Stella’s eyes are closed, but she takes a deep breath now and starts talking. “Give and take. That’s the theme I settled on. Next year is all about renewal, a fresh start after two years of lockdowns and masks. We’re looking past the melancholia of Christmas and cold weather. The message is this: help your loved one find their footing again.” She nods at the artwork I’m holding. “A lot of people wouldn’t buy themselves a bright red dress like that, but if someone else did, it would be a breath of fresh air. Suddenly they’re wondering, am I the kind of person who wears a red dress? The answer is we all are, we just need help believing it. A loved one’s vote of confidence goes a long way. It can lead to discovering more of your own.
“As far as the ‘take’ in ‘give and take,’ studies show that consumers, especially women, do a lot of shopping for themselves while buying holiday gifts. They’ve just gotten their work bonus. Or they’re using holiday stress as an excuse to splurge. So why not take this opportunity to draw them into the store and make them want to come back in the new year?”
She rolls her finger at me, and for a few seconds, I’m confused, because I’ve gotten completely absorbed by her voice and the way she’s just become…animated. I can barely glance away long enough to hold up the next sketch, which is a rainbow assortment of shoes arranged in a geometric shape, drawing the eye from the front of the window to the back.
Inviting. Eye-catching.
“That’s where ‘take’ comes in. Take a new beginning. Buy the shoes. Wear the lingerie for yourself.” She pauses to wet her lips. “Vivant has always been high-end. My opinion is…either lean into that image or don’t. Your current window is accessible and that’s fine, but it doesn’t match what’s in the store. They’re coming in expecting Macy’s prices and finding five-hundred-dollar Hermès scarves. It’s important to brand as much as it is to sell products, so the first step is a clear vision before we start executing.” She shakes her head a little. “I don’t mean to say ‘we,’ as if it’s a foregone conclusion.”
I like her saying “we.” A lot.
Probably too much.
My instinct was to give her the job the second she started talking. Not only do I agree with everything she’s saying, not only are her designs well-defined and vibrant, but I want to believe in her. So this is where I have to check myself. I’m an optimist to a fault. I was taught to search for the best in people and—refusing to take my attraction to her into account—I see a lot of good in the person standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding her breath for my response. She wants the position more than anyone I interviewed upstairs. She needs to prove herself…to herself, doesn’t she? And I want to help her do that. If this was a perfect world of my own design, I would say, “you’ve got the job!” and we’d cut to a music montage of her working diligently, hair tied up with a pencil while we try not to make eyes at each other in the break lounge. But this isn’t a perfect world. She needs a chance, but she’s also averse to receiving one. I have to do this in a certain way.
“How does a trial period sound?” I clear my throat, trying to make my voice sound more official. “Normally our Christmas window designs would remain for the duration of December and into January, but our board wasn’t happy with the penguin design, either. In fact, the words vomit-inducing might have been tossed around. They want something new for the week before Christmas when the majority of shopping is done. Essentially, we’re reinventing the wheel on a very tight schedule. I can give you four days to complete one window—and we’ll go from there. You could start tomorrow and have until Friday.”
For long moments, there’s only the sound of her breathing.
The quick rise and fall of her chest.
She shoves hair behind her ear in a hasty movement, lowering her eyes to the ground. But not before I catch the sheen of tears and my heart goes sideways. It takes superhero strength to remain seated on the top step when I want to take all six stairs in one lunge and wrap her in a hug, however inappropriate that would be. “Stella—”
“Thank you.” She quickly trudges up the stairs and shakes my hand. “I…you can keep those.” She’s already running back down the stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Cook.”
“It’s Aiden,” I call after her.
There’s a short hesitation before the door slams down on the lobby floor.
Finally, I let myself drag in the huge breath I haven’t been able to take with Stella’s presence causing my lungs to crowd up. Straightening my bow tie, I whistle my way back up the stairs, looking forward to tomorrow more than I have in a good long while.
3
Stella
This far transcends imposter syndrome.
I’m standing in the front window of Vivant, passersby staring at me like I’m a zoo attraction. Following an email I received last night from Aiden, I’ve checked in with Mrs. Bunting in human resources, filled out paperwork, taken a picture for my employee identification—which felt eerily similar to a mugshot. With my shiny new badge around my neck, I was given a tour by one of the other HR administrators who definitely knows about my prison record, leading to a lot of curious once-overs that I tried to ignore.
This is a huge chance.
I can’t help but feel undeserving, but starting now, I’m going to do everything I can to change that. I’m going to design the shit out of this window. First, I’m going to try not to throw up from nerves. Second, I’m going to draw on the knowledge I’ve managed to retain from three years of online classes and combine it with the new insight I gained last night while devouring design and marketing strategies on the internet. There have been a lot of changes in technique since I studied the art of showcasing products, but the basics are the same.
Step one: cover the window for some privacy.
It takes me twenty minutes to tape up the opaque paper with the use of a stepping stool. When I arrived after my tour with HR, my sketches were waiting for me in the tight window display space and Aiden’s scent lingered in the air. Zingy peppermint. He even smells cheerful. It’s almost fascinating.
Right. I’m blaming the weak knees he gave me yesterday on fascination. I can only imagine what my best friend Nicole would say if she knew about my left field attraction to Aiden, the polar opposite of the rebellious hellraisers whose names I used to doodle in the margins of my school notebooks.
The wayward musing about my best friend clips me on the chin, forcing me to pause in the act of tidying up the scraps of discarded paper. Suddenly she’s there, with her quick, tight-lipped smile and tan Italian complexion. Nicole is still incarcerated and will be for a while longer. Since the trial, our only communication has been through handwritten letters—and they were few and far between. We grew up together, shared everything, so the total lack of communication hasn’t been easy. I had to set a boundary, though. That’s what Dr. Skinner called it. I don’t blame Nicole for everything that happened. God, no. Ultimately, my decisions are what got me in trouble. But I can’t pretend like I didn’t get a swift push off the high wire, leaving me without a safety net.