23. A Change in Focus

After three nights of editing with Miranda at the townhouse, you’d think I’d be past the strangeness of it. And mostly, I am.

Just like when she first handed me that red pen in her office, our nights in the den are quiet. Companionable. Mellow, even. In just a few days, I’ve already settled into the rhythm of it.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, I won’t just be leaving my work for her to pick apart—I’ll be sitting across from her while she does it.

I swallow hard, standing at the top of the townhouse steps.

Miranda has read my work before. Marked it up in red. Even called something Good.

But I’ve never had to watch her do it.

“Give me 1,200 words on cycling trends,” Miranda demanded this morning, her coat sailing through the air and landing on Emily’s desk—despite Emily standing right there, arms outstretched.

Emily shot the coat a glare as she hung it up.

“I expect to have it with The Book tonight.”

Naturally, I skipped lunch.

Hopefully, it was worth it.

And if not, at least I won’t have anything to throw up if she tears it to shreds right in front of me.

I steel myself, unlock the door, and try to convince myself I’m not actually shaking.

It’s just cold out, I think, stepping over the threshold. That’s all.

Maybe she won’t ask me to stay tonight.

I cling to the thought as I pass the table with the flowers. Would she really want an audience as she rips apart—

I turn the corner into the den.

Two cups of coffee. Waiting.

My bubble bursts so fast I feel it in my ribs.

It was a fool’s hope. When has Miranda ever cared about an audience?

She’s typing something on her phone when she glances up at my arrival. A flicker of something—so subtle I almost miss it—softens the edges of her face. Then, without a word, she holds out a hand for The Book.

Maybe it was something in the corner of her eyes.

Or maybe I imagined it.

Hurriedly, I hand over The Book and my article, then retreat to what’s starting to feel like my seat.

The coffee is burning hot. A perfect distraction. I take another sip—anything to keep myself from watching as Miranda sets The Book aside, holding only my article now.

A pause.

The quiet slide of her reading glasses.

The light tap as she sets them on her nose.

A beat.

Then—click.

I bite my tongue to keep excuses from spilling out.

The mug burns my hands as the minutes stretch, the scratch of her pen the only sound, hopefully masking my shallow, ragged breaths.

Somehow, sitting here while she dissects my work is worse than every sleepless night combined.

Finally, the pen clicks shut.

She sits back, scanning the pages one last time. Her lips press together—something firm, something decided—before she leans forward and hands the article back to me.

I set my coffee down, careful not to slosh the barely touched liquid, and take the papers from her outstretched hand.

They shake.

I’ll blame the coffee I barely drank.

I start reading her notes, and my heart sinks lower with each one. Humiliation creeps up my neck, burning hot.

“If you want to be a writer, you must stop being afraid of your own opinions.”

My head snaps up.

Miranda doesn’t even glance at me. The Book now rests in her lap, red pen already back in motion, circling, slashing, marking notes in the margins.

“You’re listing what happened, Andrea,” she says, her voice as even as ever. “I’m asking you to tell me why it mattered.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

She’s right.

I’m missing the analysis that makes any writing matter.

All good writing makes an argument. It doesn’t matter if it’s a novel, a history book, or an article on cycling fashion trends—an author always has a point to make.

And maybe that’s my problem.

I can’t argue a point I don’t fully understand.

“Why do certain trends come back when they do?” The words are out before I can stop them. “What makes a specific moment right for a revival?”

My eyes go wide.

I’ve broken a cardinal rule: You don’t ask Miranda questions.

Heat rushes to my face. My mouth opens—to apologize, to backpedal, to—

Miranda’s pen pauses.

One tap against the page. Then another.

A faint sigh.

She leans back in her chair, gaze shifting to the corner of the room. Her lids lower—thoughtful, considering.

Another slow tap of her pen.

A slow, measured inhale.

“No one creates in a vacuum.”

Definitely not what I was expecting.

I nod along anyway.

“Fashion, like any creation, both shapes and is shaped by culture, current events, and hope. All creation lives on hope.” Miranda glances at me, one brow arched. “Why do you think the ‘90s have made a resurgence now, after Millennials finally burned their low-rise jeans?”

My mind scrambles for an answer. “Because of the pandemic?”

Miranda’s lips twitch. “Is that a question?”

I swallow.

“Because of the pandemic.” And suddenly, it clicks. “The ‘90s were simple. Carefree. The early 2000s and 2010s were restrictive—convinced girls they had to be model-thin to look good.”

Miranda’s mouth starts to quirk into something—approval? amusement? I rush on before I can find out.

“Then the pandemic happened. Everyone was stuck at home, no one to impress. Since the quarantines ended, designers have been bringing back the carefree nostalgia of the ‘90s. It gives people something familiar to return to.”

Miranda nods, finally. “Close enough. It was decided that consumers were too exhausted by the past few years. They needed something new, yes—but something familiar.”

To my astonishment, Miranda sets The Book aside and folds her hands in her lap.

“The ‘90s were a reactionary decade. A direct response to the high-octane excess of the ‘80s. After years of bold power suits, neon, and aggressive consumerism, the ‘90s rejected it all. Minimalism. Grunge. Anti-fashion.”

She tilts her head slightly, eyes gleaming. “Sound familiar?”

I chuckle, finally relaxing back into my chair.

“The world in 2021 found itself in a similar state. After decades of fast fashion, of streetwear’s rise, of increasingly digital personas, people craved something tangible. Something nostalgic. A return to basics—but with an edge.”

Miranda waves a hand, as if encompassing the entirety of the last three decades.

“Thus—grunge returns. Slip dresses, combat boots, oversized blazers. Not costume, not parody—resurgence. The core ethos of ‘90s fashion aligned with the post-pandemic psyche: a mix of disillusionment and liberation. A hunger for self-expression that was, for once, not performative, but deeply personal.”

I think she’s going to stop there.

She doesn’t.

“But the revival wasn’t just aesthetic.” A pause, as if ensuring I’m keeping up. “It was economic. The late ‘90s saw the last major pre-digital boom—before social media, before influencers decided they had the qualifications to dictate taste.”

A derisive snort.

“Designers, brands, and retailers capitalized on that nostalgia, resurrecting icons—Kate Moss, Calvin Klein, Marc Jacobs’ grunge. The public devoured it, because unlike the polished, unattainable glamour of the early 2000s, the ‘90s were accessible. People wanted something real. Something tangible—”

Miranda continues, seamlessly unraveling the past into the present, and I find myself entranced.

My article is completely forgotten.

I relish this rare opportunity, this glimpse into the way her mind works. This stuff I dismissed for so long is fascinating, truly world-altering, when it comes from her.

More captivated than I’ve ever been in a writing course, I soak in every word, every thread of history and culture woven together with precise intent.

It’s like learning to sculpt at the knee of Louise Bourgeois, I think in awe, leaning in to absorb even more.

I should be exhausted. It’s late, my brain wrung dry. But instead—

I just want to keep listening.