Mine Would Be You (22)

“Oh, galán, you’re gonna have to work harder than that.”

Jackson smiles, a full smile, which sends my heart into overdrive as I turn to leave, memorizing the image of him smiling so I never forget it.





This article must be perfect.

From top to bottom, it has to be perfection.

It’s an in-depth, analytical piece on which fashion designers are making the move to faux fur versus the ones that aren’t, finishing with why faux fur should become the new normal for the entire fashion industry, not just a select few.

I tug the end of my waves again, like I have been all day. Even though it’s been almost two weeks since I begged Sloan to drunkenly chop it off, I’m still not used to it. My eyes are starting to blur. The sentences are looking a lot more like jumbles of letters than actual words at this point. But the head of my department, Miss Bisset, wants to see my draft before I leave tonight so she can possibly pass it on to Vanna Young. The end all be all.

Like I said, this article has to be perfect.

Because if it is, it’ll be featured in the September issue of Poze in three months instead of just hidden away on the website. Along with that, if the article is approved and chosen for the physical magazine, I’ll be given the opportunity over the course of the next few months to interview select designers.

So, along with my draft, I have to hand over the list of designers to interview that it would best benefit my argument while also showing the reasoning behind the other side.

I press my palm against my forehead as I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee and pop a Fudge Stripe cookie from my stash into my mouth as I edit and re-edit the paragraphs. My phone beeps with a message, and I happily fall into the distraction.

There’s one from Harper and Sloan in our group message, that Harper aptly named Brooklyn Babies after her favorite song, asking if we’re still on for our Tuesday dinner as usual and double checking our orders. I respond with my usual.

But it’s the other message, the message from Jackson, that warms my skin. Because despite my argument, he has barely stopped texting me since the wedding. I tap my recently re-manicured nail to open it.

Jackson: How’s it going, sunshine?

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the giddiness that spreads through my veins as I type my response. On weekdays, he texts me at four p.m. on the dot. I especially cannot get over the term sunshine, which he insists on calling me even though I’m anything but.

If anyone is sunshine personified, it’s him.

Me: Still alive, barely breathing though.

Jackson: That’s a little dark for a Tuesday, isn’t it?

Me: That’s part of my charm

Jackson: If you’re trying to seduce me, it’s working.

Me: I promise you that’s not what I’m doing.

I shake my head as I put my phone down, determined to get some work done before I leave for therapy. Before I can re-edit anything, Harper appears at my desk, her blue-light glasses hanging low on her nose.

“How’s the article?” she says, collapsing in the tiny spinning chair I keep under my desk.

I take another fudge cookie and groan into my hands. “Not great, and I’ve gotta finish the draft before I leave in an hour.”

She pats my hand. “You will.” Her eyes flick up to my screen and back to me. “It looks pretty done to me.”

“It has to be perfect.” I shake my head and lean on my elbow. “Enough about my article. How are the shoots coming for September?

Harper smiles, her face lighting up. “So good. And I’ve got the lead on the fur campaign. So, when your article does get approved, it’ll be your words and my photos. How sick is that?”

“That’s awesome, Harps. Now it really has to be perfect. Leave so I can finish.”

She plucks a cookie for herself and stands up, pushing her glasses back on her head. And after forty more minutes of deleting, rewriting, and editing, I print the article out. Miss Bisset is a stickler for printed first drafts. In my two years of working here, plus interning, I’ve only ever given her two other printed copies. But none of them for the September issue.

I throw my tote bag over my shoulder with the copy in hand, along with my interview choices written at the bottom, and make my way to her office. She’s pacing, which means she’s talking to someone on the Bluetooth in her ear. Aside from Vanna Young, whom I’ve only met one time, Miss Bisset is the most intimidating person I’ve ever met. But she’s a damn good boss. Challenging, supportive, and brutally honest.

Miss Bisset stops talking when she sees me approach the office and leans against her desk. Her light brown hair is drawn into an immaculate bun against her fair skin, her sleeveless, lightweight sweater dress is ironed to perfection and paired with the signature Hermès belt around her waist.

“Come in,” she says with her very light French accent, picked up from summers at her grandparents’ house as a child.

I step into the office, which is always six degrees warmer than the rest of the floor, with a soft but nervous smile on my face. She holds out a perfectly manicured hand, and I place the most important piece of paper of my life, at the moment, in her hand.

Her eyes fan over it briefly before flickering back up to my face. “I’m excited for this piece. Miss Young is looking forward to reading it as well. We’ve both been keeping our eye on your work.”