Nothing Can Go Wrong in the Sunshine
The sewing machine hummed across the table, its needle punching through iridescent spandex at maximum speed. Loni Bower hunched over her work, hair in a tangle, eyes tunnel-bright on the seam as it zipped along the curve of a structured bodice. Her phone vibrated twice—once, then again in a staccato pulse. She tapped it mute without glancing down.
“What is it today?” Mel said from across the studio, a glossy editorial spread pinned above her head like a neon halo. “Sleeves again?”
“Not sleeves. Corset grommets.” Loni ripped the fabric from the feed and ran a thumb along the line. Clean. Perfect. Every flawless seam was a testament to the skills she’d paid a fortune to learn at fashion school, a debt that felt heavier than the mountain of unfinished costumes still waiting for her.
Mel slid off her stool and rolled over in her wheeled office chair, wearing shorts that could have doubled as lingerie and a transparent raincoat with all the seams marked in highlighter pink. “You’re killing it, Loni. Seriously, you’re a genius.”
Loni allowed the compliment to stoke her pride momentarily, then pushed it aside to focus on the work in front of her. The pile of incomplete costumes on the rack had metastasized, each half-born creation requiring hours more toiling for her hands, her attention, her fragile spine. She twisted in her seat, stretching, and felt the familiar pinch between her vertebrae, her ever-present companion.
“These are extraordinary,” Mel said, reaching for the finished sleeve with the reverence usually reserved for fine jewelry.
“Composed of the blood, sweat, and tears of yours truly,” Loni replied, deadpan.
“You are so morose for someone that works with glitter on the regular.” Mel twirled the bodice, considering. “But seriously, I love this. Ren’s gonna cry. Who’s next?”
Loni checked her sketchpad. “After Ren, we have—”
“The twins,” Mel interrupted. “The twins are bringing their own underwires. And I can’t emphasize this enough: they’re not actually twins. It’s an aesthetic.”
Loni shrugged. The Velvet Carousel’s performers were a feral species, all phenomenal bodies and preternatural kinetics—the same creatures she’d idolized on posters tacked to her dorm room wall in undergrad. Now they were her first major client, and her life’s work depended on stitching them into immortal beings.
Her phone lit up again, this time she checked the home-screen banner: Baxter. She stared at it solemnly, letting it time out and revert to black.
Mel was studying her, one manicured brow lifted. “You okay?”
“Just... my brother,” Loni said, trying not to divert her attention from the tasks at hand. “He wants me to call him, but won’t say what it’s about.”
Mel made the face she made for most of Loni’s family stories—a mix of horror, delight, and what looked like real concern. “Tell him, unless somebody’s dying, it can wait. We have a deadline to crunch—we are on the precipice of greatness!”
“Right?” Loni glanced back at her phone with concern.
Mel noticed her worry. Her smile faltered. “That was a joke. I hope.” She set the bodice down, moving close enough for Loni to smell the vanilla in her hair.
“Doubtfully,” Loni said softly. She felt the urge to respond but couldn’t afford the distraction. Instead, she reached for a fresh cut of fabric, ducking her head and sighting down the next seam.
Mel watched for a second longer, then made a show of bustling back to her station. “We need to be in Venice by four. Headliner fitting, then final walk-through. You want me to handle the twins, or do you?”
“Let me,” Loni said. “I owe them an apology for the last—” She stopped, recalling in flash the disaster: a snapped elastic and a catastrophic onstage wardrobe malfunction that had gone viral before the show even ended.
Mel grinned. “They liked it. More tips than ever.”
Loni smiled, but it faded quickly. She unlocked her phone and finally checked the message: CALL ASAP ABOUT MOM.
She almost called, but she pictured Baxter on the other end, voice calm and businesslike, delivering some new installment in the long defeat that was Clara Bower’s existence. Loni’s hands itched to work, to forget.
The studio’s back door rattled with a postal delivery. Mel ran to sign, leaving Loni with the low whir of machinery and sensation of dread.
She started on the twins’ costumes, extra-reinforced, and let the rhythm of labor bury her guilt.
By noon, the workroom had heated up from intruding sunlight. Loni dabbed the sweat from her forehead, careful not to smear concealer. Mel returned with two armfuls of metallic spandex and a giddy, mischievous smile.
“Pale gold or burnished chrome?” Mel held up the swatches. “Serious question. Bruno wants chrome, but they’re not the one grinding on the floor in these.”
Loni took both, flexed the stretch, thought about sweat and friction burns and how the fabric would withstand the stress. “Gold. It looks more expensive and hides sweat. Besides, after that tulle disaster, Bruno lost their fabric-picking privileges.”
“Copy that. Let’s get you a protein bar before you faint again.”
