AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER1
AUTUMN
“Excuse me!”
I bump and swerve through the crowd of people also crossing the street with the light, faking left but then, seeing a hole to the right, I dodge that way instead. “Excuse me... pardon me... coming through, please.”
Despite the overly practiced manners that would make my small-town mother proud, I get stuck behind a man in a suit with a phone pressed to his ear. “No, unacceptable. Call him back and tell him to be in my office within the next hour or there’ll be hell to pay,” he says snootily, sounding like the worst thing he’s capable of doing is making someonepersona non grataat the country club in Martha’s Vineyard.
I’m sure the phone call is significant to him, but nothing is as important as my getting to work on time, this morning of all mornings. I don’t make it a habit of running late, another politeness Mom ingrained in me at an early age—on time is late, early is on time—but today is critical. My boss, Nora Jacobs, has a video conference with Jacqueline Corbin,Madameof the renowned House Corbin.
If there’s a hierarchy of fashion houses, Jacqueline sits on a bejeweled throne at the tippiest, toppiest point. For someone like her to request a meeting with Nora, who sits solidly in the wide and populous middle of the fashion designer pyramid, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, even if we have no idea what it’s about and had to sign non-disclosure agreements before they’d put Nora on Jacqueline’s calendar.
So I willnotbe late. No matter what it takes.
I press my red-painted lips together, steeling my spine and sending a silent apology to my mother who will probably feel the disruption in the atmosphere when I drop the niceties of my upbringing and go with my more recent training as a New York City transplant. “I said... excuse me, but what I meant was... get out of the way.”
I elbow my way past the guy, secretly taking twisted delight in the grunt of surprise he lets out. “Hey!” he grumbles. And then, seeing me, his tone changes. “Heyyy!”
I know what he sees—a young, attractive woman with flaming red-orange hair, pale skin dotted with freckles, and curves that belong on someone several inches taller. I’ve been called everything from a leprechaun to a fairy when people are feeling kind, or a fire crotch or Oompa Loompa when they’re not. Best guess? This guy is leaning toward the former and not particularly upset at my aggressive passing move.
I’m already hustling on, my red heels clicking and clacking down the street, adding to the symphony of city noises. It used to bother me, the constant whirlwind of activity in the bustling streets, buzzing and beeping cars, yelling pedestrians, and crowded sidewalks. But now, the energy of it all is what keeps me moving. The entire city is just... alive.
Like my spirit.
I came to life the day I arrived in the Big Apple for school at the Fashion Institute of Technology. I’d applied secretly, knowing my mother would think my big dreams were ridiculous. She’s always been supportive of me, but her world view is limited to the next county over from our small town in Massachusetts, where the biggest event of the year is the Fall Apple Festival. The pinnacle of the festival? The Apple-Sauce-ing, as in a relay where teams race to bob for apples, peel them, boil them, and smush them into applesauce. Whoever gets a full cup of applesauce first, wins. My mother was Apple Sauce Queen three years in a row in her early twenties, and she wanted me to carry on her legacy.
I think I rolled my eyes dozens of times at her through my teen years as she tried to impart her racing wisdom while I was spread out on my bedroom floor, making patterns for the outrageous outfits I would create for myself.“Autumn, are you listening? You have to twist as you smush to get the most sauce with each press.”
But all that apple smushing practice gave me the strength to elbow that guy out of the way, so perhaps it wasn’t in vain, after all. Mom would be equally horrified at my lack of manners and proud that I’m using the lessons she’d taught me for something, considering I haven’t been to a festival in five years.
“Coming through!” I call out in warning to another throng of people ahead. To their credit, they do glance over their shoulders and make a hole for me to dive through.
“Thanks!” I shout as I run down the street, aiming to make the next light crossing too. The crossing light is a flashing stop hand, but I risk it with a wave at the line of cars sitting there as though they’re contemplating hitting the gas before they get a green. A courier gambles with me, going the opposite direction and shooting me a wink as we pass.
“Almost there,” I tell myself, thankful that I can see the sign for my first destination ahead. I don’t actually know the official name of the café I frequent every morning for Nora’s mandatory caffeine fix. The sign simply saysCoffee, and the baristas wear whatever wrinkled shirt they pulled from the floor after rolling out of bed at five A.M.
But they make the strongest Americano in a ten-block radius, and without it, Nora goes into withdrawal by ten.
Inside, a blend of coffee, cinnamon, and spice hits my nostrils, and I breathe in deeply, hoping it’ll hit my veins through my lungs. Luckily, the line isn’t too bad this morning and I stand in the back, tapping my foot and wiggling my hips to a tune only I can hear. It basically sounds like ‘hurry, hurry, hurry... I need to hurry’ and probably makes me look like I need to pee, but no one pays me any mind. If it’s one thing people in New York City know, it’s to mind your own business. If someone wants to break out into a full-blown tap dance Broadway number, complete with striptease in the middle of the morning coffee rush hour, you keep your head down, not seeing a thing, and your hand on your bag.
“Hey, Carrot Top! I’ve got your order going over here!” a friendly voice calls. There’s no way she’s speaking to anyone but me, so I step out of line and head to the end of the bar.
“Hey, Claire! Thanks,” I say gratefully as I mentally count the number of minutes she’s saved me. Claire is my angel this morning, though she’s wearing a cropped band shirt that I think once saidDirt Puppies, ripped black jeans that hang low on her hips, and smudged eyeliner that’s definitely a few days old. Punk rock is too soft for Claire.
Claire shrugs, her hands never stopping their brisk, efficient movements as she methodically mixes up her magical concoctions. It looks like she’s working on my latte. “No worries. I thought Clay would want extra whip today. That’s why he’s got a dome lid this time.”
I glance at the tray of drinks she’s indicating and see that she’s done my co-worker Clay a favor with a super generous glob of whipped cream that’s piled up well beyond the hole in the top of the dome. “You know I’m going to have to watch him lick that up like a dog with a pup cup, right? It’ll be downright obscene, and that’s before he tries to irk me by suggesting I could learn a thing or two from him.”
Claire laughs, well aware of Clay’s bluntness. She’s also aware that he’s not wrong. I could definitely learn something from Clay, who takes full advantage of the city and all its offerings, going to art gallery openings, dancing at various nightclubs, and checking out new restaurants, all with a different guy nearly each outing.
Meanwhile, I go from work with Nora to my teeny-tiny studio apartment, where one month’s rent is about as much as Mom’s mortgage for six months, and work on my own fashion projects.
A social life? What’s that? The sum total of my social interaction is my morning conversation with Claire as I pick up our coffee order.
“Maybe see if Clay would put that tongue to use on you,” Claire suggests playfully, and a shiver works its way through my body, one I exaggerate for effect.
“Definitely not. I’m not his type, and he’s not mine.”
