Becoming “the voice” of Gentlemen’s Fashion Week was an accident. Completely. I’d only stopped by the studio to drop off a couple of potted plants to make that front table seem a little less abandoned. I didn’t even pot them myself, bought them that way from Target. No big thing.
But Moe happened to be there, which was good since I didn’t have a key and hadn’t fully thought the whole thing through—of course the designers mostly had jobs and lives and didn’t spend their every waking moment pinning fabric and head-tilting from six feet back to see if they’d gotten the right draping or whatever. So I arranged the three plants in the center of the table and went back to say hello.
I didn’t mean for it to become a TikTokortunity (Declan made that up and I don’t care how dumb it is, I’m keeping it). I was talking to Moe and he was explaining the role of clothes in his life, the way he’d been able to express himself through his outfits long before he had the words to express himself in other ways, and I just...thought it was profound, so I asked if I could record him saying it.
That first interview? Where I’m in the background awkwardly prompting him and he’s in front of the camera awkwardly trying to remember what he said and how he said it? Terrible. In retrospect. But I posted it with a few hashtags and it got some views and some engagement, so I ported it over to Instagram and posted it there too, this time remembering to tag Moe and Diego and add all the GFW hashtags we were using.
That got even more engagement. People liked it and commented about how inspiring it was and even shared it. More than all that, we got a rush of new followers.
I’m not real studied at social media but I know that when something I put up on my Insta gets a bunch of comments and new followers, I should do that thing again. So the next time I had the opportunity to talk to someone I started by asking if I could record, but that was Diego, so he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at me until I told him we were doing serious work.
And, since it was Diego, once he started talking about creativity and art and love and life, well, it all just sort of came together. Not for nothing, but the man could talk. And I didn’t mind looking at him either.
Since I couldn’t publish twenty minutes of a guy I thought was hot monologuing about Art, I cut it to him saying, “I never dreamed I’d ever be in a position to influence other designers, or even to collaborate with other designers in a meaningful way. Gentlemen’s Fashion Week has already changed my life and my perspective on fashion, and we haven’t even had the show yet.” And then he grinned right into the lens, all hotness and dimple.
I got butterflies just watching it. My Diego interview (I asked a couple of questions, anyway) prompted me to petition Claris for a GFW YouTube channel so I could post the whole thing, which she approved and I did, and then, well, then we were off to the races.
It wasn’t quite like one of those movie montages where suddenly a ragtag team of outcasts take the world by storm...but I’m not gonna say it wasn’t that either. We were only a bit ragtag, yes, and we only took a relatively small part of the local fashion community by moderately steady rainfall, but suddenly people who weren’t us were hashtagging GFW. Not hundreds of times a day, but enough.
Which is when Perri’s emails with instructions started to increase (in her role as Claris’s assistant, not her role as Claris’s lover). Claris was a freaking kitty cat next to Perri.
Please make sure you use #gentsfashweek in every post; edit posts to fit if necessary.
Please make sure you tag each person in a photo or video, on every platform, and check with me to make certain we have a photo release on file.
Please post no fewer than once a day per platform, ideally at different times, and no more than five times a day until the seven days preceding the event, at which time it will be appropriate to post with increased frequency.
Please ask subjects to stand with some part of the work in view if possible.
It was enough to make a man lose his damn mind. “I do have a job,” I mumbled at my phone one night as I was grabbing a salad with Diego before going home.
“Perri again? She’s the best and also the worst.” He frowned. “No, I take that back. She’s not the worst at all, but she does have a very dry email tone.”
“If I hadn’t actually met her I’d probably think she was a monster.”
“Yes, if I didn’t know how often Claris ties her up and makes her beg for mercy it would be harder to take.”
I did a double take. “Did you just... Claris...ties...begs... Perri...oh my god.”
He grinned. “Yep. It’s adorable. And perfect. She’s definitely the person Claris has played with the longest. You’d think working together would make it impossible—or that doing scenes together would make working impossible—but they manage it.”
I was still boggling over the whole thing. “Does Claris just make everyone you guys are banging into employees or what?”
“Everyone? No. And you’re a volunteer.” He leaned in. “Play your cards right, mister, and maybe you’ll get hired on permanently. So to speak.” He immediately took it back. “Oh god, no, I didn’t mean—that made it sound like—I’m not, like, trading sex for work—not that there’s anything wrong with actual sex work but that would be more like some kind of creepy quid pro quo and that wasn’t—”
I interrupted the stream of words by kissing him. “I think I understand. And I’m not feeling sexually harassed. Plus, I’m not sure I’d want to work full-time with the person I was dating, to be honest with you.”
“No, most people wouldn’t. It works for Claris and I because she has so many jobs apart from this project—or any project we do together.” His freshly-kissed lips curled. “On one hand the idea of seeing you all day long is very appealing. But on the other...there’s something a bit romantic about being away from each other, don’t you think? That moment you walk into the studio is like a flash of lightning on a dark night to me.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’d want to give up the anticipation of walking up to the door and knowing I’m about to see your face.” I swallowed, hearing the words and realizing just how true they were. “But Claris is a genius. We’d never have a chance to see each other if I wasn’t taking pictures and doing interviews.”
