Chapter Text
The first delivery arrives at three o’clock on a Tuesday.
It’s a hugely significant day for Andy, she’s deeply aware, but Andy doesn’t expect anyone in her life outside the office to understand the heart-soaring magnitude of her first byline. And, truthfully, while Andy made her amends and ended things on neutral terms, many of her closer friendships fractured or faded during her long and trying months at Runway.
Andy isn’t distraught over it – at least, not anymore. Runway had taught her so much, Miranda had taught her so much, and Andy can’t regret her time there or the growth she’s seen in herself as a person because of it. She still has Lily, who had fallen into Andy’s arms with a whimpered, “you’re back” the moment Andy had made her heartfelt apology after Paris, and Lily is the only one Andy needs. Friends since childhood, Lily is often her mooring point, her constant, and there are many things Andy can sacrifice in life, but Lily is not one of them.
Lily would never send something like this, though, and her parents, well… that relationship remains strained, to say the least, and not solely due to her previous career choice.
The delivery surprises her, and Andy can hardly take her eyes off it long enough to sign her acknowledgement of receipt. The delivery man wills her a good day, and Andy nods dutifully, carefully accepting the magnificent bouquet he presents to her, along with a small card that Andy can tell, by texture alone, is far more expensive than most florists would keep on hand.
The vase is rectangular, made of glass. The flowers within are perfectly arranged, a loud and cheerful smattering of yellow tulips interspersed caringly with a couple of more muted, purple flowers that Andy vaguely recognizes as hyacinth. It’s a stunning arrangement, it’s perfectly… well, Andy, and she quickly becomes flustered, feeling somehow seen in a way that feels foreign to her.
The small envelope of the card flutters to the floor, forgotten in Andy’s eagerness to identify the sender.
‘Congratulations, Andrea.
-M.’
And damn, if every last bit of breath in Andy’s lungs doesn’t fall from her lips with a staggered whoosh.
The barest hint of rose and orange blossom lingers on the cardstock – a scent that rapidly renders Andy a flushed and trembling disaster. The handwriting, elegant and regal, reminiscent of scrawled notes in the edges of a Book that Andy still has nightmares about delivering to an unwelcoming townhome in the Upper East Side. The use of her given name, a name only one person ever uses, and Andy still can’t talk about the way that the sound of it had tickled the edges of a bi-sexual awakening she hadn’t nearly been prepared for at the time.
If Miranda is hiding, Andy thinks, she’s doing it terribly.
It’s impossible.
And yet…
Andy pulls out her phone and snaps a photo. She hesitates, briefly.
Is it wise? She wonders. It’s only been a month since Paris, Andy is still piecing her life together and figuring out who she wants to be, what she wants to become. She’s made great strides, and she is proud, and so is it truly wise to put herself back in Miranda Priestly’s all-consuming and ever-demanding orbit?
But it’s a step, Andy considers, teeth dragging across a lightly glossed lower lip. She’d left Miranda in the middle of Paris fashion week to fend for herself, and Andy had made no apologies for it, she won’t make any apologies for it, because she and Miranda both know why. Yet Miranda is reaching out, is more or less telling Andy ‘no hard feelings’ or ‘I see you evolving’ or… or…
What is Miranda trying to tell her, exactly?
Andy makes a quick grab for her laptop, and performs some of the fastest Google research she’s ever done in her life.
She reads that yellow tulips signify cheerfulness and hope, and most importantly new beginnings.
New beginnings? Andy wonders, a small line creasing at her brow. Perhaps Miranda hadn’t… but no, Andy shakes her head. No, everything Miranda Priestly does has meaning, serves a purpose, and Miranda wouldn’t have sent her a floral arrangement without knowing exactly the meaning of each bulb to be delivered. And the hyacinths – purple ones – their symbolism evident from the first page Andy reads.
They are sorrow, regret… sincere apology, a plea for forgiveness.
Andy picks up her phone and hits send on the photo before she can change her mind. She is cautious, she is frightened, she is strangely exhilarated, but Andy has never been cruel, and she cannot leave such a blatant apology unacknowledged. Her fingers quake as she types the accompanying message.
They’re beautiful. She writes. Then another.
You didn’t have to.
Andy considers taking the bouquet home with her, but leaves them at her desk for fear of damaging them on the subway. Besides, she thinks it will be nice to look at something pretty during her workday. Tomorrow, she’ll pick up a disposable camera to snap a real photo that she can print.
She’d intended to stay another hour, but Andy knows well enough that she has become useless for the rest of the day, and even the work she optimistically shoves into her bag will likely go ignored.
There’s no cell service in the subway, and only the two-day-old manicure at her fingertips stops her from gnawing anxiously into her nails.
Andy spends the entire evening – the entire week, in fact – agonizing over a response that never comes.
The second delivery arrives on March 13th.
This time, Lily does send something for Andy’s birthday, but it’s an Amazon-ordered gag gift – a series of plastic, rainbow, obnoxious pride-themed shot glasses, along with matching sunglasses and a t-shirt that makes Andy snort through her nose before discretely but swiftly squirreling the package into her bag. She’s not ‘in the closet,’ exactly – the aftermath of Paris came with many apologies and added on confessions – but Andy sees no need to make her colleagues aware of her newly discovered sexual orientation, nevertheless.
