Page 77 of Tempest

Oof.

“What makes you design the way you do? What do you want people to think of your designs?”

“I want women to slip on one of my dresses and feel like they’re wearing a piece of art,” she says after a moment.

“They will. Because you are an artist. Typically, I’d say money isn’t always good for art, and sometimes it’s even the death of art. However, fashion is different. Jean Paul Gaultier has a net worth of about three hundred million. All by creating wearable art. I wouldn’t call his design history commercial.”

“No,” she agrees.

“It’s said that Cecil B. DeMille was asked how you make an epic film. He said, start with an apocalypse and build up from there. I don’t know if he really said that, but I believe in the concept for all art. And you, my darling, are a brilliant artist. Don’t let commercialism get in your way, make your own success. Be loud and unashamed.”

“Start with an apocalypse,” she muses. “I like that. Thank you, Odette.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” I tell her. “And you’re here for a reason, too. Don’t ever forget it.”

For how much I questioned taking this position in the beginning, I’m happy I did. I’m more than a mentor to these students; I’m a consultant, and advisor, a therapist, of sorts.

I love being every one of those roles. So much so that I haven’t missed styling at all.

Tori comes in after a time and gets busy at a worktable. I watch from my office to see if she looks like she might need help. Occasionally, she’ll look up and send me a smile that borders on bashful. Instead of trying to puzzle out what it means by myself, I walk out to talk to her.

“What are you up to today?”

“Not too much, just finishing off this jacket,” she says, making a cut to the fabric she’s working on. “I wanted to say something, though.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m really happy for you and my dad. I don’t want it to make things weird, even though I realize I probably just did.”

“You didn’t make it weird. I’m glad you said something, I wasn’t sure how much you knew.”

“He was tight-lipped about it. I think it’s that sport superstition thing where if they say it, it won’t happen. He likes you a lot.”

“That’s mutual.”

“I’m glad. Truly,” she says. “Will you be at the game tonight?”

“We’re trying to work out how to get Britton there without causing a scene.”

“Oh my god,” she says under her breath. “Dad said you two were friends, but it would be amazing to meet her.”

“Hopefully, we’ll see you there.” I pat her hand before moving back to my office, hiding my emotion as I go. Her acceptance of me means so much because she means so much to Gavin. Honestly, she’s beginning to mean a lot to me, too.

That might be the big downside of this job, I can easily see myself getting attached to these kids.

“Maybe we should have gotten a suite,” I say for the fourth time.

“No,” Britton protests. “I told you I don’t want to see the game that way. I’m sure it will be fine with the wags.”

“The wags will be fine, I’m not sure about the crowds sitting around them, though.”

“It will be fine,” she reassures. “Vanessa is meeting us there?”

“Yes, she’s only been to one game before.”

“You say that as if you’re a seasoned vet. How many games have you been to?”

“Just the one, asshole.” I laugh.

---