He nods for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Then he turns slightly to look down the side of the building, which takes up an entire city block. “And what would you do with the other three windows?”
I blink up at him, not sure if he’s calling me out for being an armchair expert or if he’s genuinely curious. Somehow…I sense it’s the latter. Sarcasm isn’t his personality. Wait. How has he impressed his personality on me in the space of five? Ten minutes? How long have I been standing here talking to this man? “I should go—”
“You should apply,” he says at the same time, chuckling over our verbal collision. “I have it on good authority that Vivant is looking for a new window dresser.”
“Oh.” I choke on the word, unable to keep the longing off my face when looking back at the window, imagining myself on the other side with a Vivant-sized budget. Four windows to design. All manner of materials and fabrics and baubles at my fingertips. And that is never, ever going to happen. My résumé has a giant employment gap between age twenty-one and twenty-five where I was serving time in Westchester. For a crime I do not deny committing. I can’t even get hired at a diner, let alone at this upscale department store. “No. I…I’m not interested.”
Bow Tie studies me closely. “Sure about that?”
“How is this your concern again?”
He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks at me—and oh my God, it happens again. That weightless turnover beneath my ribcage. Maybe I’ve contracted some kind of disease. It has been a really long time since I dated or had a boyfriend, but I remember my type. This guy is not it. There is a pleat in his dress pants. He’s wearing a bow tie and a grin and a piece of hair is now curling down the center of his forehead. The pads of my fingers definitely shouldn’t be rubbing together, wondering what kind of texture that lock of hair would be. Or what his reaction would be if I curled it around my knuckle slowly.
I look down quickly before whatever is happening inside of me plays out on my face. “All right, I think we’re done here.” With a restless scratch to the back of my neck, I skirt around him, reentering the flow of sidewalk traffic.
Just before I’m completely out of earshot, he calls, “There’s an application on the website. Can’t hurt to give it a look-see.”
I don’t stop walking until I’m inside my apartment. Pacing to the very corner of the room, I toe off my boots, then I doff my jacket, bundle the garment up and place it on top of the boots. Next, my headphones. Out of the way. Neat. A memory catches me off-guard from just about a month ago—my parents watching me perform this habit from across the dining room, exchanging a nervous glance with each other. Like they weren’t sure who exactly they’d allowed into their home.
I bounce on the sore soles of my feet to clear my thoughts, moving to the radiator to make sure heat is coming out. During the long walk to Chelsea, I told myself my heart was pounding because of the brisk pace I set, but it still hasn’t stopped. The organ continues to drum unsteadily as I sit down on the edge of my bed. Gradually, my gaze meanders over to the ancient laptop left behind by my uncle. I shake my head, refusing to entertain the notion of filling out an application for a job I am not qualified for. Or even if I am slightly eligible to dress windows, three years of online courses with a focus on fashion merchandising will be wildly eclipsed by four years in lockup.
My right leg bounces up and down.
Why am I so itchy?
I last another five minutes before lunging to my feet with a curse of Bow Tie’s existence, and I start hunting through drawers for the laptop charger. What’s the worst that can happen? I submit the application and they never respond?
No, that’s what will happen. I’m an ex-convict.
But for some crazy reason, I send it anyway.
I’ll never hear back.
2
Aiden
I sit down at my desk and clap my hands. “It’s going to be a good day.”
On the other side of the office, my assistant’s fingers pause in the act of typing out God knows what at two hundred miles an hour. “And what exactly is your basis for that theory?” asks Leland over the top of his wire-rim glasses. “It’s a Monday and it’s snowing.”
“Both of those things are the sign of a clean slate. It’s like we’ve got a fresh spiral notebook from the drugstore and this time we’re going to use good handwriting the whole way through. Not just on the first page.”
Leland stares through the floor-to-ceiling window at the big, chunky flakes falling from the sky down onto Fifth. “The extra-wintery vibe is a reminder that I haven’t done any shopping and there’s only twelve days until Christmas. I’m never going to make it in time.”
“You always make it on time,” I reassure him.
He picks up a ballpoint pen and uses his forehead to click it open. Closed. Open. “I bet you have all of your shopping done. Wrapped. Thoughtfully written cards attached.”
“Everyone knows you don’t wrap presents until the twenty-third of December.”
“I don’t know that.” Curious, he stops clicking and arches a cautious ginger eyebrow. “Why do you wait?”
Realizing I forgot to take off my overcoat, I stand up and cross to the rack by the door, draping it over the top hook so the hem won’t brush the floor. Snow falls from the collar and melts onto the gray carpet, leaving little wet spots behind. “Let’s say you bought your aunt a green scarf. You bought it assuming she didn’t already have one. But you have to leave yourself a cushion in case she shows up wearing one three days before Christmas. Or out of the blue she might say, ‘I hate green scarves. I hope no one ever buys me one.’”
Leland sputters. “Now what are the odds of that?”
I hold up my hands. “You want to wrap presents pre-twenty-third and gamble with Scotch tape, that’s up to you. You just better hope my theory doesn’t stick.”
Slowly, my assistant turns back to his computer, muttering, “You asked. You know better than to ask,” to himself.
I chuckle under my breath and tap a key to wake up my computer. Leland is twenty-nine—three years younger than me—but he has the disposition of a cranky senior citizen and the pessimism of Eeyore. That’s one of the reasons I hired him five years ago. Hell, someone needs to balance me out. He also brings a mean homemade peach habanero salsa to company parties and that is a quality that cannot be underestimated.
My calendar alerts pop up onto the screen, causing an odd pinch in my chest.
Same odd pinch I had in my chest on Friday during that impromptu conversation outside of the store. How…odd. Rubbing at the spot with a knuckle, I hide the calendar alert that reads Noon interviews with window dresser applicants and open the drive file I share with Leland. There are sixteen applications inside. Is one of them her?
“Before you ask, all the applicants have been vetted,” Leland says without looking up from his computer. “In the interest of saving time, I weeded it down to the ones that have potential. Excluded anyone who used all caps or used the word thrive in their cover letter. That word is literally draining in and of itself. My personal pick is Vivian Blake, former Bergdorf’s window dresser. She was responsible for the elf runway show design of 2019. Iconic.”