Page 123 of All Our Nevers

I don’t know what feels better, her love or her trust. But now that she’s let me in, offered me this beautiful thread into her confidence, I know I’ll never take it for granted. Never stop striving to deserve her. Never, ever let her go.

Epilogue

Three Years Later

I would love to end with a simple question: do you consider your work to be primarily art or primarily fashion?” The interviewer’s silk dress shines golden against the blues of Boston harbor.

A few years ago, having my very own event at the Institute of Contemporary Art would’ve been unimaginable, beyond a pipe dream. Yet here I am.

“I love this question,” I reply. “Early in my career I saw a much brighter line between the two. And even when they overlapped, I thought wow, that designer is using fashion as art and it felt innovative and subversive. But the longer I work in this field, the more obvious it becomes to me that fashion is art. Whether it’s through crochet and embroidery, which have often been demoted to the designation of ‘craft’ in the public eye, all the way up to custom couture. Fashion is creative visual expression that evokes emotion in the eyes of the beholder. That’s art.”

“And did you design your own outfit today?” she asks.

“I did.” I twirl in place, showing off the pleats of the emerald green skirt, the perfect fit of the matching top. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it’s objectively a masterpiece.

“It’s stunning. And I’m so sad that our time is up, because I’ve loved talking with you. To everyone who turned into today’s event over social media, we hope you’ll plan a trip to Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art in the near future. You have one month left to see Lia Mercado’s Bienconnue Collection before it leaves for Chicago. And for everyone who joined us in-person for today’s reception, please enjoy the open bar, and make sure to come speak with the artist herself before you leave. Lia, we’re so lucky to have you. Thank you for taking the time.”

“It’s an honor to be here. Thank you, everyone.”

Applause breaks out across the room. And front and center—with a wide, luminescent smile—is Owen, glowing with adoration in his navy blue, notch-lapel, tailored cotton suit.

I exit stage left and he comes to meet me, wrapping me in his arms, pride and admiration pressing me tight to his chest. He doesn’t kiss me—he knows I’m at work and I take my job extremely seriously—but every muscle in his body wants to. And that almost makes it better: my body anticipating his next touch like it’s our first.

“You know you’re the most talented and beautiful woman in the world, right?” he says.

I roll my eyes through a smile. “Tell me about it.”

“No way—is that the famous Lia Mercado?”

I look over to find Andy’s teasing smile, meeting it with my own. “What, you want an autograph or something?”

He hugs me long and hard until his wife shrieks, “Okay, okay, stop hogging her! It’s my turn.”

Then Sophie sweeps me into a hug even longer and harder than Andy’s, rocking me back and forth. “I’m so proud of you, Lia! This is even more amazing than I was imagining, and I had set the bar really high in my mind.”

“Well, if it isn’t the accomplished Dr. Walsh and her broke author husband,” Owen teases.

“Fuck off,” Andy says, laughing as he shoves his brother’s shoulder.

Owen has spent enough time congratulating Andy for the novel he published a few months ago that the joke lands with love.

“Oh yeah, hi Owen,” Sophie says, chin peeking up over my shoulder to see him. She refuses to let go just yet. “Good to see you, love you too, but Lia’s simply more important today.”

Andy starts to ask, “Where are Nolan and—” but I cut him off.

“They might have left already. It’s their anniversary so they have a whole thing planned.”

“They need to just get married already,” Sophie says.

“Not everyone wants marriage, Soph,” I say.

“Oh, I know all about you and your raging feminist anti-marriage agenda,” she says. “But normal people get engaged when they’ve been happy together for that long.”

“You genuinely cannot say a single word about normal engagement timelines,” I say.

She responds with a simple, “Touché.”

“I may know something…” Owen says slyly from my side.