Page 41 of Pretend To Be Mine

We turned more pages. I found myself sharing stories I hadn’t thought about in years. The time Dash accidentally dyed all our school uniforms pink in a laundry mishap. When Briggs got his head stuck between the bars of the stair railing and the fire department had to be called. Sebastian’s brief phase where he insisted on wearing a cape everywhere.

Elizabeth matched me story for story, telling me about growing up with Chris and the tiny apartment they’d shared with their parents. “Since it was so small, we usually needed to be quiet. I’d spend hours sketching dress designs, teaching myself to sew on this ancient machine my grandmother gave us.” She smiled at the memory. “Chris would make these elaborate meals in our tiny kitchen, practicing to be a chef. We were both dreamers, I guess.”

I turned another page and stopped at a photo of Dad and me sitting at a table covered in model airplane parts. I was maybe ten, tongue sticking out in concentration as I glued a tiny piece onto a wing. Dad was watching me with a patient smile.

“What’s this one?” Elizabeth asked, leaning in closer to see.

“Model planes.” My voice came out a little scratchy. “We used to build them together. Just the two of us.”

“That’s sweet.”

“It’s nice that you think so, but everyone else thought it was lame. My brothers wanted to play basketball or video games. Mom didn’t understand the appeal. But Dad and I?” I touched the photo gently. “We’d spend hours on these things. He’d tell me stories about the real planes, about the pilots who flew them and the wars they fought in. Made history come alive. We went to a lot of air museums.”

“Do you still build them?”

“No.” The word came out flat. “I haven’t since… I found him in his office.”

I realized I sounded ridiculous admitting up until a year ago, I still built model planes. But she didn’t say anything about it. She had a soft, forlorn smile on her lips.

Damn it. Too heavy. I’d meant to keep things light, not trauma dump all over her.

But when I glanced at Elizabeth again, I found only understanding.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That must have been horrible.”

“It was.” I took a long drink of wine. “Anyway. Your turn. Tell me something about your family.”

“My mother taught me to sew. When I was really young, maybe seven or eight. We used to make dresses together. For each other, for my dolls. It was our thing.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was. Until I ruined it.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I wanted to make her something special. I’d seen this perfume ad on TV—” She glanced at me, like she expected me to be zoned out or bored. I nodded, encouraging her to keep talking. “It might have been one of your dad’s designs, actually. This gorgeous evening gown, all glamorous and sophisticated. The model was wearing the perfume my mother loved.”

“Which one?”

“Midnight Rose.”

“Dad designed the campaign dress for that,” I confirmed. “I remember it. Dark red, off the shoulder, split up the thigh.”

“That’s the one. I was obsessed with it. And I thought if I could make my mother a dress like that, she’d feel as beautiful as the woman in the commercial.” Elizabeth’s voice got quieter. “So I saved up my allowance for months. Bought fabric from the discount store. Worked on it in secret.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight. Maybe nine.”

“That’s impressive for that age.”

“The construction was terrible,” she said with a slight smile. “All my seams were crooked. The hemline was uneven. But I was so proud of it. I gave it to her on her birthday, and she opened the box, and her face just fell.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

“She said the neckline was too low. That it was inappropriate, revealing and very disrespectful. She yelled at me about modesty and respecting myself as a lady.” Elizabeth’s hands twisted together in her lap. “She made me feel like I’d done something shameful.”

“Damn,” I said softly.

“Yeah. I never made her another dress after that.” She looked up at me with sadness in her eyes. “That’s when I started keeping my designs to myself. Stopped showing my parents what I was working on.”

“Your mother thought an eight-year-old made her something too revealing?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.