Page 148 of A Perfect Fit

Isabelle’s right. Relationships are about supporting each other and being there for each other regardless of whether things are easy or hard.

What do I know about relationships? I’ve never even had a girlfriend before her.

She’s my first girlfriend, and I want to be her last boyfriend and forever person. We still have so much to do together, so much to see and many milestones to reach.

I can’t let her go like that, can’t let our story end like that.

I just hope it’s not too late.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ISABELLE

“And that’s a wrap!” I say to my models and clasp my hands together as we wrap up our final rehearsal. “Thanks again for all your work, everyone. I’m excited for the big day!”

Cheering and applause thunders in the warehouse, and I say goodbye to everyone as they depart.

One of my model’s boyfriend picks her up, and I watch as they embrace, overhearing him tell her that he’s proud of her.

I’m happy for them, but I can’t help the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach, the heartbreak that’s stitched onto my skin. It’s been somewhat better during the day, but at night, when I’m in bed with my eyes shut, all the memories of me and Jackson together come floating back. Somehow, the happier memories hurt more than the one of him ending things with me.

I’ve been dreaming of Jackson most nights, too. Dreaming about him holding me, hugging me, saying sweet nothings to me. It all feels so real, until I wake up alone in my bed and realize it isn’t.

If only there were an easy fix to heartbreak.

I haven’t heard from Jackson since that day at The Daily Brew, and I haven’t reached out to him, either, because I want to give him the space he needs.

But I miss him. Miss his presence, his face, his kisses and hugs, his jokes and just … being with him. I wonder how he’s doing, and I hope he’s okay.

I don’t know whether he’s still coming to my fashion show, but I want to think—or hope—that he’ll show up to support me.

I’m trying to tell myself that our breakup isn’t about me, but rather about him and his current state because of the devastating news that hit him. That maybe he doesn’t really want to end things with me and he’ll come around, like Jen has said.

The more time passes, the more I realize I can’t control other people’s actions, and I have to be okay with that, no matter what. I have to be okay, even if Jackson doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

Over the next few days, I continue pouring myself into work, maintaining a steady routine. Attend my shifts at The Daily Brew. Make clothes and pack orders at home. Prepare for my fashion show.

Business has been booming—which I’m almost scared to admit, in case I jinx myself—and with my growing income, I’ve temporarily hired two seamstresses to help me. I’ve pulled lots of caffeine-induced late nights and sacrificed my sleep schedule more than I should, but it’s been worth it because this is my dream—and no one can take it from me.

And then finally, after months of designing dresses, planning, organizing, and many moments of doubting myself, the big day is finally here.

My first-ever fashion show.

It’s five thirty p.m., and my models are getting their makeup done while my videographer and photographer are capturing all the magic happening behind-the-scenes preshow.

I’ve been here since after lunch, setting up and getting ready for tonight. Jen’s been helping me, and she’s ducked out now to change into a different outfit.

We’ve transformed a simple warehouse into a functional space for a fashion show. Rows of plastic chairs are neatly lined up on two sides, creating space for a runway in the center. Near the back, makeshift makeup stations with small vanity mirrors are set up, and there’s two large tables for finger food and drinks. Bright, warm lighting illuminates the venue.

Tonight’s attendees are already starting to trickle in. I’m expecting one hundred people because we managed to sell out every ticket. I still can’t believe it, and I’ve refreshed my ticket sales page more times than I should to make sure it’s not just a glitch in the system.

But it’s real. This is all real.

“There she is!”

Turning to the source of the voice, I spot my parents and Ivy approaching me, wearing identical T-shirts that read TEAM ISABELLE with a photo of my face on it.

“Oh my God.” I let out a laugh. “Where’d you get that?”