ultimately save the day. If Mateo buys this place and hires these people, I’m picturing 1991’s Ski School on a mountain.

  “The guy without a neck thinks he’s part of our conversation,” Mateo says.

  “That’s Meat.”

  “What’s meat?”

  “That guy. His real name is Jason, but everyone calls him Meat.”

  “Because he’s so huge?”

  “The girls gave him that name,” Mateo says.

  I turn away. Look at my watch.

  “He’s right, though.”

  “Who’s right?”

  “Meat.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You shouldn�
�t give money to a girl you want to fuck. The best-case scenario is that she’ll feel obligated because of the money, and that gives you an unfair advantage that comes with a burden. But half the time, she’s going to feel like a hooker.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A hooker is a girl you pay to have sex with you.”

  “I know what a hooker is. I meant I don’t …” Then I get it. “You’re talking about Stacy Grace.”

  “Who did you think I was talking about? How many women that you want to fuck are you paying?”

  “I don’t want to fuck Stacy. I asked her to make some sketches because …”

  But Mateo is laughing.

  “What?”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “I’m not hilarious.”

  Insultingly, Mateo puts his hand on my shoulder. He’s still hitching with laughter.

  “Hampton. Buddy. I’ve known you for a long time. I know what it looks like when you want to fuck a girl. And the way you look at her? Dude.”

  “The only times you’ve seen me looking at her were that first day in her shop.”

  “Right. That was the first day you wanted to fuck her.”

  “She was yelling at me. I was yelling at her.”

  “That’s what makes it so hot.” Mateo pulls me closer. “But the good news is that she wants to fuck you, too.”

  “She does not want to fuck me.”

  “Absolutely she does. She kept making hot eyes at you.”

  “What are hot eyes?”

  “You can’t tell by now how to tell when a girl wants to fuck you? How old are you?”

  I shake it away. Mateo gets like this with me. It’s karma, I guess because I get this way with Evan. It’s the ball-busting circle of life.

  “Hey,” Mateo says, “you brought it up. If you hadn’t, Meat never would have been able to butt in and offer his perfectly logical advice.”

  “I didn’t bring it up at all!”

  “You started saying how you’re flying back to Williamsville to—”

  “To see the Billings & Pile Building again!”

  “And?”

  “And obviously to check on Stacy’s designs.” Pause. “What? Don’t look at me that way. You saw her first-rate job on my blazer.”

  “And first-rate is what Expendable Chic is looking for in its designers and tailors? That’s what you want, someone who’s a stickler for quality?”

  Mateo didn’t get my insistence on exploring a made-in-America line, so I’m thinking he won’t understand the place I see for a quality maker — working within a limited, very specific function. This isn’t about bulk and rock-bottom cost savings like the rest of Expendable Chic. This is fundamentally different, enough so that I can’t fully articulate it yet. This needs to percolate. And whatever its final form, my thoughts on it all continue to center on Stacy Grace.

  “Look,” Mateo says. “If you want to hire her, I guess that’s your funeral. Same as with that shit-heap building in Williamsville. Just don’t fuck her if you do. Or if you want to fuck her, don’t hire her. Keep your cock and your briefcase separate. Don’t confuse the two.”

  “I don’t know that it’s going to work out anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Her as a designer. She fundamentally doesn’t understand the business. It’s all personal to her.”

  Mateo softens, a bit more serious. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been looking her up. She writes a blog about custom clothing. Vintage clothing, too, since the two go hand-in-hand.”

  “How does vintage go with custom?”

  “People like her don’t want new things. They want old stuff and to keep repairing it over and over again. She’d get an old tablecloth from the thrift store and make a dress out of it, I swear.”

  “And why is that a problem?”

  “Because nothing new has a chance. She’s published long rants against what she calls ‘fast fashion’ stores. Keeps calling out Expendable Chic by name. Calling me out by name.”

  “You said you thought she ‘got it,’ though. At least enough to hear you out.”

  “Yeah, but like I said, she makes it personal. She keeps sniping at me. Like: Todd wanted to meet her because … well, because Todd. I flew her out to our retreat. And I thought it went well. But what happens as we’re getting ready to leave, after I thought the vibe was finally better? She fucking insults me. You remember what she said about my blazer? When she said it was a piece of shit?”

  “She didn’t say it was a piece of shit, Hampton. I could hear everything you guys said through the window.”

  “She said it was made wrong, and like I didn’t know any better.”

  “It was made wrong. And you didn’t know any better.”

  Fucking Mateo. I wish he’d stop arguing with me, using logic.

  “And then at the retreat, it’s about my shoes. She fucking knocked my shoes.”

  “So what? She can still design stuff without liking your wardrobe.”

