Chapter 2
Everyone Wants to Be Us
In my studio apartment, a half-body mannequin taunts me as I measure a sleeve’s length of fabric. Mint-green satin. Very tricky material to work with, even if there wasn’t a storm in my head blotting out any trace of sunshine. My clothes are four days old. My curly hair is matted flat with oil. I have a faraway stare in my eyes, but oh yes, I’m still going to create A Look.
No more half-finished sketches. No more endless doodling on my tablet.
I’m going to get my hands dirty, put an actual needle and thread to actual fabric, and work. Get my body feeling it again. Touch something other than metal, glass, and pixels. The old Grant Rossi is somewhere inside this snarling, sunken-eyed beast, and I’m going to wake him up.
It’s not just about my exes or my curse. It’s about getting back to my future. Becoming the most famous designer of all time—even if that means also becoming the loneliest.
To hell with boys. The curse can have them. Right now, I have one job: cut this sleeve and sew it. If I can do this, make the satin look crisp, I can do anything.
Twenty minutes later, clutching a ball of utterly ruined satin, I know I’m screwed.
I glance at my phone, like maybe this is the time to reach out to someone, poke my head up from the sand. And this time, my brain doesn’t stop me.
I text my friend Eshana: Hi, I’m alive. Sorry I ghosted your texts. Nothing bad happened, just the usual.
As if she’d been waiting by the phone, Eshana texts back instantly: How’re you holding up, kitten? Your mom texted me to see if you were alright. I lied and said I just saw you. But that felt jinxy.
I let out a pained moan. Very jinxy, I text. Sorry you had to do that. I’m reachable if my mom texts you again, btw. I just need some time to think about my next move. I still don’t have college lined up.
Fuck college, she replies. I laugh into my palm, and miraculously, a bit of blue sky pierces the clouds in my head. Eshana texts: And are you doing this thinking alone? I’m happy to chill if you’re free.
Maybe I’m not up for the challenges of needlework just yet, but some company wouldn’t be a bad idea, though I’m not quite ready to hang out with my friends. Their faces would reflect how lost I look. So, strangers are best. Like clockwork, when my brain chemicals turn upward again, I plan a date.
After so much “down,” I feel my brain turning, getting back up and running. When my energy returns, it’s like that day in January when you finally decide to get rid of your Christmas tree. The tree used to be so important. It was the centerpiece of the room, but now it looks wrong. What is a tree doing in my home? Why haven’t I gotten rid of this thing?
Depression acts the same way.
And now I can suddenly smell how foul my room has become—how foul I’ve become. Why did I let my clothes pile up like this? I have a hamper! What is this layer of grime on me, when a scalding shower feels blissful? Here I’m awake and shedding this old skin. After two conditionings, my dark curls get back their bounce and shimmer. After toning and moisturizing, my light olive skin gets back its golden sparkle.
I’m so cute! Not a troll at all. The mirror exposes my brain as a liar.
I pull on a hunter-green Henley, which fits snugly around my still-muscular arms and chest. My body hasn’t softened! Once again, the mirror reminds me how my brain lies.
I’ll always trust you, mirror!
The mirror winks and says if I stick with him, I’ll be just fine.
When I text my other friends that I’m doing better, they return with joyful messages. Like nothing ever happened. I appreciate that.
Whenever I go to ground, I can’t talk to anyone because they always ask how I’m doing, and me being the emotional hoochie that I am, I can’t resist spilling the truth. An hour later, I’ve scared them with my spiraling—and I end up feeling worse than ever. So, instead, I just warn people I’m going into my hobbit hole, and I’ll see them when the weather changes.
Text me your location, my tall drink of limoncello! Eshana texts. Boys are BEASTS!
I’m counting on it, I text back. Rawr.
Who better to love a beast than another beast? Belles are out this year.
Before leaving, I need a jacket. My hand wraps around my closet handle…but stays there.
This is where I hid it.
The forbidden jacket is shoved to the back, but it’s there, in a garment bag, waiting. I made the jacket myself: black vegan leather with a hand-stitched design across the back of a pumpkin swarmed by vines. That jacket got me into my design program. It’s mine—it’s me. I made it months before I even met my ex! So, when I look at the jacket, why do I see him and not me?
