Page 94 of Falling Like Stars

I’m seeing a house today to rent. Looks like a winner. Tonight, I want to take you to Leggara. Check out the menu. If you like, I’ll pick you up at 7pm. Miss you already. Love, Z

My eyes, already puffy from the night before, sting again. Despite the storm that wracked me, I feel better. The idea of giving into it, I realize, is terrifying right up until the moment it breaks, and then it’s a relief.

It looks great, I write back. Love you. xoxo

I do. I love Zach so fucking much. And I might even have a little left over for myself, and that’s why I confirm my next appointment with Dr. B and get ready for work.

I drive to the warehouse in Culver City for my shift. When I find my workstation in the massive, hangar-like space, someone else is in it.

I glance around to make sure I’m in the right place. “Excuse me, this is my station.”

The young woman, mouth full of pins, doesn’t look up. “Don’t think so. Been here for three days.”

Three days? When I called Dottie, my supervisor, to tell her I needed a long weekend off, she was disappointed but said my spot would be waiting for me.

“But I kept things at this workstation,” I say. “My sketchpad, for instance…” My voice trails as I remember running out with it when the March Hare panic attack hit. I crashed into someone—a woman—and then Zach came for me. I recall a few random papers in my studio but that’s it.

I’m heading back to the front office, when a sewing pattern on one of the other workstations stops me. I stare at the new sketches. The designs look familiar. Because they’re my designs. The ones I’ve been doodling during my breaks, letting my imagination run as if this were my production.

“What the hell…?”

At the front office, the manager clacks his keyboard when I tell him my name. “Says here you’ve been terminated.”

My stomach drops. “Since when?”

“According to payroll, your final shift was last Wednesday.”

The day of my breakdown.

“That can’t be right. Dottie James okayed my time off.”

He shrugs, clearly done with me. I bite my lip, thinking. Dottie promoted me to lead background. Maybe I’m supposed to be in that section of the shop? Which has a different pay system for some reason?

It’s a longshot, but I head to another building in the complex. This one looks more like one of those fashion competition shows, with costumers working at worktables, pieces of cloth and lace everywhere, and models standing around in their underwear waiting to be fitted. Only these aren’t models; they’re the actors for Avignon. And the designs they’re wearing are mine.

Avignon is a period piece set in the early 1800s. Laurent Moreau’s designs were fine but—in my mind—boring. In my recent sketches, I drew the empire-waisted dresses with puffed shoulders and long sleeves, but then got a little crazy with exaggerated elements. I added embellishments of colors, lace, beads, and feathers. My designs are historically accurate but visually kind of wild and fun which makes sense to me for a movie like Avignon—it isn’t a sweeping epic in need of a serious aesthetic. It’s a humorous romantic film like Emma and Pride and Prejudice. There’s room for fun, but Laurent stuck to convention.

Until now.

I notice Tessa Carlyle from the infamous pool accident, standing with Laurent. The head costume designer is about forty, a tall man, slender, with a thick head of black hair and light blue eyes. He’s chatting with another designer who is taking measurements. A third is placing huge, plumed hats on and off of Tessa’s head for Laurent’s approval.

I consider walking right up to Laurent and demanding to know why he stole my ideas and how he got them in the first place, but I’m paralyzed. Anything I do now could affect Zach. I can just see The Scandal Sheet: “Zachary Butler’s Nobody New Girlfriend Throws Wild Accusations at Noted Fashion Designer.” Who would believe me?

I stare dumbly as Tessa Carlyle is outfitted in a traditional Regency dress, but the sleeves are puffed like soufflés, and her headpiece sports a train of feathers down her back. The dark purple skirt splits down the front to reveal layers of lavender silk. It’s beautiful, having come to life when a few days ago, it had been only pencil scratches in my notebook. Since I was a kid, I’ve dreamed of my designs making it to the costume department of a Hollywood movie, and now it’s happening.

Just without me.

“What are you doing here?”

I jump and turn to see Dottie James staring at me sternly. Her red hair is piled on her head in a beehive and she’s wearing earrings in the shape of yellow airplanes, but her expression is deadly serious.

“I…I…”

“Laurent was kind to let you go without a scene. But if you don’t leave now, he might not be so merciful.”

I regain a few of my senses, most notably, anger. “Merciful? Those are my designs. I lost my sketchpad before I took a few days leave. He must’ve gotten a hold of it somehow.”

“Just what are you suggesting?”

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