Loni started to protest, but her stomach twisted like a live eel. “You’re projecting. I only fainted once. Maybe twice.”
“Dramatic fainting is underrated,” Mel said, peeling back the wrapper. “But only if you do it with style.”
Loni took the bar and Mel watched her eat the first bite with an exaggerated sigh of relief.
“I just want you alive for the show,” Mel said, softer. “This weekend is huge, you know?”
Loni nodded and chewed, staring at the sketchpad like it contained prophecy. “It’s going to be a disaster.”
“No, it’s not. Because you—” Mel tapped Loni on the sternum, right where the little angel-wing pendant nested above her tank top “—know how to keep your eye on the prize—which is a renewed contract for the February show. Just don’t let your family ruin it, okay?”
She meant it as encouragement, but Loni flinched. Her nervous system was bracing for catastrophe.
She pressed a hand to her lower back, the familiar ache a ghost of the injury that had sent her from the stage to the sewing table. She’d traded the spotlight for the hum of a machine, a career path that had taken her from the dullness of her rural hometown to the edge of success in LA. But now, with Baxter’s call looming, the ground felt ready to give way again, that old fear of being left behind rising in her chest.
Loni shrugged, then forced a smirk. “If they do, it wouldn’t be the first time the bottom fell out on me.”
Mel laughed. “You’re probably overthinking it—but don’t call him back until after the fittings. We can’t afford any distractions.”
Loni held her phone, thumb hovering over the call icon, then set it face-down. “You’re right—it can wait. It has to wait. Sorry, Bax.”
She took a deep breath and resumed her focus. Work. Gold spandex. The twins’ measurements. The tiny, invincible hum of the machine.
She would call Baxter later. After the fitting. After the disaster she could control.
The studio hummed on, bright and alive, as if nothing could ever go wrong in the Los Angeles sunshine.
Loni couldn’t sleep. If she stopped working, she would have to face her worries, and would likely collapse under the pressure. So she forged ahead, machine pedal to the floor, seam after seam, a desperate effort to maintain control. Around 1:00 a.m., Mel rolled in with an overnight bag and a six-pack of cold brew, declaring a “mandatory spa night,” then fell asleep mid-sentence on the studio futon.
By six, the sun rose with the pale pink indecision of a hangover. Loni cut through the fog of sleep deprivation with coffee and finally decided to call her brother.
“Hey, Allonia,” Baxter answered after the first ring. “You’re up early.”
She tried to keep her voice light, but it came out splintered. “It’s show day—I didn’t sleep.”
“Ah, me neither. Sitting in traffic now.” He always liked to remind her that his life was orderly, glossing over the chaos of hers. “Anyway. You got my message?”
Loni took the opportunity to stretch out her weary muscles, which hardly relieved the ache in her spine. “About Mom. What’s going on?”
There was a shuffle, the sound of his Tesla’s turn signal clicking. “She’s not doing so hot. Doctors say early onset Parkinson’s. Or that’s the guess. Could be something else. They won’t commit until she gets a brain scan, but good luck getting her to go. She’s sleeping sixteen hours a day, and when she’s up, she’s a zombie.”
Loni could see it perfectly: their mother, hovering in front of the TV, napping the days away. It was the same static image from her entire childhood, a rerun she had no reason to believe would ever end.
“She’s not driving, is she?” Loni asked, already knowing.
“Not after last month,” Baxter said, then let it hang. “I tried to hire help, but she’s really particular about who she lets in. She says she can manage, but... it’s not safe.”
“So what do you want me to do, Bax?” She hated the whine that crept into her own voice, but it was easier than outright anger.
He didn’t answer at first. There was the white noise of a podcast in the background, then the muted snap of his gum. “Look, I can send money, but I can’t leave my job. Your schedule is flexible, right? You’re not as locked down.”
She wanted to tell him that her life was as urgent, as critical, as his, but even she knew that wasn’t true. “I’m booked through February,” she said, knowing she would be if everything went well that night. “After that, maybe. I can talk to Mel, try to work remote. But we’d need to—”
“We need to sell the house. The market’s better in spring, but it’ll take months to get it cleared out. Mom’s never thrown anything away in her life. The house is full of things she hasn’t touched in years. She can’t keep living like this. If you could just... be there, help her, get the place ready—”
She cut him off, unable to entertain his excuses. “How long, realistically?”
“A few months. Six, max. Maybe less if she goes into a home. I’ll send money.”
The line went silent. Loni hoped the guilt would burn itself out, but it only dug deeper. She pictured the house where she grew up in the Spearleaf Valley, the entire landscape of her adolescence compressed into a single view: the battered mailbox, the half-dead lilacs, the basement with its hidden stashes and unearthed memories.
“I’ll figure something out,” she said. It was not a promise, but he heard what he wanted to hear.
