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I laughed and shook my head. “She doesn’t have a specific color, but I’ll text her. Let’s get your measurements so you can get back to work.”
“Take. Your. Time.” Jamie smiled.
The entire time Jamie was there, which wasn’t any longer than an hour, Clay hung in the background, not once asking to repeat a number. But then again, he was a numbers guy. I remember in college when we would study together, his textbooks were full of equations that I couldn't understand, and mine was doodles on a pad of paper. He would be so focused on those numbers almost nothing could bother him, whereas one small distraction would take my attention from the art in front of me onto something else, and that something else was usually trying to distract Clay. I was normally ninety-five percent effective.
I would always take his pencil away from him, placing it behind my ear. That always made him bite his bottom lip. His eyes followed my every movement, his hands would always find my hips as I crawled on top of him, his books falling to the side. I would run my fingers through his hair, kiss his neck, his collar bone, his lips. Anywhere I could. It was magnetic the way we fit together, even back then. I could feel his skin pulse against my fingertips, even now as I tried my hardest to focus on that number on the measuring tape.
“Ophelia.” Clay’s deep voice rang across the room. I stopped, dropped the measuring tape, and looked at him. He had a sly smile, only one corner of his lips raised. “I don't think Jamie’s arm span is ninety-five inches.”
I blinked and looked at the measure tape. “Oh, no. . .”
Jamie laughed and shook her head, side eyeing me as I gave Clay the correct number.
“You good?” she whispered.
“Shh. . . I need to concentrate.”
Jamie left with a quick hug and smile on her face, leaving me and Clay alone in my small studio. Running my hands along my hips, I made my way over to Clay. He peeled off the post-it note and stuck it to my computer.
“Well, that was fun.” He smiled. “If you need help with my chicken scratch, just ask me. I can translate.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, right. I think Carter was ready to murder me with Madeline’s, and his handwriting was worse than yours,” I said, peeling the sticky from the computer screen. He had acronyms for the type of measurement and then a small number next to it. It was chicken scratch, for sure.
“I’m assuming that Madeline’s dress had a lot more measurements than that.” Clay scooted out the chair at the desk and sat down, lifting his arms behind his head to lean back. “Being a wedding dress.”
“True, but Madeline's dress is simple too. There were a lot more difficult designs, but the one she loved has simple lace, as you can see.” I held out my hands to Madeline’s dress on the mannequin. It had been pieced together and sewn, waiting for Madeline to come to a fitting.
“What happened to the rest of your designs?” he asked.
“I still have them. I keep all my designs, whether they get made or not. All my drawings and sketches are held there,” —I pointed behind him—“in my portfolio.”
“And this email?” he nodded toward the computer, where I had completely forgotten I had JoAnn’s email still open.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You read my email?” I asked, folding my arms.
“I didn’t mean to.” He lowered his arms and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs, his eyes still fixed on me. “But when I came to get the post-it note, it was blaring me in the face.”
“You read my email.” I should be angry over the invasion of my privacy, but for some reason, I wasn’t. Perhaps, him seeing it would be the final push I would need to actually send it. It had been a draft in my inbox for days now. This could have been a good thing. “Do you think I should send it?”
He nodded, not even a hint of hesitation. “If it's what you really want, which I know it is, then you should hit send.”
His eyes searched mine as he stood from the chair, taking just a few steps toward me, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“A lot has happened to me recently. . .” he began.
I inhaled. Was he about to tell me everything? No more pretending that he was a hot shot in Seattle still?
“And I’ve had to try to piece my life together. Last night, Elliot said something that gave me a little push, and once I texted you, things seemed to get clearer. I think as soon as you hit ‘send,’ things will get clearer for you too.”
I bit my bottom lip. “What, um. . .” I coughed. “What do you mean, you tried to piece your life together?”
Open up to me, Clay. . .
“Stupid things—working remotely, breaking up with Rebecca. You know, things that seem huge at the time, but in the long run, don’t matter. Things that would fog my brain, seemingly important, but not. I’m just now finding those really important things.” He was closer to me now, his eyes heavy on mine. “So, are you going to hit send and be Ophelia Fuller, Wedding Gown Designer, next big hit on Say Yes to the Dress?”
I exhaled and narrowed my eyes at him. “I’ve read it about a million times. . .”
“Do you want me to hit send?” he asked, shrugging and tilting his head.
