“Not as sorry as I am. Can you imagine? Breaking up a week before auditioning for a show at the Huntress? And now we have to perform together.” He shakes his head. “If we win, we’ll have to see each other even more. Rehearsals every night. During the show.” He frowns. “Touching each other and pretending to enjoy it. I’m not sure what would be worse, getting a spot on the show, or not getting a call back and then getting a clean break, you know? Who wants to see their ex every day for months, right after he dumps you?”

“I get it.” I finish the last stitch and then flip the garment around. “I think that should do it. Do you want to try it on?”

He swallows. “I’m a little nervous. The sound of the fabric tearing.” He shudders. “It was traumatizing. Harry is meeting me at the venue and he will go ballistic if I show up with a torn dress.”

“It sounds like you’re better off without him.”

He nods but his mouth curves down. “I suppose.”

“Now you have a little more room, so it should be fine. And even if it does tear again, we have time to fix it.”

I hold up the dress. After a second, he takes it from me, giant hands careful.

He disappears into the bedroom and I eat the grilled cheese, which is two slices of white bread with some fake American cheese, fried in butter. It’s surprisingly delicious, and somehow comforting. It reminds me of childhood, even though my mother would have died before making a sandwich like this when I was a kid. If we had something as pedestrian as grilled cheese, it was on split wheat or focaccia with gouda and aged cheddar.

A few long minutes later, I’ve finished my sandwich and Hugo emerges from the bedroom. He’s wearing the dress and grinning.

“It fits.” He twirls around, sending the skirt flying.

I stand up and move closer to make sure the seam isn’t visible. “It looks fantastic.”

“You think so?” He grips the ends of the skirt and holds it out from his body, gazing down at himself. “I think blue looks so much better on me than red. Like a royal blue, you know? But Harry picked the colors and he didn’t want us to clash.” He drops the skirt and blinks rapidly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Jane.” He steps toward me, engulfing my hands in his. “Don’t apologize. You’re an angel sent to me straight from heaven. And I still have an hour until I have to be at the Huntress.” He watches me, head tilted. “You should come with me.”

Surprise jolts me backward, and I pull my hands from his. “You want me to go to your audition?”

He bites his lip, putting his hands together like he’s praying to the seamstress gods. “Please.”