“Nope,” I said.
Ri paused the game. “Say that again?”
Garrett chuckled. “A hot girl was all over you, and you didn’t go for it? That’s a first.” A spatula flew in front of my face and landed on Garrett’s shoulder. “Ouch!”
“That serves you right,” Bia said from the kitchen.
We all laughed. Bia was too fucking jealous. Even when we were talking about girls for me, she paid attention to what Garrett said.
“Yeah, well, I was going to, but—” I cut myself off. What the fuck? I almost spilled the beans about Hilary. One, I wouldn’t tell them what happened last night. Hilary probably didn’t want anyone to know. Two, if I told them I had blown Paula off to go help Hilary, they would be on to me. They would know I liked her.
“But?” Leo asked.
I frowned. “Just play the fucking game.”
Worse than talking about Paula was remembering how Reese flirted with Hilary last night. When I saw him smiling at her, I wanted to punch his teeth right out of his mouth.
“Uh, someone is touchy today,” Pedro teased. I threw him a glare. “What the hell?” he muttered.
The guys teased me some more, saying Paula had turned me down in the end, or that I couldn’t get it up. Yeah, right. Inside, I was fuming and ready to punch them all, but for Hilary’s sake, I held my ground and gritted my teeth.
I was still fuming during lunch. I needed to blow off some steam, but playing violent video games wasn’t doing the trick anymore.
When we were finished, I was the first to jump up from the table. “How about we go to the ranch and race our monster trucks?”
The guys all agreed, and then Bia, Gabi, Lauren, and Iris announced they would join us for the game. Ten minutes later, we were driving to the ranch.
Chapter Three
After Hannah left to go to the Fernandeses’ ranch for a monster truck race—the Fernandeses loved their monster trucks—my mother and I drove all the way to Santa Barbara and stopped by the women’s center. I came once a month, but my mother was here at least once a week, and most of the time, Hannah was with her.
Helping other women who had gone through much more dramatic events than what Hannah and I had gone through was part of the healing process, my mother always said, and my therapist agreed.
There were days I was glad I came, like the days I saw women stand up and fight for their freedom, to be respected, to be loved. Then there were the days I wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. Those were the days when a new woman—or two—arrived at the center. They came because they didn’t know where else to go, but they were so battered, so broken, so hurt, they had to be sent to the hospital first. Sometimes they came back; sometimes they didn’t.
Today was one of the good days, thank goodness. I couldn’t handle more drama here after what happened at the party last night.
“Is Evie here?” I asked Leila, the receptionist.
“She should be in the garden out back,” she answered. “You know the way, right?”
With a smile, I nodded and then waved at my mother as I went to meet Evie.
The garden was a special place. Each woman was invited to plant a new flower when she first came here and to tend it. To see so many flowers in bloom was inspiring. The staff didn’t let the non-cared-for flowers alone for long. They took care of them, as if they were a sign of hope, or they weeded them out, leaving space for someone else to plant her flower.
Evie was kneeling beside a pot, tending her flowers.
“Hey, there,” I said, sitting on the wooden bench a couple of feet behind her.
“Hilary!” She stood and smiled at me. “How nice to see you! How are you?”
“I’m good, and you?”
She pointed to her flowers. They were tall, bright, and strong. “Do they answer your question?”
“They do.” I was glad she was having a good day. In the year I had known Evie, I had only seen her smile twice.
Her name was Evangeline, but she preferred Evie.
Evie had gotten pregnant when she was eighteen. Her father and mother wanted her to have an abortion, but she couldn’t. So, after a big fight with her parents, Evie left and went to live with Mike. However, she lost the baby, and for quite some time, she was depressed and alone.
As far as I knew, Mike had been a sweetheart then and helped her through it. She slowly got better, but then Mike started changing. He became jealous, possessive, and aggressive. His harsh words transformed into slaps and punches. Now, at twenty-three, Evie was again depressed and alone, and she was still with Mike.
She knew better. The therapists and staff here at the center talked to her about leaving him for good. I talked to her about it a lot too, but she never did. She couldn’t. It was as if Mike held an invisible and unbreakable collar around her neck.
I understood. My sister had been through something similar, and it had taken her a long time to stand up and do something about it. I didn’t agree with it, but I understood.
What I wanted though was to see her win. Even if it took years, I would be here to help her be free of her terrible husband, one way or another.
***
With one earbud on playing a new pop song and a large to-go coffee cup, I focused on my drawing pad and my pencil at the small table in the corner of the coffee shop. I did my best to ignore the noise around me and concentrate on the last details of my project. It was better than staying cooped up inside my dorm room, especially when Mariah, my roommate, was there. She was too chatty, too loud, too spread out, and it was hard for me to be comfortable around her. At least, we got along well enough to live together without any major drama.
