Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)
“You named the dummy?”
“Actually, I named the dress she’s wearing. It was my final exam project during my last semester at FIT. I got an A, and my teacher liked it so much that she put it on display in the lobby. One day, a pretty famous designer visited the school to give a lecture, and she spotted the dress and asked if she could wear it to her fashion show. The Carina Von Dusen wore my gown, and photos of her wearing it were splashed on the pages of Elle and Vogue. It opened so many doors for me.”
I looked at all the beadwork on the dress, remembering the countless hours I’d spent hunched over in my tiny studio apartment, hand sewing them all on. The memory made me smile. “I couldn’t afford all of the materials I needed to finish the project, so the owner of the store made me a deal. She covered what I was short, and I gave her the gown to display for a few months. They usually rotate different dresses on display, but Filomena’s been here for nine years now. I could take her home if I wanted, but sometimes when I’m feeling frustrated or nervous, I walk here and visit in the middle of the day. My office is only a few blocks away, and it always makes me feel better.”
Brock’s eyes roamed my face. “You really light up when you talk about your work, you know that?”
I nodded. “I feel it on the inside, too. I may often hate the business side of things, but I love creating. Even after all these years, when I design something new, I still get the same high I felt when I would show my grandmother a shirt I’d made at age eight.”
Brock nodded. “I get it. I feel the same way about building log cabins. When I was a kid, I would build them out of Lincoln Logs and show them to my grandfather. He was the one who taught me how to lathe logs. There’s an art to it.”
I suddenly felt overwhelmed with emotion. It could’ve been because I’d been talking about my grandmother, and she’d passed away last year. But I suspected it had more to do with the realization that neither Brock nor I was ever going to give up what we loved doing.
I swallowed and tasted salt, nodding toward the stairs. “Ready for our last stop?”
“Sure thing.”
The final place I took Brock was the Brooklyn Bridge. We walked over the East River from Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights. “My dad’s an identical twin,” I said. “His brother lives in Dumbo. When my parents were married, we used to go to Uncle Mark’s house for dinner every other Sunday night. After we’d finish eating, my dad and I would sneak out and walk to Manhattan and back so we didn’t have to help with the dishes—at least we did before I caught him with another woman.” I paused, realizing something. “I’ve driven over the bridge many times since then, but this is the first time I’ve walked it since the days when I crossed holding my father’s hand.”
Brock spoke quietly. “Today’s bringing up a lot of old memories.”
I smiled sadly. “Yeah, I guess a lot of my fondest ones are from a different time in my life. To be honest, I think I stopped making special memories in my personal life the last few years. I’m not sure I can come up with any I have with my ex-husband. Maybe that’s the reason things didn’t work out—I didn’t put the time in to give us that chance, to go places and create memories.”
Brock stopped. “The best memories are usually more to do with the person you’re with, not the places you go.” He cupped my cheek. “We could be walking down any street in any state right now, and I’d still always remember the way I feel at this moment. And it has nothing to do with a bridge.”
I turned and kissed the inside of his palm. “You’re a very smart man, Brock Hawkins.”
He winked. “And a very hungry one. Think we can head back to your place now?”
“Yeah, definitely. We can stop and pick up some takeout on the way. What are you in the mood to eat? I keep a folder on my phone with my favorite restaurant menus.”
Brock smirked. “Trust me, what I’m hungry for isn’t on any menu.”
***
A streak of sunlight slipped between the blinds, rousing me from sleep. I found Brock standing next to the window in his boxer briefs. He stared out between the slats, looking lost in thought.
I pushed up to my elbows. “Hey. What are you doing out of bed so early?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“And here I thought I did such a great job wearing you out last night.”