Page 29 of Tempest

“Gavin isn’t a friend.”

“What is he then,” Vanessa asks. “Besides the boy who once broke your heart.”

Vanessa knows my history, thanks to our first drunken night together in college. I spilled it all and swore her to never speak of it again.

“A memory.”

“A bad one?” George asks.

“A bittersweet one,” I clarify. “A beautiful one, followed by a sorrowful one.” I could never regret those days with Gavin. I’ve tried, but I can’t. New love…no, first love is an amazing thing.

“You loved him,” George states.

“I thought so at the time. But I didn’t know anything more about love then than I do now.”

“Because you don’t let yourself,” Vanessa says. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push. If I didn’t see the things you don’t, I wouldn’t.”

“What does that mean? What do you see?”

“We both see you desperately searching for changes,” George answers. “But I also saw the way you looked at him when you thought no one was looking. And I saw him doing the same.”

“Curiosity is what you saw. It means nothing. We don’t know each other anymore.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t waste the opportunity to get to know him then. What’s the harm?” Vanessa asks with that same concerned look.

Another broken heart, I answer her in my head.

“This is good, Drake. But be mindful of adding too much here,” I say, gesturing to the floral applique at the hip of the dress. “You don’t want it to distract from the silhouette.”

Drake steps back to analyze his design, I stand next to him, waiting for his conclusion. I’ve made it clear that while I make suggestions, they are in no way obligated to take them. My opinions are to provoke thought, nothing more. These students have loud voices, they need support, not influence.

“It’s adding too much bulk,” he finally says. “It will make her hips wider. If I move it up and turn it…” He unpins the applique and adjusts it to a position farther up. “Here, it will accentuate the waist.”

“Well done,” I tell him and move on through the workroom. Mostly, the students in their first year aren’t designing for class. Their coursework is more on learning sewing skills or patterning, along with fashion history and the like. But the workroom is a free space for them to come and work out their creative needs in between or after class. My office is just down the hall, so I spend a lot of time here. Even if there is only one student here. Today, there are four, including Tori, who just walked in with a big bag.

“What do you have there?” I ask.

“A new haul from the thrift store,” she says, excitedly dumping the items onto her station.

“I hope you don’t mind me watching the process?”

“Not at all,” she says.

“Glad I don’t make you nervous.”

“Well, I didn’t say that.” She laughs. “I’m here to learn, though, and you have the best eye.”

“You flatter me, Ms. Vaughn. Talk me through the process?”

“Sure.”

She lays each piece out, pointing out what attracted her to every one. One is the color, one is the quality of the denim, one is the art deco-style print. There are a dozen different pieces as she starts to rip stitches and make cuts. She doesn’t discard anything, just sets the scraps aside for “future projects” she says.

Two hours pass like minutes, and she has three new garments laid out and patterned. I’m not the only spectator anymore, either. Benji and Drake have both pulled up stools next to me.

“That was fucking impressive,” Benji says.

“Agree,” Drake chimes in.

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