  “It’s a symptom of a bigger problem,” I say. “She’s smart and talented, but she’s such a righteous bitch about her work! She’s this fucking FairTraded selling, recycling, planet-saving, classic-values-having Mother Theresa, whereas I’m the enemy. I’m the guy polluting with microfibers or whatever and filling up landfills with shitty clothes.”

  Mateo tips his head. “Well …”

  “I just can’t have someone working for me who doesn’t respect me.”

  At this exact moment, one of Mateo’s future climbing instructors shouts, “Hey Mr. Saint! You wanna grab some beer for us over here?”

  “Not that you’d ever have that problem,” I say.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STACY

  I FRET FAR MORE THAN I should.

  It’s almost two full weeks between my vetting by King Todd and the day Hampton told me he’d return to Williamsville to check my progress. Two weeks is too much time, and simultaneously not enough.

  I only realize it doesn’t make sense after Hampton drops me off, and although I had the entire plane ride back from the hospital to ask for details, I didn’t have the guts. He picked up a book when we boarded, looking up only to ask the flight attendant for a glass of water.

  When I stood to disembark, Hampton didn’t stand with me. “Two weeks,” he said. And his tone was strange. It didn’t sound like anticipation. It sounded like resignation, or dislike.

  I’m not sure why he hates me so much. That’s the constant refrain I keep returning to, day after day as I work on my sketches. Everything centers on it. I’m not sure I want this job at all, but I’m not sure whether it’s because I don’t like Expendable Chic and all it stands for or because I’ve decided Hampton is now rooting for my failure.

  But after a day of kidding myself, I pick up my pencils, trying to imagine clothes Hampton and his team would like. Clothes that can be made with care, but quickly. Clothes with solid, strong stitching that can be processed in bulk; items that must be cheap, and that therefore sacrifice complexity so that the small cost I’m allowed can go into the making process.

  I ask myself: What are fabrics that are inexpensive and widely available, yet don’t feel cheap?

  I ask myself: What are the simplest designs I can imagine that are still beautiful?

  I find answers, but doubt is a disapproving parent. I have seconds to smile at a problem I’ve solved before imagining Hampton’s likely reaction. He doesn’t need to be physically present to insult my work. Or by my side to hate me.

  I go to my father, but he’s no help. He tells me to do my best — his one-stop answer to everything. It’s almost as if he believes that everything stems from principals. Hold your center, and the rest of life tends to fall into place.

  Mom doesn’t understand our business at all, let alone why I have such strong feelings about it. So people like cheap dresses and pants, why is that such a big deal?

  Ricky and Emily are useless. They both shop at Expendable
Chic, then come home and hide their purchases like contraband. They think that if I know where they shop, I’ll turn into an ogre. I’ll denounce and berate them the way Shadow Hampton berates me every time I put pencil to paper. They wear the clothes in front of me after the tags are all in the trash. As if I can’t recognize fast fashion without a receipt or shopping bag.

  When I mention it privately to Mom, she says, Who cares? It’s their life and their money.

  She’s right, of course. The opposing truths hurt my brain. I hate Expendable Chic and the other stores like it, but I can’t argue with Mom’s logic. It’s my sister and brother’s business where they shop. They’re poor college kids, and their budgets have to stretch. I don’t hate them, just the stores.

  But why?

  And watching them try to hide it from me, I have to wonder if I am the bad guy here?

  I draw.

  I throw my designs in the trash.

  I reimagine, then pick up my pencils again.

  Twin forces hold guns to my head, demanding my performance. On the one hand, there’s Hampton’s replacement check, still uncashed in my register. I need to create what Expendable Chic might manufacture while creating something good. Something I can have pride in despite its rapid manufacture.

  I want to find the middle ground, but I’m not sure there is one. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, annoyed that my siblings shop with my arch nemesis while working for that enemy myself. The clothes have to be good, but cheap. Timeless yet trendy. Today, yet potentially forever.

  But it won’t work. No matter what I try, everything’s terrible. I’m trying to create simple garments because I figure that fewer stitches will allow for better ones, but fewer seams means that each one stands out. They have to be perfect because there’s nothing else on the garment to distract the eye.

  My simple designs are heading in the wrong direction. Expendable Chic clothes leave raw edges. They have to be single-stitched, never doubled-back and concealed. Making them simple will only make them worse.

  I suck it up. I drive a half-hour to the mall for an Expendable Chic shopping trip. I fill two big bags with example garments, hating myself for being there. I’m only 25, but I feel ancient among the teenagers. They’re rail thin, emaciated, wearing too much makeup. They eye me with suspicion as if I’m an old lady who’s escaped my caregiver and wandered into the wrong store by mistake.