No, no, it’s not all I wish. I wish she loved me in the same way I love her, but she obviously doesn’t.
+ + +
November bleeds into December, and then January grows cold and mean like it can in the Midwest.
My dad pulled through with a bunch of his buddies, and we were fortunate to get the building structurally renovated before the hard winter set in. I spend each day and many long nights inside my new place, working on every detail. It’s going to be amazing when it’s finished. Dad even promised me the barn itself for weddings and parties. It’s a few steps ahead of where I’m at, but the possibility for catering and future events is thrilling. I just want the restaurant to be open by late spring when the tourists return and the harbor opens. We’re offering a car service to pick up day visitors and bring them to the restaurant.
On a bitterly cold day in January, Jacob pays me another visit. He enters my place, carrying a garment bag.
“It’s fucking freezing in here,” he hollers as he stomps his feet inside the new front door and heads to the bar, which isn’t completely finished. He hooks the bag in his hands to the catch on an open ladder. “Give me something to take the chill away.”
“I have an ice-cold beer, and that’s it.” I keep cases in a cooler for the generosity of those who work for me. Friends of my father. People of the community.
“So what brings you out?” I joke, knowing Jacob’s California blood should keep him indoors.
“I have something for you.” He holds out a fancy white envelope.
“What’s this?” I peel open the flap and pull out the heavy cardstock. Flipping it over, I read the invitation.
Flawless. A story in images where beauty is on our skin.
“She’s putting on a show. Or rather, she’s in a show in New York. She’d like you to attend.” Jacob gives me a knowing look, and I slip the invite back into the envelope.
“Then why didn’t she ask me? Why hasn’t she answered any of my calls or texts?” I slam the invitation on the bar top and place my hands on it to hold myself upright.
“She’s been struggling, too, Ethan.” He softens his tone.
“I know that,” I snap as I look up at him. She suffered and survived only to come close to it happening again. But I’m struggling in my own right. I miss her. I want to be there for her.
“Go to the show. See how much better she is. I’ve never heard her sound so happy.”
Because she’s where she wanted to be. New York is where she could be lost in a sea of unseeing people.
“I can’t go to New York. I open soon. I have too much to do.”
Jacob’s lips twist. “You can take a break. Your opening isn’t for months. Go to New York and celebrate the future.”
“My future’s here.” Without Ella, I guess. I turn away from the bar and head back to a box of supplies I was unpacking. More items arrive daily. The stove is in place but not wired yet. The kitchen work island is due any day.
“She wants to see you.”
I close my eyes at his words. Then why hasn’t she called me or invited me herself?
“I can’t do it,” I say, keeping my back to him. “But again, I wish her well.”
Card 30: Pot Roast
It’s more than potatoes or pot-ah-toes
[Ella]
New York is again all I hoped for, and again, it’s not. I’ve re-entered a few folds, but most don’t know how to handle me or where to look when they see me. It’s been awkward at best and miserable at the worst. I decided not to go with a fashion house that could potentially change my designs and most likely miss the mark on my philosophy. I wanted to show how beautiful a person could be, even with a little damage. A scar. A missing limb. Cancer. I decided on a supplier to make the first run on my clothing, and I’ll do the legwork to sell my own product, starting with a small storefront.
Fabulously Flawed. Clothing designed to enhance you flawlessly.
In addition to my business decision, Greta Shaw and Isolde Ireland followed through on their project. I’d already told them I’d participate when I visited New York City back in October. The shoot took place in early December.
Now, it’s the end of January, and the black and white images hang inside the gallery. Paired with each photo is a piece of my future clothing line. Even Arturo King, a famous musician who lost a limb, posed in the pictures wearing one of my shirts, making it look sexier than anything should. Still, looking at him reminds me of Ethan. They both have wavy hair, though Ethan’s is lighter brown and a little shorter. No one really compares to Ethan in my book. He’s everything I could have hoped for and all that I lost.
It’s been almost three months since I’ve seen him, talked to him, and my heart aches from what I’ve done to him. I know it felt cruel to walk away with so few words, but I had to do this for me. I needed to show the world I was the survivor he said I was. The photographs were part of the process and telling my story was another step. A therapist is helping me work through the manipulative control imposed by my parents and the loss of them in my life; the incident itself and closing that chapter as the man will serve his sentence; and finally, my relationship with Ethan, and how I hope to get it back. With decisions now made on the direction of my business, I want to take one final step toward Ethan. We’ll have so much to discuss, but I have faith in him. I just needed faith in me first.
I’d been staring up at the image of Arturo in all his glory when I turn and see a man in a classic blue suit, trim and cut to fit as if custom made for him. My eyes squint as I realize I made that suit, and he’s wearing it.
“Hey,” I stammer, crossing the otherwise quiet gallery as people politely mill about the images and examine the clothing. “Hey, you’re wearing an original—”
The words catch in my throat as the man turns, and Ethan’s eyes meet mine.
His brow lifts. “You were saying?”
“You’re wearing my suit.” My voice trembles as I speak. I stare at him, disbelieving he stands before me looking sexier than anything I’ve ever seen. Sexier than even Arturo King. I want to throw myself at him, yet something tells me not yet.
“Yeah? Someone sent it to me.” His voice teases.
I sent the suit to Ethan via Jacob because I told Ethan I wanted to make him one. I used my memory of his body for the pattern, and I can’t believe how close I got things. I want to inspect every stitch and inch, but I’m afraid to reach for him. He once said he wasn’t letting me go, and I feel the same way. I don’t want to let him go, but the way his hand clutches at the lapel, he doesn’t want me to touch him. I don’t blame him. How I left was just mean, but I had hoped he’d take my meaning in what I said. I realized how he looked at me—with love and hope in his eyes—and I looked at him the same way. But I needed to love myself first, accept myself on my own terms before I felt I could give him all the loving he deserves. I wanted to be whole for him.
“Do you like it?” I ask, hating the hesitation in my voice but desperate to know if he likes the fit, the style, or the color. It’s blue, which is classic, but I knew the rich royal color would highlight his gold-brown eyes. Ethan holds out his arms and stretches.