Chapter 3: Rachel’s show
The morning light through Monica’s blinds was a thin, grey blade cutting across Joseph’s face. He hadn’t slept.
The phone call with Rachel played in a relentless loop behind his eyes. Her voice, that shattered ‘why’, the wet sound of her crying before the line went dead. He’d spent hours picking apart his own response, each iteration more inadequate than the last.
He was making coffee when his phone buzzed on the counter, skittering next to the monk’s lamp. Monica’s name flashed.
He stared at it for three full rings before answering. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Her voice was careful, a studied neutrality that told him everything.
There was a rustling sound on her end, like she was walking. “Are you coming?” she asked.
He blinked. “Where?”
“To Rachel’s show. The presentation for her collective. Tonight. I told you about it last week.”
He had no memory of this. The past few days were a blur of boxes and dislocated time. He leaned against the counter, the Formica cool through his t-shirt. His first impulse was to say no.
“Uhh, yeah,” he said, the words out before he could craft a better lie. “I’ll be there.”
“Okay.” A beat of silence, heavy with unspoken verdicts. “I’ll see you there. She hung up.
The gallery was in a converted warehouse in Bushwick, a stark, white-walled space that smelled of fresh paint and anxious sweat. Rachel stood in a makeshift backstage area, which was really just a corner sectioned off with heavy black curtains. Her hands were trembling.
She focused on the tangible details. The rack of garments—her contributions were the five pieces on the left, deconstructed linen shifts dyed the colour of storm clouds and burnt ochre. The muffled thump of bass from the main room. The models, all angles and bored eyes, being touched up by makeup artists with intense frowns.
Someone called fifteen minutes. The words buzzed in Rachel’s skull like a trapped fly. She tried to take a steadying breath but the air felt thin, insufficient. She needed air, real air, not this recycled, perfume-choked stuff.
Her hands started shaking, her eyes started to water, her heart was pounding. It was a wave, sudden and total, closing over her head. The chatter of the models, the thumping music, it all fused into a singular, high-pitched whine. The stark white walls seemed to pulse.
The panic was a physical thing, a vise around her ribs. She couldn’t breathe here. She pushed through the heavy black curtain, escaping the dressing area.
She went through backstage making way for the toilets. She hadn’t even looked where she was going until she collided.
The impact was solid, startling. A pair of hands caught her upper arms, steadying her. Her gaze flew up from the polished concrete floor, past a dark suit jacket, and found his face.
Joseph stared down at her, his grip on her arms was firm, warm even through the silk of her blouse. For a second, neither of them moved or breathed.
Joseph looked at her. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes were watering.
“Hey Rach, are you okay?” he asked, his voice dropping low, the gallery’s noise receding.
She looked up at him, shaking her head. She was trying to speak, her mouth opening and closing, but she couldn’t. No sound came out, just a thin, ragged gasp for air that didn’t seem to reach her lungs.
He didn’t think. He just acted. He grabbed her hand, her fingers icy and trembling in his, and led her. He pushed open the first unmarked door he found, and pulled her into a single-occupancy bathroom. He closed the door, the lock clicking with a final, solid thud that shut out the distant bass.
He walked her over to the sink, her steps unsteady. He turned on the tap, thrusting his own hand under the stream. The water was cold, a sharp, jarring chill.
He stood behind her, his body not touching hers but close enough she could feel his heat. He grabbed her hands again, gently this time, and placed them under the cold water. “You’re okay,” he whispered.
Rachel felt the cool shock of the water, the firm, sure warmth of his hands enclosing hers. She let out fast breaths, sharp little hiccups that shuddered through her shoulders, still trying and failing to breathe correctly.
“Breathe in and out slow,” Joseph said, looking at her reflection in the mirror. He breathed in slowly, audibly, his chest expanding against the back of her blouse. He held it for a beat, then let it out, long and controlled.
Rachel watched him, her wide, scared eyes locked on his in the glass. She copied him, a shaky imitation that broke halfway. She tried again, forcing the air in, pushing it out.
She closed her eyes, breathing, the world narrowing to the sound of running water and his guided rhythm. She leaned her head back, the weight of it coming to rest against his chest. His breath hitched, just for a moment, before he continued the steady, soothing pattern.
The cold water ran over their joined hands, a neutral anchor. Her breathing began to sync with his, the ragged edges smoothing into something deeper, more measured. The tremble in her fingers subsided to a faint, residual quiver.
He slowly released her hands from under the tap.
She kept them there, under the stream, letting the chill ground her. She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze in the smudged mirror. His blue eyes were soft, full of a familiar, watchful concern that undid her more completely than the panic had.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the running water.
