Page 32 of False Start

"Thank you," I murmur.

"So, where to next?" he asks, and I laugh.

"Next?! Home! That wore me out! I'm going to collapse on my couch and maybe order some celebratory Middle Eastern food."

I hoist my purse up on my shoulder to get a better grip on my rolling bag, only to find him looking at me. He turns towards the traffic passing on the street.

"Care for some company?"

I can hear the hesitation in his voice. I put that there, because no one can dare ask me a personal question. Maybe Dr. Jamison was right.

"Sure," I answer with a shrug. "I only live a few blocks from here."

I start walking, and he immediately falls into step beside me. After I stop to adjust my grip on the rolling bag a third time, he steps in.

"Here, let me."

"I can do it," I argue, turning so he can't take the bag. But he persists, unwrapping my hand from the handle one finger at a time. This close, I can smell his cologne—something with sandalwood, my favorite scent—and I will myself not to inhale.

Just to piss me off, he picks up the bag and carries it like a briefcase. Like it isn't weighed down with forty notebooks and forty boxes of colored pencils. Thank God I brought extras.

"Thank you," I huff, and he coughs to cover his chuckle.

After walking a block in silence, he's the first to speak.

"So…How exactly does one get into fashion design?"

I give him a sardonic look.

"Why? Are you thinking of switching careers?"

He barks a laugh that echoes against the surrounding brick buildings.

"Yeah," he snorts. "I can just imagine what my parents would say about that after putting me through business school."

My steps falter, but I recover before he notices. I sometimes forget most parents support their kids by default. His put him through grad school, meanwhile mine haven't come to a show in years.

"To answer your question, I don't really know howonebecomes a fashion designer, butIdid it by going to college for fashion design. Growing up, fashion for women with bigger bodies was a joke. It was all frumpy florals, animal prints, flowy fabrics to hide in, and alotof black. It was especiallyawesomewhen my 7th grade Latin teacher and I showed up in the same outfit."

My words drip with sarcasm, and I hear him snicker beside me.

"Yeah, it's funny now, but back then, it was rough. People called me Mrs. Harverstick for the rest of the year. I had to take matters into my own hands."

"What did you do?" he asks, switching my bag to his other arm so we can walk closer together.

"I taught myself to sew. If my mom brought home a muumuu monstrosity, I would thrift pieces from Goodwill and the Salvation Army, tear it apart, and remake it into something a kid might actually wear. I got pretty good at it too, to the point where my friends started asking me to remix their wardrobes.

"In high school, the art teacher heard about my clothes and recommended I take her class so I could learn to sketch my own designs. The rest, as they say, is history."

We reach the front door of my building. When I have to shove hard while turning my key in the lock, I don't miss his frown. My apartment is definitely a step down from his place.

"You should have the landlord fix that," he says as he follows me upstairs. I smirk over my shoulder.

"My landlord has a very 'hands off' policy when it comes to his building or his tenants. But the rent is fairly cheap for this area, and my neighbors don't mind the noise from my sewing machine."

Cory's frown fades slightly as I open the third deadbolt on my front door.

"At least you have those, but a broken front door really isn't safe."

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