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It was overwhelming.
How much they loved my work.
Of all the designers in the showcase, I was the one who made waves somehow. I was the one they talked about afterwards. I was the one they were quickest to approach.
I watched my peers glance at me countless times while I was being spoken to by so many of those big names we were working to impress. I watched their sharp glances of jealousy, their smirks, their eye-rolls, their frustrated grimaces.
There was a time when I would’ve relished in all that negative validation of my talents.
I found no joy in it.
“Thank you so much,” I kept saying to each bit of praise I got.
“Really, it was a collective effort,” I assured another. “It was all of us who … Well, yes, we encouraged each other. My peers and I—we all had our part in putting on a good show, really.”
It didn’t matter how many times I—in natural Lance fashion—deflected a lot of the praise, attempting to reel in all of my fellow designers and share the spotlight somehow.
No one was interested in them.
I’m still in shock, sitting here on this curb after a lot of constant questioning, praise, curiosity, and intrigue.
Maybe I even underestimated myself.
A set of heels clacks on the pavement behind me. “Really. Why are you seated on this curb like a bum? Is something off with you, Lance? You should be over the moon and the stars.”
I rise off the curb and face Ms. Andrews. “Sorry. I’m just …” I let out a nervous titter. “I’m a bit overwhelmed, still.”
“Good. You should be. You should be overwhelmed with your own potential, which I’ve believed in since the first day I saw you.”
She gives me a muted look of approval, her lips pursed and her eyes half-lidded. That’s her aloof way of telling me she likes me and admires my talent—and expects a prompt thank-you for it.
“Thank you, Ms. Andrews.”
“Please. It’s Michaela, and you know it.” She inclines her head toward me. “We’ll need to be on a first-name basis now, Lance. It’s your destiny, this business.”
I avert my eyes.
She notices, but she misinterprets. “Don’t be afraid of it. You ought to go to the reception with your head high. You’ve made an impression—the impression I’ve asked you to make. Live large. It’s your time, Lance. This is what all your peers have always wanted, but only you have earned.” She smirks proudly. “Welcome to the major leagues. Truly, you have not disappointed me this day.”
Ms. Andrews—Michaela, I ought to get used to saying—walks away clutching her designer bag, leaving me to my own thoughts on the side of the road.
Major leagues.
Lindsay Randall’s voice pops into my head from the reunion, teasing me about using those very words. I feel the dim cafeteria lighting on my head from that night, and I find myself smiling.
Spruce itself is a lot like a big family. Everyone there takes care of you, even if you’re wayward, even if you’re sad, even if you don’t think you belong. Even people like Cody Davis-Arnold—hard, thick-headed, asocial, mad all the time—find a place in Spruce, Texas. Even star-quarterback-turned-softy-coach Tanner Strong found a place. And his weirdo baker boyfriend-turned-husband Billy, who I guess isn’t such a bad guy in the end after all.
Even a former teenage wrestler who once bullied the boy he couldn’t have.
I close my eyes.
It’s behind you now.
Other things await you. Greater things. Bigger things.
Things I’ve wanted since I first left Spruce and embarked on my journey to becoming a world renowned fashion designer.
They’re right here now, in my grasp, sitting in my palm.
All I need to do is close my fingers.
On the way to the reception, I idly pull my phone out of my pocket and turn it on, since I had shut the thing off completely during the show.
My heart jumps.
For half a second, I think I see a missed call from Chad.
Then I blink, and I realize it’s a missed call from Salvador.
My heart and mind are clearly playing wicked games with me today.
He hasn’t spoken to me in weeks. In fact, since that phone call we had before I left Spruce, I haven’t heard a peep. I’ll assume this call has something to do with congratulating me on my show, or some other attempt to continue proving how good of a person he is, and how awful and thoughtless of a friend I was.
As I continue my way down the street, I tap his name and lift the phone to my ear.
He answers in a sullen, broken little voice. “I hate my life.”
I frown. “Sal …”
“I’m worried about Richie. I don’t know if he’s the one. I think maybe it’s a mistake to marry him.”
Of all things, this wasn’t exactly what I expected Sal’s reason for calling me to be. “What makes you say that?”