“For what?” He reached around her and turned the tap off.
The sudden silence in the small room was profound, broken only by the dull thud of music through the door. “For this. For the phone call. For falling apart in a bathroom.” She shook her head, a damp strand of hair sticking to her cheek. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re about to show your work to a room full of people. That’s terrifying.” He pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, the sound grating in the quiet. He handed it to her. “And I showed up. I’m probably making it worse.”
She took the towel, drying her hands with meticulous slowness. “Why did you come?”
“Monica asked me to.” The answer was immediate, a half-truth that tasted bland. He leaned a hip against the sink, creating a few more inches of space between them. “I wanted to see you.”
The admission hung in the humid air. Rachel crumpled the brown paper towel into a tight ball. She looked at their reflections, a trapped, intimate portrait. He was so close. The scent of his soap, something clean and cedar-based, cut through the bathroom smell.
It was a scent she didn’t recognise, a new detail in the map of a person she’d once known completely. That small, painful mystery made her chest ache.
She turned around to face him, her back now against the cool porcelain sink. The space was too small for two people. Every breath felt shared.
“I wanted to see your work.” He said.
“You do?” she questioned, looking at him. Her green eyes searched his, wary, hopeful.
“Of course I do.” He said. His voice was low, earnest. “I always thought you’d do something like this. I just… I wanted to see it, be here.”
A sharp knock rattled the door on its hinges. They both jumped.
“Green! Two minutes! You’re up right after the leather segment!” a voice barked from the other side.
The spell shattered. The throbbing bass and the reality of the waiting crowd rushed back in, a tide of sound and obligation. Rachel’s eyes went wide again, but this was a different fear—professional, sharp.
“Okay!” she called out, her voice miraculously clear. She looked down at her trembling hands, then balled them into fists.
Joseph stepped back, giving her room. “Go be brilliant.” he said. It wasn’t a platitude. It sounded like an order.
She nodded, a quick, tight movement. She reached for the door lock, her fingers fumbling. He watched her, his own hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from reaching out. The lock clicked.
She paused, her hand on the knob. She didn’t look back. She pulled the door open and slipped back into the noise.
Joseph stood alone in the sudden, sterile quiet. He could still feel the ghost of her weight against his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a breath he seemed to have been holding for three years. After a moment, he followed her out.
The main gallery space was a pulsating box of shadow and spotlight. He found a spot against a far wall, his height letting him see over the clusters of sleek black outfits and glittering phones. The air was hot, thick with perfume and anticipation.
The music shifted, an atmospheric drone replacing the thumping bass.
Then the first model appeared from behind the dark curtain. She wore a long, asymmetrical shift the colour of a gathering storm, fabric that seemed to float around her calves. The material was raw-edged linen, deliberately wrinkled and dyed in subtle, murky gradients.
He recognized the line of it, the way it moved. Rachel had always sketched on napkins, her fingers smudging charcoal to show how cloth would fall on a body. Seeing it alive, walking, was a physical shock. The model’s expression was cool, detached, but the garment itself felt vulnerable, emotional.
Another model followed in a piece of burnt ochre, wrapped and knotted in a way that suggested both armor and a bandage. Then another in a slate grey tunic dress, its high neckline slit by a single, precise cut. They moved with a slow, deliberate pace, pausing at the end of the runway under the stark light.
They weren't just wearing clothes. They were wearing her heart. Joseph could see the thought in every frayed seam, the intention in every draped fold. This was her language, translated from whispered dreams in their old apartment into something real the world could see. His chest tightened with a fierce, aching pride that felt like grief.
Models walked out with Rachel’s clothes, posing, smiling, walking on and off. The small crowd murmured appreciatively; he heard the click of professional cameras. A woman next to him whispered to a companion about “deconstruction” and “textural melancholy.”
He just watched, absorbing each piece as it came and went, trying to map the three years of her life he’d missed.
The last of her five pieces exited, the drone of music fading into applause. A man in a sharply tailored suit came out with a microphone. “A stellar debut collection from our own Miss Rachel Green,” he announced, his voice slick with praise.
Joseph clapped, the sound sharp and solitary in his hands before everyone else followed, some whistling.
The show came to an end. The house lights came up a fraction, bathing the room in a dim, post-performance glow. The crowd began to loosen, shifting from a single entity into chatting clusters. Joseph moved against the flow, heading toward where he’d last seen Monica.
He caught up with her near the exit, seeing her with Richard. They were turned toward each other, Monica’s hand resting lightly on Richard’s forearm. “Hey Mon,” Joseph called, seeing her walking.
