go as planned.”
Yeah. Funny.
He turns and walks about a hundred miles an hour, and I’m almost running to keep up with him as he makes his way to the hotel’s main restaurant, Parker & Quinn. Although the place is packed, a greeter meets us at the door with two menus in hand and escorts us to a giant booth in the very back.
On the table in an ice bucket, there’s a bottle of champagne, which the greeter uncorks before he leaves. Miller gestures for me to sit first and then moves in so close that our knees lightly brush. “Let’s try sitting together this time, okay? So we can hear each other.”
He pours me a glass of champagne, which I stare at because I’m nineteen, under the legal drinking age, and because I never waste calories on alcohol. “Let’s get the unpleasant stuff out of the way right now,” he says, also leaving his glass untouched. “Why don’t I have a plus-size collection? Because I own a fashion business. A business. I’ve never romanticized it. Never lied to myself and said I’m in it for some reason other than the money. If I just loved to make pretty dresses, I would’ve stayed in Whitefish and dressed Miss Montanas and Cowboy Queens.”
“But—”
He cuts me off. “But look how many overweight people walk the street. Look how many plus-size women there are. Someone has to dress them. There has to be profit there somewhere, right? Well, maybe. But the thing is you can’t just dress plus-size women, you have to also pull off something of a magic act. You have to make them look thin. Otherwise, they won’t be opening their pocketbooks. Especially not for clothes at a luxury price point.”
I’m starting to really hate the word overweight. What’s the ideal weight that everyone is supposed to be and why do people like Gareth get to decide who’s “over” it? Anyway, these are old arguments, and so infuriating coming from him. My anger is rising. “When did you get so lazy? You of all people. You know how to fit clothes. And I don’t buy for a second that it would be any harder for you to tailor plus-size. Your own grandmother couldn’t fit into the clothes you sell. What does she say to you?”
He shrugs. “Thanks for paying the mortgage again, Bubee.”
His cynicism catches me off guard. My imagination didn’t prepare me for a world in which Gareth Miller doesn’t love making clothes. But then I say, “Wait. She calls you Bubee? Why?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
He picks up the glass of sparkling gold. “Truce, okay? I promise I’ll give it some thought. We can discuss it more after the show.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I tweet that?” I ask, fighting back a smile.
“Yes.”
I reach inside my bag for my phone, but he adds on to his statement. I wonder if he’s always like this. If, for him, everything is conditional, is quid pro quo.
“On the condition that you wait until after breakfast. And we have a toast.”
“Okay. What do you want to drink to?”
I learn that Gareth Miller likes to test people. “Lady’s choice.”
As I hold the flute by the stem like my mother does in her shoots for Movado wristwatches, I run through the options. To your health. To your show. To New York.
But I come up with something better. “To love potions. The kind they make in Montana.”
He doesn’t raise his glass, eyeing me in confusion. “What kind of love potions do they make in Montana? It doesn’t take much to make sure the bull and the heifer go to the hoedown and do the do-si-do, if you know what I mean.”
My face is flushing again and my palms break out in a sweat. “Didn’t you just spend the entire car ride telling me this charming story about a perfume shop near your ranch?”
He really laughs this time. Not a chuckle but a real belly laugh. “My ranch is just outside Camino a Seclantas.”
When I clearly have no idea what he’s talking about, he adds, “Remember Mr. Miller?” he asks. “My father’s ranch is in Whitefish. Mine is in Salta, Argentina.”
“Okay, then. To Argentinean love potions.” Whitefish is a world away from Argentina. Another reminder of the distance between Gareth’s world and mine.
Our glasses clink together as he says, “I’ll drink to that.”
I put the flute down and switch to the water glass in front of me. “I’ll have to get you to write that down so I can stop by next time I’m in the area.”
A waiter approaches our table, sees the menus we haven’t even opened and retreats in silence.
“Don’t bother,” Gareth says. “I’ll take you there after the show. And that, my girl, is a promise.”
“Sure. And I’ll treat you to Taco Bell at the ASU Student Union the next time you come to Phoenix,” I answer with a snort.
He takes the last swig of his champagne and tilts his flute in my direction.
“Welcome to the big time, Cookie Vonn.”
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