Page 19 of The Focal Point

“I guess I should have expected that—John Williams is very on-brand for you two. Just don’t ask me to include it in my design portfolio.”

“Unless you design a home for George Lucas himself,” Tom said.

Bailey shook her head and left the room before I could say anything else.

“At least she knows who John Williams is,” my best friend offered before taking one look at my face and bursting into laughter again.

Chapter 7

Bailey

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LAUGHTER AND STRAINS of the grand swells and falls of soundtrack music drifted up from the kitchen as I continued to work. And even through my annoyance at the damn curtains that still weren’t quite right—I was hand-finishing parts of the hem I’d had to rip out from the second set—I found myself smiling.

Thomas and Liam had sounded—and looked—like they were having a blast down there, doing what they apparently did best—goofing around like teenage boys. Trying to hide my amusement, I had entirely forgotten what I had gone down there to tell Tom about.

When was the last time I’d heard laughter like that anywhere around me? Maybe an even more critical question: when did I last laugh like that?

I was startled to realize I couldn’t remember.

The first meeting at the diner with Liam was probably the last time I’d been close. There was something about his sense of humor, something about the way a mischievous light danced in his eyes to mirror the curve of his mouth that was irresistible.

I pushed the needle through the curtain’s lining and leaned back against the desk, thinking. Had it truly been so long since I’d laughed like the men downstairs that I couldn’t remember? So long since I had shared a moment of joy with a friend? I was shocked to realize I wasn’t even sure who I would spend that kind of time with. Kristen, I supposed, but as close as we were, we did little besides go for drinks after work once a week and never for long. She had friends and sisters to hang out with and was always dashing off for a night on the town.

My assistant’s words about being a workaholic slipped into my thoughts, slinking from the back of my mind and through the shadowy corners, small enough that it felt like I could brush them aside. But they wouldn’t be ignored.

I wasn’t a workaholic. I knew that. I worked hard and long hours because I was focusing on growing my business. It was difficult enough to be a business owner, much less a young, female business owner. Not only was I the head designer of our firm, but I was also the only designer, though at least I had some help drawing up and rendering plans now in the form of our new hire. I couldn’t send someone else to sew these curtains, and I couldn’t send someone to meet with a new client though my schedule was overflowing. Payroll, insurance, HR, accounting—that was all me.

When exactly was I supposed to have time to have a life?

I knew what Kristen would say—you make time for what’s important to you. But at what expense? Paying my employees a day late? Forgetting about this quarter’s taxes?

But that tiny, slinking thought, the one I couldn’t get rid of, told me a different story. It told me I was making up work to avoid putting myself out there, telling myself I was too busy to go out and meet new people. And, oddly enough, it had Kristen’s voice.

Or maybe it wasn’t so odd.

“That is not what I’m doing,” I muttered under my breath, taking up the needle again. Rounded though it was, the top was still sharp, and it pressed painfully into the pad of my thumb. The spot would be red and painful the following day, but my thimble had dropped out somewhere between the office and Tom’s house, and I didn’t have a spare.

But what was I doing? Where had all my friends gone?

The truth was, they had all been my ex-fiancé Russ’s friends. When we had broken up, they had drifted away with small parting words that seemed to say everything but said nothing at all, words of condolence or excuse or just a simple “Sorry, busy tonight. Can’t” on repeat until I stopped asking.

Because it wasn’t bad enough to lose a large chunk of your life and your heart. You also had to lose the rest of your social life along with it.

I supposed, being Russ’s friends, they had never been my friends to begin with. I’d always been the tag-along, the outsider, the one who didn’t quite fit in with their haute airs and views on literature and film noir, interests and outlooks I had never shared, no matter how hard I tried.

Maybe I wouldn’t admit it to the men downstairs, but I preferred movies like Star Wars and found classic novels boring. Give me a drool-worthy romance, an exciting fantasy, or the newest thought-provoking fiction bestseller, and I would be happy.

When I thought about it, now that years stretched between the pain of the breakup and the excitement of being caught up in his life, I had never belonged in Russ’s world. Oh, I had wanted to, had yearned to seem that effortlessly cool, that stylish, that full of genius.

Or what I had thought was genius, anyway.

But the burnished glow of genius had given way to faded lies, mostly the lies I had told myself, that I wanted to be a part of that world.

“Ouch!”

A small bead of blood welled from my thumb where the needle had jammed through the skin. I jerked my hand away before it could get on any of the fabric—working with them in the future wasn’t an option, but I knew the company wouldn’t replace a blood-stained curtain.