“Ms. Gray! Ms. Gray! Can I have your autograph?”
I sigh inwardly and paste on my public smile.
“Of course!” I answer, reaching for the pen. “Who do I make it out to?”
She answers breathlessly, gushing about how she was first in line at the box office to get tickets for tonight, and how she waved from her seat on the second row. She turns to point to anarea a few feet from where we’re standing, now devoid of chairs thanks to the venue staff.
“Did you see me waving when you came out?”
I stretch my smile wider to hide my default reaction to her over-the-top behavior. Technically, you can do my job without fans—only the designers have to like you—but my placements in several national network ads, my active presence on social media, my outspoken advocacy in the plus-size/curvy space, and even my recent, very public and very messy divorce have earned me quite the following. This woman seems harmless, if a little too enthusiastic.
“The lights are so bright, it’s hard to see individuals in the audience,” I explain, handing her notebook back to her, “but I really appreciate your support. Would you like a picture?”
She visibly quivers at the idea of a photo together, too overcome to respond, so I take the phone from her clammy hands and snap a picture of us selfie-style. She bows(!) when I hand her back her phone, whispers her thanks, then scurries through the dwindling crowd and out the front door.
Yeah. She was harmless.
I scan the room to find the three Asian men and Denise’s girlfriends drinking at the bar. They’re openly staring across the room, where the maybe-ex is spinning Denise around as she laughs. I guess they made up.
“Cory Park! Put me down this instant!” she squeals.
The friend with the locs smiles and starts walking over to them with the rest of the group trailing behind her.
“Is it safe to come back?” she asks. Denise nods, and the collective sigh of relief is almost audible.
“Yes. It’s safe,” Denise replies, looking chagrined at all the attention.
“And you guys are done being miserable? You’re back together?” the curly-haired one presses. Denise and her former-ex both nod.
“Yes,” he says. “We’re back together.”
“Thank God,” the agent yells. “Now you can stop moping around. Between you and Damon, I worried both my brothers had lost it.”
Judging by the glare and muttered “shut up!” from the tall one, he’s the Damon in question. He looks at me, seemingly trying to gauge my reaction to news he’s “lost it”. I simply smirk and raise an eyebrow, enjoying these brothers’ playful dynamic. I grew up an only child, only recently gaining two step-brothers I met for the first time at my dad’s wedding three years ago—his fourth. There were no fun practical jokes, no late-night gossip sessions, no one to blame for the broken cereal bowl in the kitchen. It was just me, my dad, and a revolving door of stepmoms. My birth mother had bailed before I hit middle school.
“Denise, girl. Is your life always such a soap opera?” I ask, grinning when she giggles and blushes. I’ll take that as a yes.
She introduces me around to her group of friends.
Her boyfriend, as of five minutes ago, is Cory. He worked in Finance up until recently and has been volunteering at a community center in Harlem while figuring out his next move.Hopefully, he’s open to helping me and Denise with the business plan for her line. It’s going to take a significant investment to get off the ground before all the major brands flood the market with their own plus-size apparel.
The curly-haired Black woman is her friend, Tiffany. She also runs the Harlem community center where Cory and Denise both volunteer. This close, she looks mixed with something, though I know firsthand Black people come in every color of the rainbow.
The Black woman with locs is Maya, who was recently married to Adam, the hipster currently glued to her hip. She works at Tiffany’s center too, but as a paid teacher.
The other men are Adam’s brothers. Noah is the second oldest, and he is, in fact, a talent agent for Luxe Partners. I’ve heard their name around, but I don’t think they have a modeling division. His twin is a hotshot lawyer who couldn’t make it tonight.
And last but not least, the tall one is Damon. He’s a former professional athlete who just returned home from playing basketball in Spain. I have no idea how I’ll keep all these new names and faces straight, but no way will I forget Damon. His imposing stature and intense stare are almost overwhelming.
His eyes follow me for all four blocks as we walk to Roxy Bar. It isn’t leering exactly. That’s too sinister for the energy I’m picking up. More like…watching intently. Even after we get to the bar and order the first round of drinks, entertained by Denise, Maya, and Tiffany’s dating escapades and a live band playing bossa nova-infused jazz, I feel his gaze on me.
By the time I finish my second Paloma, I’m done waiting. I’m too wired from an amazing show, and way too horny from months without dick. He’s remained in my periphery all night, and I swivel in my chair to address him directly.
“So,” I start, loud enough to be heard over the music, “what’s your deal, Damon? Are you the strong, silent type, or are you just working up the nerve to talk to me?”
His eyes widen at my boldness.
“Uh,” he sputters. “N-no. I mean, yes, I’m working up the nerve to talk to you, and no, I’m not the strong, silent type. I mean, I am strong, but—”