The second package baffles Andy for all of the thirty seconds it takes to untie a delicate ribbon and unbox what is, quite frankly, a fucking gorgeous Oscar de la Renta original. It’s a sleeveless cocktail dress in ivory, green vines winding across the fabric with plumes of pale pink flowers blooming along the way.
Andy doesn’t even unpackage it in its entirety, knowing full well that nothing at The Mirror is nearly as clean as the floors of Runway, and terrified to sully this outrageous, stunning, and absolutely unnecessary gift.
With thousands of dollars’ worth of material perched carefully at her desk, Andy fumbles for the card.
‘Saturday, Café Boulud, 4PM.
If you’re so inclined.
-M.’
The back of Andy’s neck is hot to the touch when she gathers her hair away from her nape. She blinks, and rereads the message three more times to be sure, because Miranda can’t… she isn’t… Miranda Priestly is not inviting her former second assistant to join her at one of New York’s most luxurious restaurants. Is she?
God, she is. Andy releases a slow breath through her nose, pulse thrumming wildly in her ears and a subtle itch growing at the back of her throat. Unbidden, a series of fantasies flicker beneath her fluttering lashes. Flashes of pale, smooth skin, of regal shoulders, a graceful neck. A cool, unflinching gaze of blue sweeping down the length of her. The gentle tug of an unwanted smile at the edge of expertly colored lips. A glimpse of snow-white hair, of perfect hands, the glint of delicate jewelry along a tempting throat.
Andy stands abruptly from her desk and for the life of her, she can’t recall what excuses she had made to her boss and colleagues, but she and her precious gift are at home on her couch within the hour, a glass of cabernet clutched tightly between her fingers.
If she’s so inclined? Andy blusters internally. What does that even mean?
Andy stares at the box as though a cobra might spring from inside of it. She can’t accept this. She can’t. Can she? Realistically, can she even give it back?
She grapples for her cell phone and dials Nigel’s number, thankful that they, at least, had remained friends throughout her career transition.
“Not today, Six,” Nigel answers, sounding muffled, likely speaking around a mouthful of pins.
“It has to be today, Nigel,” Andy insists vehemently.
“No, it doesn’t,” Nigel replies. “She’s on the warpath today. Pick another day, Andy.”
“But it might be my fault, because – ” Andy flushes, unsure how much she should say.
“Because what?” Nigel swiftly demands. “If you know how to fix this, Six,” he says, low and practically threatening, “I’m all ears. She’s terrorizing the whole floor. Poor Emily might puke,” he says in clear disgust.
“She sent me something,” Andy blurts out. “A um, a birthday gift, I think?” She taps her nail against glass, fidgeting nervously. “Nigel, it’s obscene,” she breathes, pressing the wine glass to her mouth and indulging in a large swallow.
“She sent you… Excuse me, what? I have known that woman nearly two decades and I have never – ”
“It’s an Oscar de la Renta,” Andy squeaks, interrupting. “It’s stunning; ivory, green vines, pretty pink flowers, sleeveless. You’d love it, I’ll show you later, but that’s not the point. She sent it with a dinner invitation. For Saturday. I’m losing it, Nigel. You know I – ” Andy swallows, hard, the itch persistent in the back of her throat.
Because Nigel knows. They’d never discussed it, of course, but Nigel had teased her playfully for the pink in her cheeks, the stutter of breath at the sound of her name being called. Andy hadn’t understood it at the time, but Nigel had recognized it for the infatuation that it had been, that had taken Andy until Paris to realize in its entirety, after which ‘infatuation’ could never begin to cover the emotion that coiled so hotly in Andy’s chest.
Nigel is quiet. Eerily quiet, until Andy hears him abruptly dismiss whoever is likely hiding in the closet with him.
“You’re sure this is Miranda?” Nigel asks, bewildered. “My Miranda?”
“Nigel,” Andy whines, exasperated, “who else would… And anyway,” she stammers, “it’s not the first gift she’s sent.”
“No?” Nigel drawls, curious, disbelieving.
“Flowers,” Andy gulps down another mouthful of wine. “After my first byline, she sent flowers. Tulips, purple hyacinths. I- I looked them up.”
Nigel releases a soft, incredulous laugh. “She congratulated you and apologized? Six, what the hell happened in Paris?”
“I can’t talk about that,” Andy says decisively. “It- That’s between us.”
“Clearly,” Nigel replies. “Well?” Expectant. Urging.
“Well, what?” Andy frowns.
“Well, are you going to say yes? Is it- Is it a date?” He asks, mischievous and slowly becoming gleeful.
“I don’t know!” Andy blusters frantically. “Who the hell just has an Oscar de la Renta delivered to someone’s desk? Without even speaking to them for months?!”
And, of course– Miranda Priestly is the answer neither of them speaks aloud.
“To be clear,” Nigel sighs dramatically, “the impossible woman you’ve been in love with for the better part of a year has taken to sending you ludicrously expensive gifts and is asking you to dinner, and you’re… what? Hesitating?” He laughs softly, gentle and kind. “I wish I had your problems, Six. Call me if you need accessories,” Nigel says. “I’m sorry, darling, but I have to go. I’m coming by tomorrow to peek at that dress. Happy birthday.”
He hangs up, and Andy… she wants to say the call was the opposite of helpful, but was it? Nigel is right. At the very least, she and Miranda lack closure. And even the merest possibility of anything else makes Andy’s head spin.
She grabs desperately for her wine and hopes Lily is bringing something stronger. Andy’s going to need it.