Page 50 of Everything About You

Though it’s almost Paris Fashion Week, I am back on Eastern Standard Time.

And it is glorious .

The stress levels are high, but it’s a much different atmosphere working in the Manhattan office. As a quintessential French

fashion house, Maison Dauphine only shows during Paris Fashion Week. Some of the New York PR girls have been sent to France

to work the show, but Sophie and I are here running things for all of the US magazines, stylists, and events.

“I think the messenger got lost on the way to Vogue .” Sophie sighs dramatically, splaying out on the conference room table and resting her face on the pile of magazines we’ve

been using to tab Maison Dauphine credits. “How have we not gotten a status update yet?”

I refresh my inbox, and while there is no status update about this delivery, there are immediately four more requests. The

spring/summer show isn’t happening for three more days, but people are chomping at the bit.

This line is going to be even bigger than what we worked on for resort—the venue is turning into an immersive galactic experience to highlight the futurist themes with iridescent and metallic fabrics—so the volume of emails has been next-level.

Some of the younger editors invite me to lunch or coffee, which Sophie has explained is a tactic to befriend me, in the hopes that I’ll consider them first when the line drops and pieces get multiple requests.

It’s hard to say no to a free lunch or coffee when I consider New York prices and my part-time salary, but it seems safer

to avoid any kind of possible indebtedness when the motive is abundantly clear.

“I’ve handled all requests for the day,” I say. “Are we ready for tonight?”

“So ready,” Sophie says. “Can’t believe we’re already back to Fashion Week events. It feels like we were just talking about the resort show.”

I nod. “Oh, I know. Somehow it’s been two months.”

How have I been here for that long already?

Everything has been going so well it feels like I’m in a dream. The only concern that is bound to come up is the cost. I spent

two weeks living in a guest room that belonged to Sophie’s friend, but then Celeste worked her magic. Her aunt easily decided

she was ready to return to Paris and agreed to let us stay in her Brooklyn apartment until at least spring, so long as we

keep the place clean and Celeste runs errands for her and her clients... the errands have mostly been showroom tours and

measuring out spaces. She did have to meet with a contractor on her aunt’s behalf, and that was a whole thing, considering

she didn’t even know what a contractor was.

(To be fair, I didn’t fully know either.)

Our parents did both insist we pay rent since Celeste’s aunt had already let us use her Paris flat, but Aunt Angela is a godsend

and isn’t charging us anywhere near what we’d pay if we’d found this place on StreetEasy.

It’s horribly ironic that I ever judged Rhodes for privilege.

Celeste and I have been beyond lucky ourselves, and I’ve made sure to take stock of that as often as possible.

Before leaving Paris, I did break it to Noel and Celeste that Rhodes and I were no longer dating, and while I had hoped to

leave it at that, there were loads of questions, which resulted in me spilling my guts about the whole situation. I expected

a bit of backlash for keeping it from them, but I only got sympathy. They seemed to connect the dots with their reactions—it

was like I told them I had lost the love of my life, and they were quite eager to assure me that I’d never find anyone like

him, that this is very sad indeed, but that they’re here for me and they’re so sorry to hear.

Exactly the kind of response one hopes for.

Anyway, yes, it’s been sad, but it’s gotten better. Leaving Paris and saying goodbye to Rhodes was more brutal than I imagined

it’d be, but it was for the best.

Rhodes and I are friends, and I am confident that’s the best-case scenario here. We text a lot and we send each other memes

on Teams all the time. I’m glad we’ve been able to maintain a friendship, even if I had at one point desperately wanted more.

It’s not like either of us really has time to date, anyway.

So Celeste is sort of right after all. Things do always work out the way they were meant to.

I’m not sure how long we’ll have this amazing deal with her aunt’s apartment, but I’ve been making friends at work and I’m hoping to have a roommate lined up when the time arrives, especially because I know Celeste is likely scheming.

After all, Noel visited us before the fall semester started, and he’s now back at Stanford. Though Celeste is having fun with

me in New York for now, I just know she’s plotting her escape to California. I’m not upset about it—I knew this was temporary

as soon as she said she was packing her bags. I just want to make sure I’m ready and can make it in New York without her.

I also got to hang out with Chip, Miguel, and Isaac when they came up to watch some of the US Open. Overall, this has been

a net positive.

“So you’re going to meet me at the hotel, right?” Sophie is applying some lip gloss and logging out of her computer now that

we’ve made our way back into the fashion closet.

I nod, firing off a quick email. “I just have to go home, turn in an assignment, change, and then I’m on my way.”

I’m enrolled in Citrus Harbor Community College for now, doing three online classes until I transfer to a university here

in the city. The plan is for me to do this apprenticeship until the assistant position opens, which should be in October.

My parents are absolutely thrilled that I am about a two-hour plane ride away and that I’m enrolled in classes with the prospect

of a job already on the horizon.

Sophie and I leave and take trains in different directions from 57th Street.

Celeste is out for dinner in Chelsea with a couple of girls she met at a kickboxing class, so I get home to a silent and pitch-black apartment.

It’s a bit wild how early it gets dark in New York in September.

I can’t believe I thought the sun ever set too early in Citrus Harbor, honestly.

I bang out a discussion board post about academic writing—absolutely riveting, I assure you—and post it after reading it over

three times. I’m trying to be better about the whole perfectionism thing, but old habits die hard. And some old habits aren’t

the worst, anyway, since my grades thus far have been really good.

After a quick rinse, I open my closet and find the silky black garment bag I’ve been avoiding since I moved here. Pulling

the zipper down, I take a breath. Only one breath, since I’ve needed the 4–4–4 method a lot less lately.

The garment bag opens to reveal the tuxedo from Paris, with its gold MD pin. All the emotions come flooding back like I’m

experiencing a sizzle reel on triple speed, but I don’t have time to go on a trip down memory lane, so I swallow my feelings

and get dressed.

Maison Dauphine pays for our transportation to and from events, so I take an Uber back up to 57th Street, where I am let out

in front of the Plaza Hotel. It’s a legendary institution of New York City, and one of the places I’ve been dying to see,

so I take it all in as I stand on the sidewalk for a moment after the car has left. The cool air is refreshing, and the guests

of this black-tie dinner all look so glamorous as they crawl out of town cars and make their way up to the hotel.

There are so many variations of quotes that basically tell us not to feel sad for losing something because we’ll surely gain

something else. As I stand here outside the Plaza, I wonder if it’s silly to still think about things I feel I lost.

And then, when the wind picks up, I feel the oddest sensation, like the elbow of my jacket is being pulled.

I turn around, and all the lights of Fifth Avenue glow a little brighter... because there, sharply dressed as ever in his

tuxedo, with that golden-blond hair and those bright blue eyes, Rhodes Hamilton is holding a light green box of macarons.

And he’s smiling right at me.