Page 109 of Wallflower
“Yes!” Daisy cries as I start to run back to my place. My car. My dreams. My wallflower.
forty-one
Violet
DAY 39 AT BELLUCCI HQ… ONLY 1066 TO GO
My phone chirps tolet me know that the hour has finally hit six p.m., and I tap at it furiously while a dozen cool, sophisticated faces turn to me with annoyed disdain.
I shrink behind my desk—the one I’ve only had for three weeks and is already a mess of pencils and sketches, fabrics and sewing supplies, reports and research—then cast a quick, appraising look around at the Leonardo Bellucci fashion office. Everyone’s already dismissed the forgettable American girl in the corner, which makes it an opportune time to escape.
I throw my phone and sketchbook in my satchel, shrug into my baggy beige jacket, and slink around the room toward the bank of elevators.
The space is brand new and frigid, with industrial minimalism and bad vibes. Lots of steel, glass, and concrete floors. And silence. No warmth or texture aside from one long wall down the middle of the room covered in sketches and swatches and evidence of the team’s collective creative genius. And everyonehereisa genius. I was made aware of that on my very first day, along with the fact that I’m an influencer hire—a shameful label for someone who got lucky without necessarily needing any talent.
I was also told I’d have to prove myself before anyone took me seriously, and while I’m not afraid of hard work, I didn’t imagineproving myselfwould include running out every other hour to fetch coffee and cigarettes and otherwise being ignored or talked about in a language I can’t understand.
So much about this job feels familiar and not in a good way. There may be no Courtney Reynolds here and my contract might say I’m a junior designer, but in every way that counts, I’m not much more than a glorified intern—and invisible again.
I smack the elevator button and frown at the digital display, willing it to move faster. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms the whispering I can hear is coming from a knot of people debating something on the design boards, not judging me and my exit, but I still hunch my shoulders and hit the button three more times.
The anxious introvert in me is relieved nobody cares enough to notice me. The woman with her own studio standing empty on a beautiful street in San Francisco is devastated she’s here at all.
When I’m finally free on the pavement outside Bellucci headquarters, I retrieve my phone, dial Dad’s number, and set off toward my apartment.
The weather is mild, my temporary rental isn’t far, and I call Dad every day at this time in a new version of our old ritual.
“Hey, Blossom,” Dad says. “How was your day?”
The sound of his voice loosens something in my chest. He sounds happy—genuinely happy, not some act he’s putting on to ease my concerns—and it fills me with both solace and loss. It’s a horrible combination when I’m trying to fight what feels like an impending breakdown.
“It was great,” I lie. “We had a big important meeting this morning to discuss next year’s collections, and I’m working closely with a lead designer on his bridal couture line.”
All not-quite-lies that are believable enough to be true. I took notes in that meeting, and I fetched that lead designer his lunch.
“I’m so proud of you for taking this chance. For having the courage to do something scary and for putting yourself first. You’ll be running that place in no time.”
I concentrate on the ground in front of me as I walk among the end-of-day foot traffic. The sun has almost set and I’m sure if I look up, the architecture and the color and the life in this city would be inspiring, but I can’t find it in me to lift my chin.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“So, where are you going for dinner tonight? I’ve been reading all about the food in Milan. You must be spoiled for choices.”
“Um, yeah. It’s fantastic. So much to choose from.”
I pause out front of the quiet little delicatessen near my apartment. When I finish talking to Dad, I’ll go inside for more of the bread, olives, and prosciutto I’ve been living on since I got here. Nobody at Bellucci headquarters has offered to show me around or take me to dinner, and I’m too shy to suggest it myself. I’m also too anxious to go to a restaurant alone and attempt to order food in my non-existent Italian.
“But what about you? How are things at Silver Leaf?”
My stomach twists as I deliberately skirt the topic of Chord. I want to know how he is, but I don’t want to ask. I want to talk only about him, but I’ll fall apart if I have to say his name. I want to ask if he’s happy, but it’ll break my heart if he is.
I’ve been following the Fury’s performance this season, so I know things aren’t going well for him professionally, and it’s a constant stone in my stomach. But I’ve had to limit my time on the internet to avoid commentary about our relationship.
I hate that people think I used Chord to get this job. I hate that others say I was never good enough for him in the first place. I hate that anyone thinks I didn’t earn this opportunity, that I’m no better than Chord’s ex-girlfriend, that he deserves better than me.
I hate that every night, I’m forced to sift through my own social media accounts and delete the vitriol. I hate that when I was doom-scrolling instead of sleeping late last week, I discovered that the website Chord commissioned for my studio in San Francisco is still live on the internet.
When I used my login information, there were six requests for my custom couture in my inbox, and I sobbed into a tub of chocolate ice cream as I declined them all.