“You know they’re calling you The Voice of Gentlemen’s Fashion Week now?”
My jaw dropped. “Are not. Who?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? They. The general internet they, you know. Collective pronoun encompassing everyone you haven’t personally met but who has interacted with something you’ve posted.”
“Oh, that they,” I teased. “The they.”
“Yes. That they. The they. The usual—” hand wave “—they. They are calling you The Voice of GFW because you’re never on camera but they can hear you. And because you have such a very good voice.”
“Why sir.” I raised an eyebrow at him and held it there, watching his dark eyes dart up then back down to mine. “I didn’t realize you held an opinion about my voice. An objective one, I’m sure.”
“Not at all. No. Quite subjective in fact. Let’s see. I like your voice on the videos, when you’re asking serious questions but without making them Too Serious. I like your voice when you’re just about to laugh, like the feeling is bubbling up but you haven’t let it out just yet. I like your voice when—”
“Do I really sound different at all those times?”
He shot me a don’t interrupt look. “I like your voice when you’re thinking deeply about whatever I’ve just said, like it’s so important to you that it deserves a hundred percent of your attention. And of course, I also like your voice when you’re so aroused you can barely speak at all, and again, after you’ve come, when it’s low and gentle and you ask me how I feel.” He was blushing despite holding my gaze as if in defiance. “So I’ve made quite the study of your voice and I can say with absolute certainty that I would take no other voice before yours—as The Voice of GFW.”
“In that case, I’m glad. Even though I don’t really know what that means.” I kissed him. “It’s amazing, you know? The show. The event. Even if you are calling it a week when it’s really like one Friday night.”
“There are other things going on! We’re having virtual workshops from each of the designers, and a virtual coffee hour to kick it off that Perri wants to do over Skype or something. I think we’re going to raise an awesome amount of money for a cause we actually believe in, which has been a goal of ours—mine and Claris’s—since we got married.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the goal? Be in a position to give to charity?”
“Well, we always did that. Even when we had almost nothing we’d get together once a month and send twenty bucks somewhere. It just sort of made us feel like we were helping, and gave us perspective on, y’know, how grateful we were to have what we had, to be able to give what we could give. But the idea of holding an entire event solely as a fundraiser, and a fundraiser that in itself is representative of our values...” He shook his head. “It’s honestly so incredible, Mase. Sometimes I can’t even believe this is my life.”
I traced a line along his jaw with my thumb. “You’re really hot when you’re all passionate. Not to bring the tone down or anything.”
“Calling me hot is never bringing the tone down. And thank you. I mean. Assuming that was a compliment.”
“An observation, anyway.” I leaned in to kiss him. “We should eat salad. And probably I should go home. It’s nearly ten.”
“It is.” He scooted his chair closer so our knees touched. “Or we could do something else with our time right now and pack you up the salad to take with you?”
“But if I’m eating it, wouldn’t I rather be with you?”
“But if you’re with me, wouldn’t you rather be doing something else?”
“Fair point.” I kissed him.
He kissed me.
We did some more kissing...and forgot about the salad.
I’d brought in two more plants, and Brenda had contributed a couple of aloe “newborns,” sprigs of new plants that appeared in the pot with her old one, which she’d put in soil and watered, claiming they’d take off on their own.
Then one day I showed up and there were little signs in the pots, tiny paper signs on toothpicks. “Mallow Aloe” and “Edward Elephant Bush” and “Fernando Fern.” The bits of paper, about the height of postage stamps but slightly longer, had intricately designed borders and old-timey script. I had no idea who’d done it, but I went out and brought back a small cactus garden with a plot of sand and rocks, which I arranged into a heart.
A few visits later the pots were bedazzled. Sometime after that they were connected to each other by fabric pathways and two tiny creatures were basking on little beach towels laid out over the sand. Then came the hanging lanterns made out of translucent beads with LED lights poked through them.
I started posting pictures of our odd little studio garden with promo—one of the few glossy promo postcards propped in Edward Elephant Bush’s succulent leaves. (Claris didn’t think GFW should invest in a huge run of postcards, but she’d wanted it to seem like we had. “It never hurts when the right people think you’re flush, darling.”) A family of woolen critters appeared under Edward’s branches.
Then one day, as I was checking it the way I did each time I arrived, I noticed something new. A mailbox tucked away at the far corner of the pot. I opened it carefully, trying not to damage the cardboard structure and Popsicle-stick post. As I’d almost expected, a tiny note was tucked inside, with its own tiny envelope and small letters reading FOR MASE.
I grew slightly self-conscious when I was doing all this—Brenda and Moe were working away, Claris was due in any second with something Harold had ordered and shipped to the house because he wasn’t at his apartment during the day to receive it there. But amidst all that I felt like I was opening a very small love letter.
The paper inside was actually folded. This dude. I shook my head in appreciation even as I bent forward to make out the tiny words.
M—
Meet me out back at 7 sharp. Civilization is at stake.
