your dreams.
In life.
I thumbed through the next few pages of my childhood sketchbook. When had I stopped drawing? Stopped creating designs? Stopped dreaming?
Oh, yeah. Probably about the time I’d decided using numbers the way Scarlett O’Hara used men was a good idea. And like her, I’d lost sight of some really important things in life.
Jocelyn:
Did I ever tell you how
Molly, Amanda, Nicole, and
Betsy and I became friends?
Malachi:
No.
Jocelyn:
Well, “became” isn’t really
the right word.
Malachi:
I’m listening.
And I was bumbling this up like a reject juggling act. On impulse, I tapped the contact name at the top of the screen and then the phone audio icon. Malachi picked up after the first ring.
“Hi.” He sounded a little surprised and hesitant but also happy.
“I hope this is all right. Calling, I mean.” My fingers twisted into the seams of my pajama pants as my stomach did a little somersault.
“More than all right. It’s really good to hear your voice.” His dipped at the end, and I imagined how his ears must be reddening in that adorable way they did.
My cheeks warmed. “Yours too.” Since when did I get shy? I cleared my throat. “Anyway. Molly, Amanda, Nicole, and Betsy. Molly’s really the one who started collecting us, but I gave our little band of sisters a sort of purpose.”
“Oh?”
“We’re a sewing group. Kind of. Three-fifths of us sew, anyway, and the other two are there as minion support with the cutting and removal of bad stitches, and snack preparations.”
The sound of running water filled the background. “Good thing Gran hadn’t known.”
“Why’s that?”
“She loves to sew. Used to make a lot of our clothes growing up. She still makes things for Christmas presents and such, but says it’s cheaper to buy stuff at the store nowadays.”
“She’s not wrong.”
The squeak of spigot being turned. “That’s your dream then? Sewing?”
I turned the next page of the sketchbook. “Not exactly.” A bride in an art deco-style wedding gown, form fitting with beaded sequins in bold geometric patterns cascading down the length of imperial crepe smiled back at me. “I used to want to be a fashion designer.”
It took him a moment to respond. “Why didn’t you become one?”
“The starving part of starving artist kind of makes a person pause.” I sighed. “Growing up, the free lunch program at the school’s cafeteria were our best meals. My ambitions changed over the years from head in the clouds to food in the stomach.”
