Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(41)

Same here. I feel like this is the longest we’ve all gone without talking to each other.

Sal only comes into the chat to drop in selfies. Did you see he met the senator?

Sure did. But at least he lets us know he’s alive. Reese is gone, you know? I mean, I get it, I do. It makes sense, he’s a whole continent away. But he can’t be that busy, you know? I just want to make sure he’s okay.

Right. It feels like Sal’s a workaholic and Reese is just ghosting us.

It’ll get better.

You okay? You sound sad.

Dad said they got an offer on the house.

Shit. I’m sorry, Heath.

It’s okay, it’s okay. I knew it was coming, but I guess I was holding out hope that maybe it wouldn’t sell, and maybe it would work out, or maybe I could save up money and help with the mortgage payments when I got back. I don’t know, I was just clinging to false hope.

At least you have a lot of good memories there.

Yeah. I do. And I’ll make a lot of new memories at the apartment or wherever we end up next. I’m just feeling crappy right now.

I’ll try to set up a time for us all to talk. Having half our group go MIA right now is probably not helping.

Yeah, that sounds good. I’ve gotta get changed for my shift. Hope you’re settling in over there.

I… well, some things are good. Some things are not. But I’ll let you get changed. We’ll talk soon. Love you.

You’ve got this! Save those trees. Love you too.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

REESE

Finally, finally, I get to see part of Paris. I’ve been so preoccupied with school, I’ve spent more time holed up in my dorm room working on designs than outside.

Mamma always talks about how the memorable parts of her study abroad in London were the places she traveled, the times she got to eat and drink in pubs across the city, and not so much the learning—but I’m still getting torn apart during every design session.

Yes, my other classes are going fine. Yes, Professor Watts always has kind things to say and suggestions on how to improve. But nothing can cause me to spiral faster than enduring group critique from my classmates.

They say I lack a point of view. They say it looks a little too off-the-rack. I feel totally lacking in inspiration, and something’s not clicking.

“Perk up, mate.” Philip nudges me in the arm. “This is the fashion capital of Paris, which is the fashion capital of the world. Do you know much about the Marais?”

“Not a ton,” I admit.

“Well, you’re in for a treat. Art, food, fashion, it’s got it all.”

We probably look like a tour group—all twenty of us Fashion Design students walking single or double file through the stone archways that line the shops. I take my time as we walk along, and a vintage store catches my eye. After our first big project, I’m expecting mod dresses, polished looks from the sixties or seventies, but then it dawns on me that “vintage” could really mean from any decade. In here, it’s got it all: ancient leather jackets, denim suspenders, brightly colored tracksuits from the nineties.

It makes me wonder what my classmates would think about any of these designs. Too simple? Too flashy?

“We’re getting left behind,” Philip says, so we walk quickly to catch up with them.

“Do you think I’m trying to be too ‘ready-to-wear’ and not couture enough?” I ask him. “Noelle keeps telling me how my looks wouldn’t read well on the runway.”

“I don’t mean to be rude to her, or to any of us, but keep in mind she’s seventeen and can barely sew a piece of fabric without spiraling into a breakdown. She gives good critique sometimes, don’t get me wrong, but after a certain point, you just have to go with your gut.”

“Easy for you to say,” I whisper.

“Hey, I heard that!” He laughs. “I get bad critiques too. Remember when I presented that yellow and brown look and Adam said it looked like a trip to the bathroom? Do you think that’s a good observation? Like, in any world, would that be helpful?”

“So why doesn’t Professor Watts jump in and shut him up?”

He shrugs. “When we’re out there in the real world, we’ll get way worse comments than that. Maybe this is all part of the process.”

Our professor leads us into a three-story boutique. On the first level, we’re greeted with some of the most beautiful woodwork I’ve ever seen—dining tables and chairs, rustic-looking bookcases loaded with vases and prop books. Strewn throughout the home goods are racks of designer clothes, charming day dresses and thin leather handbags, a selection of discounted jackets and sweaters toward the back.

“I’m actually scared to check how much some of this furniture costs,” I say.

“There are no price tags in this store,” Noelle chimes in from behind me. “That must mean it’s quite a bit higher than any of us can afford.”

I chuckle, though hearing her feedback on anything makes me bristle.

“It’s brilliant, though,” Philip says.

We’re led into the back room, and the orderly setup of the store immediately descends into a chaos of scrap wood, clothing patterns, mannequins, and half-finished dresses.

“I’m Talia,” the shop owner says. “I want to welcome you all to my store. I understand you’re all a part of Riley Design, which is very dear to my heart. I was in your shoes not too long ago, and I decided to come back to the school for their postsecondary program. I partnered with a furniture designer I met there, and ten years later, here we are.”