She let go of Richard’s arm, turning around. Her face broke into a wide, relieved smile. “Joseph, you came.”
“I said I would,” he said, accepting her quick, tight hug.
“Joseph,” Richard said, extending a hand, then opting for a brief, back-slapping hug. He smelled of the same citrus cologne he’d always worn. “You’re back?”
“Yeah,” Joseph said, pulling back from the quick hug. “I came back the other day. Just getting sorted.”
“It’s good to see you, man.” Richard’s smile was genuine, if a little cautious. He glanced toward the backstage area. “Hell of a show, right? Our Rach nailed it.”
Our Rach. The casual ownership in the phrase pricked at Joseph. He nodded, his own smile feeling thin. “She really did. It’s incredible.”
Monica was watching his face, her eyes doing that thing where she saw straight through his skull. “She’s probably swarmed back there. Buyers, the press. It’s chaos.”
“I should probably just head out,” Joseph said, suddenly feeling like an intruder. The pride was still there, but it was curdling into a sharp sense of dislocation. He didn’t belong in this aftermath.
“Don’t you dare,” Monica said, grabbing his wrist. Her grip was firm. “You came all this way. You at least have to say something to her. It would matter.”
Before he could protest, a shift in the crowd’s energy made him turn. The black curtain parted again, and Rachel stepped out, still in the silk blouse and trousers she’d worn backstage. Her face was flushed, glowing with a stunned, triumphant kind of relief.
She was immediately enveloped by a well-dressed older woman air-kissing both cheeks. Then a man with a camera gestured for a photo. She smiled, the expression brilliant but practiced, a public version of the woman who’d collapsed against him less than an hour before.
Then her eyes, scanning the room, found theirs. They locked onto Joseph. The public smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, replaced by something searching. The woman talking to her said something, but Rachel wasn’t listening anymore.
She excused herself with a touch on the woman’s arm and started walking toward them, weaving through the lingering crowd. Each step seemed to take an age. Joseph’s pulse thudded in his throat.
She stopped in front of their little group. Her gaze flicked to Monica, to Richard, then settled on Joseph. The noise around them—the congratulations, the clinking of plastic champagne cups—seemed to recede.
Richard stepped forward first, breaking the spell. “You did brilliant, Rach,” he said, his voice booming with brotherly pride as he hugged her and kissed her cheek.
She leaned into the familiar comfort, closing her eyes for a brief second. “Thank you. And thank you for coming,” she said, hugging him back, her voice thick.
“I wouldn’t miss my little sister’s show,” Richard said, giving her one more solid pat on the back before releasing her.
Monica moved in next, wrapping Rachel in a tighter, more knowing embrace. “That was amazing, Rachel,” Monica whispered directly into her ear.
“Thanks, Mon,” Rachel breathed out, the words muffled against her friend’s shoulder.
Richard checked his watch, a swift, practical motion. “I’ve gotta drop Monica home,” he announced, shifting his weight.
Rachel and Joseph looked at them both, the statement hanging. Monica’s eyes darted between them. “Richard drove me; my car’s in the auto shop,” she said quickly.
Rachel nodded, smiling a thin, understanding smile. “I’ll see you soon. I have to pack up here,” Rachel said, gesturing vaguely toward the backstage curtain.
With that, Monica and Richard left, merging with the departing crowd until their figures disappeared through the gallery’s main doors.
The space around them felt suddenly vast and hollow. The cleanup crew began stacking chairs with metallic scrapes. Rachel turned slowly, looking at Joseph as if confirming he was still physically present. “You stayed,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, stripped of its public sheen.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said, his hands finding the pockets of his trousers. “That was quite a show.”
He was echoing Richard’s sentiment, but the way he said it was different. Softer. It landed on her skin, warm and unsettling. “You saw the whole thing?” she asked, turning to gather a stray garment bag from a nearby rack. She needed to move, to do something with her hands.
“Every piece.” He watched her fold the bag, her movements precise. “The grey one with the cut at the neck. That one… it got quiet when it came out. That was a favourite.”
She paused, the silk of the bag slippery under her fingers. He’d not just seen it; he’d felt the room. He’d always been like that, perceptive in a way that sometimes felt like mind-reading. “That’s the one I almost set on fire trying to get the dye right,” she said, a short laugh escaping her. It was a confessional, stupid detail she hadn’t told anyone else.
He smiled, a real one that reached his eyes. “Sounds about right.” He took a hesitant step closer. “Can I help? With any of this?”