“Thanks, Loni. Seriously. Let me know what I owe you.”
She hung up before he could say anything else.
Outside, the waking city glinted off the skeletons of new construction. This world was built on relentless motion. She’d thrived in it, but now she felt the sickening lurch of a collapse—her collapse.
Loni set the phone down, regretting having made the call. The room suddenly felt suffocating. She looked over at Mel, still sleeping, one flawless calf thrown over the futon’s arm, mouth open in a faint smile.
If Mel felt the tectonic shift in Loni’s world, she didn’t show it when she woke. Instead, she launched into the day’s schedule: “Ten a.m. pickup from cleaners, then back-to-back rehearsal fittings until noon. I can bump the lunch with Thalia if you’re melting down. You look—no offense—like a rescue animal. Did you even sleep?”
“No,” Loni said flatly. She went to the mirror, tried to fix her hair, then gave up. “I have to go home for a while. Like, the home-home. My mom’s not doing well.”
Mel blinked, then nodded. “Shit. Is it bad?”
“Probably. Baxter offered to throw money at it, but other than that he’s useless. She needs help packing up the house. Selling it, maybe. He can’t do it, so that means it falls on me.”
Mel crossed the studio and wrapped Loni in a hug that was firmer than expected. “You want to talk about it?”
“I’d rather run my finger through the sewing machine,” Loni said. Then she laughed, because it was true.
Mel leaned back, squinting. “So, what, you’re leaving?”
“I’ll have to. But I can work remote. If Velvet Carousel renews our contract, I’ll take the patterns and the fabrics with me. I’ll finish everything on time. And I’ll find someone to do fittings out here, maybe hire a local if I can.”
Mel cocked her head, the wheels already turning. “Ok… I think we can make this work.”
Loni smiled, weak but grateful. “I’m so sorry, Mel.”
“Don’t be. Caring for aging parents is a part of life, unfortunately.” Mel went to the rolling rack and began pulling outfits, stuffing them into garment bags. “We’ll make it work. Who needs sleep, anyway?”
Loni went through the motions—gathering accessories, wrapping garments, her mind taking stock of what could survive a cross-state move. Anxiety crept in, cold and slick, until her hands trembled. She pressed them flat against the table. She had been so close, right on the verge of the life she wanted. Now, she was being rerouted back to the place she’d clawed her way out of, praying it wouldn’t devour her whole.
But the work was non-negotiable. Even as her thoughts spun, her hands continued on autopilot: matching fabric, measuring, cutting, preparing. Each stitch was a silent curse, a prayer to hold it together for just a few more days.
By the time they reached the dry cleaners, the city was in full, hostile bloom. Mel did the talking, making sure that every item was accounted for. Loni took a mental inventory of the costume ensembles, ignoring the persistent buzzing of her phone—now a parade of missed texts from Baxter.
She didn’t open them. Not yet.
On the way to the venue, Mel launched into damage control, outlining a plan to keep clients happy and bookings live even while Loni was away. “We’ll tell everyone you’re on retreat. Spiritual. Like rehab, but for the soul.”
“Stop—you’re making it worse than it needs to be,” Loni said, leaning her head against the window. The anticipation of the night’s performance was too much for her sleep-deprived mind to bear.
Mel drove through the afternoon traffic, quietly now, reading the situation the way only a true friend could. As Loni’s mind drifted, Mel asked no questions, nor gave her pity.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Mel said at last, almost shy. “Maybe you’ll get some closure or whatever.”
Loni thought of her mother’s faded photographs, the collection of yellowed newspaper clipping, family heirlooms packed in antique steamer trunks, and miscellaneous junk all jammed into dusty, sagging cardboard boxes. She wished she could just throw everything in a dumpster and call it good, but she knew Clara would clutch to everything she could.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s temporary. Once it’s done, I’ll be back here like I never skipped a beat.”
It was a lie she desperately wanted to believe. She knew, even if she purged everything in that house, she would never be the same. The old gravity would reclaim her, and her LA life—the only one she’d ever chosen—would wither.
She thought of the finale costume, a bodysuit with intricate structural attachments. How could she possibly build something so complex while confined by Clara’s hoards of clutter? The weight of the task felt as heavy as the house itself.
“Don’t die out there,” Mel said, breaking the silence.
“I’ll come back with a new spine and a memoir.”
“I’ll ghostwrite it for you. First chapter: ‘Allonia versus the House of Horrors’.”
“Don’t curse me,” Loni laughed, real this time, and let the warmth carry her forward. She could do this. She had survived worse.
Loni and Mel arrived at the performance hall in a blizzard of feathers and satin, hauling in a multitude of bins and garment bags in the bustling backstage of the Velvet Carousel. This was the night that would make or break their dreams.
