Page 67 of Hats off to Love

But now that we’re here, I can’t see it any other way. It was always meant to be.

Him.

Us.

Soon we’ll have to have a talk, just to close the door on any uncertainties either of us might still have lingering, but not today. Today, I just want to bask in the glow.

Like Stokes mentioned, he spent Sunday at the farm. His plan had been to come back that evening, but he was held up working on something with his mother and ended up staying the night there. Of course he called, and we did something else we’d never done before: we talked on the phone. We talked for more than just a few passing minutes; we talked for hours, hours where I was smiling, laughing, and having my eyes filled with little dancing stars. Even now, with the two nights combined and almost forty-eight hours later, I’m still glowing. I can feel it radiating from the inside out.

Does he see how he’s changing me? Does he know what he’s doing?

I’d like to believe I’m a confident person. I’ve worked hard to get to where I am and to feel strong enough in myself to do things like open my shop and run this business, but it’s amazing how I feel knowing I have him by my side. Yes, I have my mother and Molly, but Stokes just takes this underlying fear that lingers and squashes it. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but he is. With him, I feel invincible, and I’m so appreciative. It’s funny how one unexpected kiss and a gossip article have changed my life.

“Do you think they’ll show her?” Molly asks as she carries a large bowl of pad thai from the kitchen and sits next to me on the couch. I know I should be eating too, but I’m nervous, and the thought of having a full stomach makes it ache even more than it already is.

“I don’t know. There are so many people there, there’s no telling.” Whenever the camera pans to the crowd, it’s as if they are endless. There are overflowing parade bleachers lined up and down Fifth Avenue with metal street barricades to keep the spectators off, members of the media are stacked up and down the museum stairs, and there is security everywhere.

To watch the Met Gala, we set up the television to show the live stream from Vogue’s digital platform. I closed the shop early, Stokes surprised me by also leaving work early and bringing dinner, and there was no way Molly was going to miss this.

“Of course they will—this is live,” Stokes reminds us. “I imagine they’ll show everyone who walks up the steps, even if it’s just for a split second.”

The three of us are on my couch with our eyes glued to the television. There’s a star-studded lineup of hosts, and Entertainment Tonight is there on the steps to cover the biggest moments, along with the magazine’s global editor. We watch the hosts talk and speculate about who is attending and what and who they will be wearing. In theory, the arrivals are scheduled. It’s set to begin around six, and it will end around eight. They’ll commentate on the behind-the-scenes details of fashion’s biggest night and slip in little tidbits about how the magic is made. It’s all just so exciting, and as the first limo arrives, I hold my breath.

One celebrity after another makes their way up the famous red carpet steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I’m enthralled with the clothes, the designs, the glitz, the glamour, and the people.

“I don’t understand some of the clothes these women wear,” Stokes says.

“A lot of them are there by invitation from different designers, and they don’t really get to choose—it’s chosen for them.”

“Still,” he mumbles, and I can’t disagree. The person walking in now looks like they are dressed as a lamp shade, while the person before them looked like they should be on the set of Alice and Wonderland. Neither look like the theme of the roaring twenties, but then again, what do I know? It’s just that this is a night when you’re meant to shine. I guess I agree with him—why people would choose attire that isn’t flattering or dazzling is beside me.

“Some of the men, too,” Molly chimes in. “Did you see that guy with the butler-looking outfit with pants cut at the knees? His shoes looked like black patent leather go-go boots. It was awful.”

Stokes chuckles.

“You laugh, big brother, but if Rosie asked you to wear that, you so would,” Molly teases.

He glances at me, his gaze warm and affectionate. I’m certain mine is the same.

“Don’t worry, I’ll never ask you to wear that.” I pat him on the leg. His hand covers mine, and he holds it.

And then, a little over an hour and a half into the show, there they are, Avery Layne and Will Ashton. The camera pans to him as he steps out of the car and holds his hand out for Avery. He opted not to wear the vest, but he is wearing the feathered bowtie. My heart gallops, and there she is. She’s so stunning, and my heart pounds hard in my chest as pride overflows.

At this point, I’m not sure I even care what people think. She loved the dress, I love this dress, and it just looks to die for on her. Even the hat. No one else could ever wear this the way she is, and when she smiles for the camera and winks, I know that little shoutout was for me; she told me to look for it. I can’t believe something I designed and made is making its way up the red-carpet-covered steps.

Flashes are going off around her, the train of the skirt flows perfectly, and when she stops to be interviewed, I don’t hear one word because I’m too in my head. Feathers, sparkles, and the gorgeous person Avery is—at this moment, I’ve accomplished enough.

Next to me, Stokes intertwines his fingers with mine and squeezes. I don’t need to look at him to know he is proud of me; it’s gleaming off of him in waves. On my other side, Molly has taken out her phone and is recording the whole thing. She’s recording the television, me, Stokes, all of it. I’m certain she’s snapped a few pictures too, and knowing her, her mind has gone wild with how she plans to ultimately post this with the others she took when Avery was in the shop and weave it into the brand’s story.

Just as quick as Avery was there, she’s gone, and they’re on to the next person.

“That was amazing,” Molly says, jumping up, but I barely hear her. I’m in a trance, staring at the television and too lost in the surreal moment I’m having with myself.

Behind me, I hear the telltale sound of a cork popping and Molly laughing. Turning, I find her in the kitchen with a bottle of pink Moet champagne and three glasses.

“You didn’t think I’d let this night pass without some bubbly, did you? We’re celebrating!” She holds up the bottle and does a little dance before she pours it. “Here’s one for you.” I stand as she hands me a glass. “One for you.” She holds it out for Stokes to take. “And one for me.”

The three of us hold up our glasses while Molly takes a few photos then forces us to do a short video of us clinking them together. She’s so crazy, but she’s so good at what she does. My love tank is overflowing with appreciation for her.