Again there were names.
Pages and pages of names.
Girls who whispered when she walked by. Boys who posted things online after Mason’s funeral. Comments she had screenshotted, printed, and tucked between pages like blackened pressed flowers.
I sat on her carpet and read every page.
Then I understood.
The antagonist had never been a saleswoman. It had never been a dress shop. It was a chorus of cruelty she had been carrying inside herself for two years.
I photographed every page and sent the images to Eli.
I don’t know if any of this helps you, I typed. I just thought you should see what she’s been carrying.
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I sat waiting.
Finally, his message arrived.
Some of these I already knew. Thank you for the rest.
A minute later came another:
I know what to do with them.
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
Of course he knew.
He had lived through those hallways with her. He had already built the bones of the dress. Now he had found its heart.
Day Six
On the sixth morning, I made a mistake.
While standing in the kitchen, I called a shoe store.
“Size eight, ivory, low heel,” I said into the phone. “For prom, yes.”
When I turned around, Hazel stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Hazel—”
“I told you to stop.” Her voice broke. “I told you. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“Baby—”
“You keep trying to drag me back to who I was. She’s gone, Mom. She died when Mason died. Why can’t you accept that?”
“Because I love who you are now too,” I said, my voice shaking. “I love you in this kitchen. I love you in that hoodie. I just want you to have one night.”
“For who?” she shouted. “For you? For him?”
She slammed her bedroom door so hard that picture frames rattled.
I stood frozen with the phone still in my hand.
For a moment, I nearly called Eli. Nearly told him to stop. To put down the needle. To save his hands.
Instead, I walked to his house.
What Eli Was Really Making
His mother let me in and silently pointed upstairs.
I opened his bedroom door.
He had fallen asleep at the sewing machine.
His cheek rested against the table. One hand still clutched a spool of thread.
The photographs I had sent him were printed and spread across the floor. Names were circled in pencil.
Behind him stood the dress.
Ivory. Structured. Covered in roses blooming down the skirt like a garden grown overnight.
I stepped closer.
Inside one rose, I noticed tiny stitches.
Words, perhaps. Hidden deep within the folds.
I reached toward it.
Then stopped.
This was not mine to open.
I draped a blanket over Eli and switched off the lamp.
As I walked home through the darkness, understanding finally settled over me.
He was not making a dress.
He was making something for which I had no name.