This was my second semester in fashion design at the College of Art and Design in Los Angeles, and I loved it. The classes, I mean. I couldn’t care less about living in L.A., or the other students, parties, frat houses, and whatnot. Thankfully, my professors seemed to like me. One even told me that, if I continued to impress her, I had a chance of getting a spot in their annual exhibition, where students showcased collections they created. Not all students participated, and this year was too late for me, seeing as the exhibition was next weekend. Even so, it was rare for second semester students to be invited to the showcase. So, I worked hard on my projects due at the end of the semester in a couple weeks, aiming to woo my professors. If I roped them in now, there was no doubt I would be in the showcase next year.
“Oh, I like this dress. It’s pretty,” Mariah said, taking the seat across the table. She set down her books and coffee and squinted at my pad. “Hm, if you put a slit here.” She pointed to the left side of the long skirt. “It would be even prettier.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course, she would suggest a slit. Next would be to increase the cleavage, and maybe some holes over the stomach. Wait, no, cut the midriff and make it a top and low-waist skirt. There, just her style.
“I thought you had class,” I said, not bothering to look up.
“The professor gave us one last assignment before the finals and let us go to work on it. Can’t believe it’s only a few more days until finals.” She opened one of her books, spreading her things over the small table as if my A3-sized pad wasn’t taking a whole lot of space already. “Better start.”
For a few moments, it was okay. Mariah started reading and I kept on working on my drawings. At some point, she got up, ordered a coffee and a pastry, and then returned to her studies.
A few minutes later, I noticed she had stopped reading and was looking at the coffee shop customers.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” she finally said.
I looked up from my drawing pad. “See what?”
She groaned, as if mad at me. “The guys! All of them look at you. All of them.”
“No, they don’t.” I started drawing again, but my focus was gone.
“I swear, they do. I’m telling you, if you went to some parties with me, you would have every man flocking around you.”
“I’m
not interested,” I said, making the mistake of looking at her again. She squinted at me. “What?”
“Sorry, but I have to ask. Are you gay?”
If I had been drinking my coffee, I would have sputtered. “No, I’m not. Nothing against gays, I don’t judge. But, no, I’m straight.”
“Then what? Why won’t you go out with at least one of the many gorgeous men around campus?”
I pressed my lips tight. What could I tell her? Not the truth, but I had to give her something so she would stop bugging me.
“I was burned before,” I started, hoping it was vague enough, but not too vague to allow for more questions. “It hurt too much, and I don’t feel like I’m ready to put myself out there. Not yet.”
There. The truth.
She stared at me, probably trying to see something in me, in my eyes, in my body language. Did she think I was lying to her? Who cared if she did? I didn’t owe her any explanation.
Finally, Mariah shrugged and returned her attention to the people in the coffee shop.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said after a couple of minutes in blissful silence. She reached inside her purse. “I stopped by our building before coming here and checked our mailbox.” She handed me an envelope. “This one is for you.”
Frowning, I took it. It was an off-white envelope made of thick paper with a watermarked F and W on the front—I had seen this logo before—and my name and dorm address stamped in golden ink on the back, surrounded by elegant swirls. Very elegant, very expensive.
Biting my lip, I opened it.
Dear Hilary Taylor,
Every spring, students from all over the United States send me their portfolios in hopes to secure a summer internship with me. Even though you didn’t send me a portfolio, I recently came to know your work and was impressed.
If you would be interested in an internship with me during the summer, please come to my studio for an interview next Friday at 11 a.m. Please bring your portfolio.
Best regards,
Fallon White
I hugged the letter and let out a squeal.
Mariah stopped whatever she was doing and stared at me as if I had grown a second head.
“Did you just squeal?” she asked, skeptical. I nodded. “You never squeal. Okay, spill. What’s in that letter?”
“An invitation for an interview with a famous fashion designer whose studio is in Santa Barbara!”
“Oh, wow. That sounds cool. Congrats!”
“It is!” I looked at the letter again. Wow, this was unexpectedly great.
My mother had taken Hannah and I to have dresses done by Fallon White a couple of times—our christenings, our debutante balls, and our sweet sixteen—and Hannah was talking about having her wedding dress done with her too. If I got an internship there this summer, maybe Fallon White would let me help with it.
There was only one problem. I had my first final exam on Friday morning. Crap.
Praying for my professor to be nice for once, I pulled out my cell phone from my tote and sent him an email, saying I had an emergency and had to head to Santa Barbara on early Friday morning.
I bit my nails until he answered later that day, saying he had another session of the same class on Monday and, if I wanted, I could go to that final exam instead. After checking my schedule and making sure I didn’t have another class at that same time, I squealed once more and emailed him, confirming the switch.
It had been so long since I had felt this good, this satisfied. I held on to that feeling with both hands, hoping it wouldn’t be able to escape me so soon.
***
In the sunlight, the white building shone bright, almost blindingly, in the warm Friday morning. It wasn’t massive, but suddenly, the three stories had become intimidating. The first story had floor-to-ceiling windows displaying the newest collection, a huge silver F and W logo hung in the middle of the second story, and asymmetrical long, but thin windows decorated the third story.
I gulped, wishing I could swallow my nervousness.
