EMILY
Fashion Week night smells like hairspray and nerves and the particular electricity of thirty people crammed into a space designed for ten, all of them moving too fast and talking too loud and checking their phones every forty seconds.
Derek is at the garment rack with a steamer in one hand and a lint roller in the other, pressing and rolling and muttering about a crease on the charcoal blazer that nobody can see except him.
"Priya, the hem on the green dress is pulling left," he calls across the room.
"It's not pulling left."
"It's pulling. I can see it from here."
"Then stop looking from there and come look from here where it's straight."
"If I come over there the blazer wrinkles."
"Then the blazer wrinkles, Derek."
They've been doing this for two hours, this back-and-forth that sounds like fighting and is really the sound of two people who care about the same thing being terrified it won't be perfect. I've learned to let them run. Derek catches what Priya m
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