I was wearing it when I met him. It got him to notice me. It’s part of our story.
Our love story is over—but then what am I writing now? A tragedy? Some queasy mix of both?
A cold hand grips my heart, and I smile wickedly. Hell with him. I’m reclaiming this. I throw open the closet, shove my other jackets to the left, and snatch the forbidden garment bag. Its weight feels powerful in my hands. I’ve missed this.
I am more than just an obstacle on the way to someone else’s happy ending.
I pack my tablet (in case the boy stands me up; I can work while I eat) and take the long route toward Old Town. This journey will be a great banishing, strolling past all the places that remind me of my ex. Everywhere I’ve been avoiding this past year.
The train where we met—I cast him out.
The sandwich shop on our first date—I cast him out.
The fountain in the park where I sang to him, where I would later sit and realize it was really over—I cast him out.
God, this is a lot. Why did I take him to so many places? Why wasn’t I more careful? I should’ve kept parts of the city cordoned off just for me in case it fell apart, but I didn’t. I allowed every corner of Chicago to become tainted. Even as I walk up the redbrick Old Town street to meet this new boy, I realize my error too late: it’s L’Antica Magia, the Italian restaurant where my family met me after my show—after I was dumped. Saddest shrimp scampi I’ve ever forced down.
With the sun setting beneath the tree-lined streets of this charming brick village, intense rays catch my reflection in L’Antica Magia’s mirrored door. The reflection is harsh. Chiaroscuro, the art masters call it. Light and dark. The sun cleaves my face in two, which isn’t flattering to my heavy eyelids and round cheeks. The light creates steep, drooping shadows that make me look…old. Ghoulish. A heartbroken ghost haunting the city.
This mirror says maybe my depressed brain made some points.
I don’t walk inside. Shuffling around the patio’s iron chairs, I peek through the window into the golden-lit restaurant. It’s bustling. Servers deliver platters of calamari and freshly baked bread to laughing families. My heart slumps. That should’ve been me and my family, but I ruined it with drama. We couldn’t even celebrate my successful show because my mind was stuck on what I’d lost. I couldn’t just lie for one night, just to laugh and eat with them again.
Sitting alone next to one family is a very cute boy with light brown skin, a bleached crew cut, and round glasses. My date, Luca. Our pre-date chat was promising when I learned he’s starting prelaw in the fall. A chance to break my cycle of free-spirited, artistic bunnies. After Luca politely waves away the server, he smiles nervously until he’s alone again…then he chugs his goblet of ice water and checks his phone.
I’m late. He’s worrying I stood him up.
I hop out of sight before he sees me. My feet take me down the street, but they don’t stop. I keep walking until the restaurant is far behind me. Opening the app where we found each other, I message Luca: I’m sorry. I’m not ready to do this again. Sorry.
I’m running. To where? I don’t know, but I can’t do this.
This behavior is sick, Grant. Everyone else has gotten over these relationships but you.
“Yo!” I cry, leaping into the road to stop a cab with its light on. Brakes scream as the cab stops. It’s not even close to hitting me, but that doesn’t stop the dark-bearded driver from leaning out his window to cuss me out. After jabbering my apologies, I climb into his back seat and ask him to take me to the LaSalle Street Station.
“Hey, Joe Jacket, don’t do stuff like that, jumping into the road,” he says. “This isn’t a movie.”
My chin trembling, I open my phone, scrolling past several disappointed but understanding messages from Luca. “Yeah, well,” I say, “this is the scene in the movie where you take me to the train station so I can get out of this city and get a life.” I pull up Aunt Rosalie’s number.
With an amused chuckle, the driver takes off south. Moments later, when my aunt answers, she doesn’t get out a syllable before I whimper, “Aunt Ro?” My chin shakes so much, it feels like it’s gonna fall off. “I’m getting on a train to Valle. Is that okay? Mom says you’ve maybe got room for me?”
Instead of a coherent response, I’m met with a gale of excited whooping.
A smile wants to rise, but I’m not ready for that yet.
The Beast of Chicago is leaving. Maybe it’s for the best that I spend some time around a dying old B&B.
It’s one place I know my exes have never touched.