While driving here, I had called my therapist. Not because I was on the verge of having a panic attack—exactly the contrary. For the first time in three years, I felt good. I felt confident, powerful, in control. I could do this. I could live my life. I could let go of my fears. I wanted to tell her that, make her proud of me.
“I’m proud of you,” she had said, “and I’ll be even more if you tell me you’re proud of yourself.”
Was I proud of myself? I guess so. I was still curious about how Fallon White found out about me, but did it really matter? Bottom line was she had found me, and now I was here to sweep her off her feet. Who knew? Maybe she would love me so much, she would ask me to come back every summer. Then she would offer me a permanent position within her studio, one that I would gladly accept—for some time, just to learn more and more with the best. Then, when I felt ready, I would open my own studio.
I had never told anyone about this dream, not in three years, though I guess people assumed I would like to have my own studio since I was working in the fashion industry. My only doubt was, to open it in Santa Barbara and be near my family but have to compete with Fallon White, or to open a studio in Los Angeles where I could have more clientele—and also more competition.
I shook those thoughts from my mind, because they were out of place. This was not the time to daydream about so far away in the future. I would worry about that when the time came. Now, I had to focus on the next step of my journey.
My cell phone beeped—I had set a reminder for 10:55 a.m. After a deep breath, I stepped inside the studio.
A receptionist, dressed in a beautiful white and light gray casual dress, smiled at me from behind a white, curved reception desk.
“Good morning. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Hilary Taylor. I have an interview with Ms. White in a few minutes.”
The receptionist—Sonya, the silver tag on her chest read—glanced at the computer screen for three seconds. “Yes, I see you.” She gestured to the large white sectional to the side. “Please have a seat. I’ll let Fallon know you’re here.”
I turned and sat on the soft sectional. From here, the studio looked quiet, as if it was empty, except for the receptionist. To the left, a three-foot wall rose, and white lines like fringes hung from the ceiling, meeting the wall. The lines were dotted with small lights blinking in a slow, alternating pattern. The wall and light curtain separated the dresses being shown in the windows.
“Miss Taylor,” the receptionist called me. I jumped from my seat and found her standing in front of the desk. “Fallon is ready for you. Please, follow me.”
She stepped to the left of the front desk and opened a white door for me. The door led into a long, white corridor with several doors on each side and one set of double doors at the end. Of course, Sonya took me there.
“This way,” she said, opening the doors.
Seated on a tall, white leather chair behind a long glass table, Fallon White was just as I remembered. Tall with generous curves, a sharp nose, white hair cut into an asymmetrical bob, and dark brown eyes behind white-rimmed glasses. Even in her late forties, she looked young and elegant.
“Hilary Taylor,” Fallon said, walking around her desk to meet me. “It’s nice seeing you again.”
“You too, Ms. White.”
She huffed. “Please, call me Fallon.” She gestured for me to sit on one of the white chairs in front of her table. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m doing well. Very excited to be here.”
She took the chair beside mine. “I’m excited too.”
Sonya appeared by my side. “Can I get you anything, Miss Taylor? Coffee, water, juice?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
Sonya nodded then left the room, closing the doors behind her.
“So,” Fallon said. “Let’s talk business.”
***
I arrived at the bistro six minutes late. Bia was already at a table in the
middle of the little restaurant, looking at the menu. She probably got here six minutes before the agreed time. I had to walk past the bar and noticed several men having lunch alone—most were drinking beer at noon on a workday, and some were looking at the females in the bistro. Including Bia and me.
A little spark of fear made its way down my body, and I tried to remember that was normal. Guys were like that. They looked at pretty girls. And Bia was stunning. She deserved to be looked at.
Still, I couldn’t shake the fear and the disgust that took root in my gut.
I halted beside the table and pulled out my chair. “Hi.”
“Oi guria,” Bia said, lowering the menu. “Are you going to end my misery and tell me what you are doing in Santa Barbara?”
“What do you mean?”
“Usually, you have class Friday mornings and, when you come home to spend the weekend, you don’t arrive until late in the afternoon. So, when you invited me to have lunch, I knew something was up. Spill!”
I smiled. “I just had an interview for an internship with the greatest fashion designer in Santa Barbara. Hell, she’s one of the best in the country.”
“Really? That’s great! Good luck. I hope you get it.”
“Me too. Although, if I get it, I’ll have to cancel my registration for the two classes I was going to take this summer. Which is no big deal. I had just signed up for them so I had something to do. It never occurred to me to apply for an internship after just one year of college.”
“I’m sure you’ll get it. Your designs are incredible. She would have to be insane to pass you up.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, okay. Let’s change the subject. I need to stop thinking about this interview, or I’ll bite my nails off. I probably won’t hear about it for another week or so, and I’ll drive myself crazy until then.”
While we looked over the menu and ordered our lunch, Bia told me about her week. She and Garrett shared an apartment and went to vet school together—though he was one year ahead of her. I couldn’t imagine being together all day and all night, but they managed okay. In fact, I thought they always ended up cranky whenever they spent some rare time apart.
Breaking Through (The Breaking Series Book 3) Page 4