She glanced at the rack, the scattered boxes. “It’s mostly just waiting for the studio interns to schlep it. My part’s done.” She zipped the garment bag shut, the sound loud in the emptying space.
The last of the overhead track lights flicked off, plunging the backstage area into deeper shadow. Only the exit signs cast a faint, greenish glow.
“It was a good show, Rachel,” Joseph said. His voice was low.
Rachel’s breath caught for a second. “Thank you,” she said. She clutched the bag to her chest like a shield.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He said walking away. His footsteps echoed on the polished concrete, receding toward the gallery’s main doors.
The space felt cavernous and cold without his presence. She let out a shaky sigh, her shoulders slumping under the weight of the evening’s adrenaline crash.
Rachel pulled out her phone from her bag calling an Uber, to head to Monica’s place. The screen’s blue light illuminated her tired face. She selected the address, her thumb hovering over the confirmation button.
“You headed back to Monica’s?” Joseph asked.
She turned around thinking he’d left. He stood just inside the main doors, haloed by the sodium-vapor streetlight from outside. He’d been waiting. “Yeah,” she said, lowering her phone. “Just getting an Uber.”
“You can ride back with me.” He took a few steps back into the gloom, his hands in his pockets. “Saves you the money. I’m headed there anyway.”
She studied his offer, the practical kindness of it. Another decision. Her mind, exhausted, defaulted to the easiest path. “I- If you don’t mind,” she said.
He smiled, a small, gentle motion. “It’s no problem.”
They walked to his car in a silence that felt less charged now, smoothed by the mundane agreement. The night air was crisp, cutting through the thin silk of her blouse. She hugged herself, the garment bag slung over her shoulder.
His car was a dark Bentley, older but clean. He unlocked it with a soft beep. He walked to the passenger side and opened the door for her, the interior light washing over his tall frame.
The gesture was so inherently him, a fossil of their old etiquette, that it stalled her for a moment. She glanced at him, then slid inside, murmuring another thanks. The car held his scent and a hint of coffee.
He closed her door softly. The solid thunk sealed them in together.
Joseph got in on the driver’s side, the car dipping slightly with his weight. The engine turned over with a quiet rumble. He adjusted the vents, then the heat, a careful, familiar series of motions. Cool air, then warm, began to brush against her shins.
He pulled out into the nearly empty street, the tires humming on the asphalt. The city lights slid past the windows, streaks of gold and white. She stared out, watching Bushwick melt into older neighbourhoods.
His driving was careful, steady, a contrast to the frantic beat still echoing in her veins.
“When did you get into fashion?” he asked.
The question, so direct, punctured the quiet. She looked at him, his profile lit by the green glow of the instrument panel. “Just over a year ago,” she said. “Started as an intern fetching coffee. Now I just fetch slightly better coffee and occasionally they let me make something.”
He smiled, but it was thoughtful. “I always thought you’d get into fashion. You always said it was your dream.” He glanced from the road to her. “Seeing those pieces walk out… it wasn’t a surprise.”
His words disarmed her completely. They were specific, weighted with a memory of her younger self whispering plans in the dark. She could feel her heart thumping, a dull, insistent rhythm against her ribs.
She needed to pivot, to ask him something, anything. “Are you still in the housing industry?” she asked, her voice a bit too bright.
“No, I left that.” He paused, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “Uhh, I came back here. Got a job as a kindergarten teacher.”
Rachel turned fully in her seat, the seatbelt tightening across her chest. “You’re a teacher?” The image was so immediate and so perfect it stole her breath—his large, gentle hands guiding smaller ones, his patient voice reading stories.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, a little self-conscious. “It’s chaos. And it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“It suits you,” she said softly, the truth of it leaving her lips before she could cage it. She saw him in a sunlit classroom, surrounded by bright colours and tiny chairs.
He nodded, accepting the compliment without fanfare. The car slowed, turning onto Monica’s block. The familiar rows of brownstones loomed, dark except for the occasional lit window.
He parallel parked with practiced ease, killing the engine. The sudden absence of sound and motion was a vacuum. They sat in the dark car, the only light coming from a distant streetlamp that caught the dust motes swirling between them.
“Thank you,” she said again, gesturing vaguely at the car, the ride, the evening. “For the rescue, too. Back there.”
“Anytime,” he said. The word hung there, loaded with three years of absence.
She unbuckled her seatbelt, the click jarringly loud. He did the same. They both moved to get out, their hands reaching for door handles at the same time. It was a clumsy, synchronized dance.
They met on the sidewalk, the night air cooler now. She hugged the garment bag to her body. He shoved his hands back into his pockets. The four flights to Monica’s front apartment felt like a mile.