“Wish me luck, baby. Hopefully, I’m worrying over nothing.”
Chapter one
Kendra
February
“Girl, you killed it on the runway!” Daniela exclaims as she gathers me up in a genuine embrace. I met the Brazilian bombshell in rehearsals for Bailey Maxwell’s show, and meeting her became one of two major bright spots at New York Fashion Week this year.
As a plus-size model, I usually keep to myself at industry events. Get in, get the job done, get out. Trying to make friends only opens me up to the toxicity practically wafting off most straight-size models. Still, I can hear their whispers.What’s she doing here? Has she never heard of a diet? Ugh, another “diversity hire”. I thought this show was couture.
But Daniela was a breath of fresh air, hugging me in introduction—she’s a hugger—and then launching into her lifestory with all the drama of a telenovela. Though she’s in straight-sizes, her curvy figure makes her stick out on runways almost as much as I do, and it’s limited her opportunities, as the majority of designers prefer women shaped like mannequins to actual female bodies. God forbid I eat a donut once in a while!
I liked her right away, and when I showed up today to find she’d saved me a seat next to her at a vanity, I knew the feeling was mutual. My chest warms at the memory of her kind gesture.
“Thanks, babe! You weren’t so bad yourself!”
I give the woman a gentle squeeze back, accepting her air-kisses to each cheek, and watch with a smile as she flutters after a group of models on their way to one of many Fashion Week after-parties happening tonight.
Lucky for me, I already have plans with the other bright spot of Fashion Week: Denise Jeffries, the designer responsible for the stunning dress I just rocked down the Maxwell catwalk. She DM’d my agent a few weeks ago with a link to her portfolio and a request to discuss the show. It was an easy yes, considering I’ve been following her on social media for months and hoping for a chance to collaborate. She didn’t care that I showed up late and drenched from the rain; she was as eager to work with me as I was to work with her. Tonight was hopefully the first of many shows together, and I can’t wait to help bring her extended-sizes line to fruition with my industry experience and connections. As a model in my early thirties, my runway days are numbered; working with a designer is the logical next step for my career.
I apply a fresh coat of lip balm and pat the snarled bun still stiff from all the stylists’ hairspray. My usually bouncy curls feel more like a helmet at the moment, and once I’m home from drinks with Denise and her friends, I’ve got a hot date with my shower to wash out the harsh chemicals.
“You all set?” I ask once I spot her across the nearly deserted backstage area. She returns my grin with a tired one of her own and nods.
“Yep! My girls are going toflipwhen they meet you. Let’s just say I’m not your only fan.”
Her friends must be plus-size, too; no matter how many times I’m featured in Times Square, I still don’t have much name recognition with straight-size women. Men, however, will cross a room to talk to me, regardless of their size or socioeconomic status. I’ve got what my agent Morty calls “an approachable face”.
We walk through the double doors separating us from the audience area, but I stop when I notice Denise stiffen next to me. She’s staring across the room at a certified hottie in a blazer and slacks next to two Black women; one with locs and the other with long, dark curls similar to my own. I’m guessing the women are her friends and that the Asian man is…an ex, maybe? From the look on her face, she’s not happy to see him. Fingers crossed she doesn’t ask for a raincheck on post-show drinks. I’m way too wired to go to sleep right now.
I’m glancing back and forth between the two when three more extremely attractive Asian men join the group with drinksin hand. One looks like a hipster with dark-wash jeans cuffed above Converse Allstars. He kisses the Black woman with locs; I bet they’re together. The second has “agent” written all over him, wearing a navy three-piece suit and his hair slicked back. He clinks his highball glass against the beer in the third man’s hand, who’s standing stock still and staring right at me.
The third man, the one doing a great statue impression, is taller than the others by at least five inches. He’s also thicker, with long limbs wrapped in corded muscle that strain the fabric of his shirt and pants. He’s wearing athletic sneakers that don’t really work with the dark slacks and blue button-down shirt he’s got on, but his buzz cut accentuates his sharp jaw, and I’m a sucker for tattoos. I can see one peeking from beneath his slightly open collar and another on his forearm.
Yes, please!My self-imposed dry spell has gone on long enough.
When the tall one stays frozen, the agent puts his hand on the tall one’s shoulders and follows his gaze. He sees Denise first, giving her a wink before tapping her maybe-ex to get his attention. Then he looks at me. There’s open appreciation in his expression, yes, but then he notices the tall one’s eyes locked onto me like a tractor beam. His entire demeanor changes; it’s playful, mischievous.
I choose not to read into whatever prompted that look and instead lean down to whisper in my new business partner’s ear.
“You good, Denise?”
She jolts like I shocked her, then clears her throat in an attempt to cover the exaggerated response. I’m not buying it.
“Uh, yeah,” she stutters, avoiding my eyes. “It’s just a few more people than I realized were coming.”
She starts walking over before I can ask further questions, stopping in front of the women I assume are her friends.
“Look who we found in the back row, trying not to be seen,” the curly-haired one says with a smirk. A silent conversation unfolds between Denise and the woman, with everyone watching awkwardly.Are they having a fight? Did she bring the maybe-ex?
The agent interrupts the tense moment with a clap and an elbow to the tall one’s side. He has yet to blink.
“C’mon, folks,” he calls out to the group. “Let’s all grab another drink for the road.”
The way he’s working the room, controlling the situation, I’m now positive he’s an agent, or perhaps an entertainment lawyer. Either way, he’s in the business.
On my way to the bar, a plump woman with her blonde hair in a ponytail and at least four event lanyards around her neck rushes up to me with a notepad and pen already in her hand.
