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I needed to buy time to figure out my approach. Fooling around with Damian on the sidelines was all fun and games, but we needed to be smart. We needed to protect our hearts—well, mostly mine. It seemed like Damian didn’t have to worry about protecting his. And I didn’t want to become just another notch on his big-city bedpost.
So I added one more thing to my to-do list:Figure out how to tell my boss and long-time crush that I don’t want to have sex with him because I’m in love with him and sharing that with him without the promise of a relationship afterward will physically kill me.
Easy peasy.
I went through the motions of my evening on autopilot: hop on the subway, emerge in the Garment District, grab a light dinner for later, trudge five blocks to class. I entered the noisy chatter of the classroom, a smile drifting onto my face. I was thankfully feeling not just caught up butaheadafter having to miss a whole class the week Ian showed up.
I took my favorite spot, the second stool in the row of seven facing the center of the classroom. A large worktable stretched in front of us, just the right amount of space for us to cut fabric, take measurements, and sketch endlessly. Three of these tables faced Mr. Mitchell’s primetime spot at the center, so all students could get a good view of what he demonstrated to us during class. Behind him, over twenty dress forms lined the wall in a neat row, only a few odd ones leaning forward drunkenly.
“How is everyone today?” Mr. Mitchell’s voice boomed over the commotion of unpacking and chitchat. I unpacked my bags as my classmates called out their responses:Ready for patterns. Dressed to kill. Tired but fashionable.Mr. Mitchell’s face lit up as he heard each new response.
“Great. So we’re all in a good mood and ready to turn in our quarterly portfolio.”
His words landed like a wet towel to the face. I scrunched up my face, looking down at my notebook.
“As a reminder, these portfolios constitute a full quarter of your final grade,” he went on.
I blinked rapidly, my brain growing noisy as I rummaged through my things. I didn’t have my portfolio ready. In fact, the brown leather binder was at my apartment, half finished and fully forgotten. I’d known that it was due at some point this month. I just had…forgotten.
Panic seized me. Maybe Mr. Mitchell was wrong. I flipped through my planner, scouring my dates to see where I’d written the portfolio due date. But as my gaze washed over the month of December, I saw no quarterly project due date in there. I fumbled for the class schedule, desperate to find the mistake. It wasn’t due today. I wasn’t tanking my first big project.I wasn’t.
“You can leave them here in the basket on my desk,” Mr. Mitchell went on.Shit shit shit.I dug out the syllabus, scanning the dates printed there.
And there it was.
Today’s date.Quarterly portfolio due.
Mother cluuuuuuuck.
The weight of my disappointment crushed me, stealing my breath and sending my head tipping toward the ceiling. How on earth had this happened? Of course, I knew immediately.
It was Damian.
It was Fairchild Enterprises.
It was my infatuation with the man who’d only very recently started to kiss me after I’d been wishing for said kisses for fifteen years.
It was because I’d allowed myself to get swept away.
My throat tightened, and I watched as everyone filed to the front of the classroom, dropping off their portfolios in a big metal basket at Mr. Mitchell’s desk. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what I could say to him. I’d had the date in my possession, and I’d missed it. I wasn’t just unprepared, I was woefully blind. And now my ineptitude was going to cost me my grade in the biggest, most important move of my life.
I hadn’t saved all my money and left my family behind only to miss my first major project. What on earth was I doing? I fought tears as I thumbed through the pages of my planner, trying to distract myself with something. Anything. Once everyone had turned in their projects—except for me, of course—Mr. Mitchell got on with the day’s lesson. I could barely concentrate for how loud my internal voice was screaming at me, berating me for this failure.
How much money are you going to waste on this shit? Spoiler alert—she fails at the end anyway.
My internal voice sounded just like my sister. I could hear the sarcasm inside me, as much as I could feel it sinking into my bones. Imaginary Tara knew best how to break me down.
This is a fucking joke and you know it. You had one main project to turn in and forgot about. What kind of fucking idiot does that?
This was a fool’s mission, and my sister had known it before I did because she knew me best. I was just a starry-eyed fool. The idiot who had all the tools at her disposal and still forgot to write down the damn date.
You should have just stayed in Oakville.
I beat myself into the ground as class went on, barely able to focus and keep the tears at bay. It was the longest hour and a half of my life before we took a break. I spent the entire fifteen-minute break crying in the bathroom stall, choking back my sobs so nobody would hear me. After freshening up, I returned to the classroom, still dejected and upset but smiling, to withstand the final hour and a half of class.
I wasn’t just stewing on my complete failure as a student and New York transplant. I was also figuring out what I was going to say to Mr. Mitchell after class. I needed to address this screwup. I might be a small-town idiot out of her element in the ocean of New York City, but I was going to turn in my project and get these points, mother cluck it.
By the time class ended, I no longer wanted to cry as much, so that was a plus. Students gathered their things around me and began heading for the door. Once I had my bags on my shoulders, I approached Mr. Mitchell’s desk.
