My Husband Called Me Dramatic After Our Baby Died

I walked through the industrial district because I didn't want to go back to the apartment.

The divorce papers sat in my bag. Patricia had called that morning. Everything was finalized. All that remained was the signing next week. After that, I'd be free.

The word felt strange. Free. Like something I'd forgotten the shape of.

The streets here were wide and empty. Warehouses lined both sides. Some had broken windows. Others were boarded up. The rain had stopped but the pavement was still wet. My shoes made soft sounds against the concrete.

I passed a textile outlet.

The sign above the door was faded. Half the letters were missing. Through the window I could see bolts of fabric stacked in messy piles. A man sat behind the counter with his head in his hands.

I stopped.

I don't know why. Maybe because the fabric reminded me of something. Maybe because the man looked the way I felt.

I pushed open the door.

A bell chimed. The man looked up. He was older. Fifties maybe. His face was lined and tired.

"We're closing soon," he said.

"Just looking," I said.

I walked to the nearest stack. Ran my fingers along the top bolt. Cotton blend. Medium weight. The weave was tight. Good quality. I pulled it slightly to check the drape. It fell clean.

I moved to the next stack. Linen. Natural dye. The color was uneven but that was the appeal. People paid extra for that.

The man watched me. "You know fabrics."

"A little."

He stood and came around the counter. "I've had this inventory for eight months. Can't move it. Nobody comes in anymore."

I looked around the shop. The layout was all wrong. The best pieces were buried in back. The window display showed the least marketable fabrics.

"Can I rearrange some things?" I asked.

He blinked. "What?"

"Your display. I think I can help."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "Go ahead."

I spent the next two hours reorganizing. I pulled the linen to the front. Draped it across a table near the window where the light hit it. I found a bolt of deep blue wool that had been shoved in a corner. I unrolled a length and hung it vertically so people could see the texture.

The man—Carter, he told me his name was Carter Ellis—brought me scissors and pins. He didn't ask questions. Just watched.

When I finished, the shop looked different. The fabrics had room to breathe. The colors played off each other.

"Now we wait," I said.

Carter looked skeptical. But he unlocked the door.

Twenty minutes later, a woman came in. She went straight to the linen. Ran her hand over it the way I had. Asked the price. Bought three bolts.

Carter's eyes went wide.

Two more customers came within the hour. Then five more. I talked to each one. Showed them how the fabrics would drape. Suggested combinations. By the time the sun started to set, Carter had sold more than half his inventory.

He stood behind the counter counting cash with shaking hands.

"I don't understand," he said. "How did you—"

"You had good product," I said. "It just needed to be seen."

He looked at me. Really looked at me. "What's your name?"

"Emerie Collins."

"You looking for work, Emerie?"

I thought about the apartment. The guest room. The fluorescent light that never turned off. Oliver's voice through the study door.

"I'm leaving Seattle," I said.

Carter nodded slowly. He went to the back room. Came out with a piece of paper and an envelope.

"I have a friend," he said. "Runs a department store in New York. Fifth Avenue. He's always looking for people with an eye for this stuff."

He wrote quickly. Folded the letter. Sealed it.

"Give him this," Carter said. "Tell him I sent you."

I took the envelope. It was warm from his hands.

"Thank you," I said.

He smiled. "Thank you."

I walked back through the industrial district as the streetlights came on. The envelope sat in my bag next to the divorce papers.

New York City.

I'd never been.

But I could go. Nothing was stopping me now.

When I got back to the apartment, Oliver wasn't home. I went to the guest room and pulled out my suitcase. Started folding clothes.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

*This is Leyla. We need to talk. It's about Oliver.*

I stared at the screen.

Then I deleted the message.

I went back to packing.

The cactus on the kitchen windowsill caught my eye as I passed. It was still alive. Barely.

I picked it up. Carried it to the guest room. Set it on the windowsill there.

It would come with me.

Everything else could stay.