—D
I bit down hard on my lip to keep from grinning outright and then realized my back was to everyone and allowed the grin.
The studio had a small back room where Harold and Brenda had racks of pieces they’d finished or scrapped (“Either way I’m done fucking looking at ’em,” she’d explained), and there was a door we always kept locked that led to the alley. I wasn’t sure if it was technically an alley or not since it backed up to a cyclone fence and an empty lot full of weeds and crumbling foundations. Whatever it was, at seven sharp I casually slipped into the back room and from there I casually—okay, actually feeling covert as hell—unlocked the door and slipped outside.
And gasped. Outright. No other way to put it.
He’d set up a whole damn dinner: table with tablecloth, glowing lamps, two serving dishes with domed lids, actual plates and silverware, even cloth napkins. He was standing beside it all in a suit, smile lighting up his face, eyes glinting at me. In what felt like the far distance, cars honked and traffic continued on its merry way, but here, in this bubble in a back alley with bits of broken asphalt and old bottles underfoot, Diego had made an oasis.
He’d strung lights and streamers over the chain-link fence, making it feel even more like we were in our own private bubble. The man thought of everything.
“Sir,” he said, and ushered me to a folding chair, which he pulled out. He bent low, his lips brushing the top of my ear. “Thank you for agreeing to this rendezvous. I feel certain we are unremarked.”
I bit back a giggle. Two men having a fancy dinner in an alleyway in full sight of anyone driving past were not exactly top secret. Then again, I kind of liked it. We were at the far side of the strip mall, four storefronts down from the cross street where traffic zoomed by on their way to somewhere else. We’d be a colorful blur in the distance, a question mark passing through the mind of any driver aware enough to see us.
“We must remember this location for future meetings,” I said in a low voice.
One side of his mouth quirked up. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how many trips it took from the car to get it all set up. I’ve been here for an hour and a half.”
“Um, excuse me, you’ve been here for an hour and a half and didn’t even say hi? Rude bastard.”
“I will not excuse you, I was busy. Obviously.” He fluttered his eyes and took a deep breath, returning his face to Spy Neutrality. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve ordered for you. I got us both the entrée du jour.”
“Mmm, and what’s that?”
He lifted the first lid with a flourish. “Gourmet sandwiches on fluffy bread.”
I bit down on my lip again but harder. Arrayed on the fancy silver dish were two Subway six-inches. “Ah, yes, a...delicacy.”
“Indeed. Here, allow me to serve you.” He delivered my sandwich with the help of a silver pie server, carefully placing it in the center of my plate.
“This looks exceptional,” I said with gravity.
“The occasion seemed to merit something a bit special,” he agreed.
“The occasion of saving civilization.”
“Exactly.” He served himself the second sandwich and replaced the lid before sitting down.
“And what’s in the other serving dish?”
He sent me a coy look. “Dessert.”
I felt a pleasant sort of shiver make its way through me. “I see. Or I don’t see. I’ll see later.” I lifted myself off the folding chair enough to kiss him. “This is all so lovely. Thank you, Diego.”
His fingers slid behind my neck to hold me in place, a wordless you’re welcome that led to more kissing. Thankfully the sandwiches were still good a few minutes later when we were ready to eat. As far as I could tell, the delay had not led to the destruction of the world as we knew it. We took our time eating. And kissing. And eating. And...you get the idea.
Dessert turned out to be two naked half-rounds of cake and a tub of grocery store frosting. Which I surveyed in a state of, okay, total confusion.
“This...seemed like a better idea in my head.” He was also surveying it. “I couldn’t find a heart-shaped cake tin. It made more sense when it was heart-shaped. The idea was, you know, you have two halves of the heart and then you put them together and frost them as one? Not that I actually buy into the idea that people are two halves of a whole, just that I thought it was a super-fun way of saying, um, that I...”
He was still looking down at the cakes on their platter, his hands kind of fidgeting over the offset spatula he’d picked up. I coaxed him into another kiss so he’d look at me. “Saying what?”
“Um.” He set the spatula down and reached out, his fingers barely brushing against mine. “Mason, my dear man, I would like to, um, frost our cakes together. For the foreseeable future.” His eyes dropped. “Oh god, that sounds dirty. I meant for it to sound romantic.”
“It sounds both.” I kissed him and kept kissing him. “I would love to frost our cakes together. That’s hot.”
He leaned his head against mine. “I made us courtship cake.”
And that—that word—did something to me. Something light and bubbly inside my body, something that made me feel like floating. “We should frost it. And eat it. We still get to court even if we don’t eat the whole thing, right? Because I am full of sandwich.”
“Definitely. We can freeze the rest for later.”
I almost said “Just like wedding cake,” but I caught myself in time.
Even as we laughed and frosted and had a minor competition about who could most seductively lick frosting from an offset spatula (we tied), I could feel myself falling deeper. I fed him a bite of courtship cake with the forbidden words I love you on the tip of my tongue. I held back.
Be careful, I told myself, as if I hadn’t already gone and fallen in love with him.