“Fine,” I grit out. “Yes, I was texting. A woman, not a girl. We had a—“ I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to say booty call with minors, so I clear my throat and try again. “A date. An amazing date, actually. Only now she’s saying she just wants to be friends.”
I leave out the “with benefits” part, even though I’m sure these kids know more about no-strings “situationships” than their parents would like. Carter gives me a pitying look and pats me on the shoulder.
“Sorry, man. That’s rough.”
“Wait a minute,” Robbie argues. “She says she wants to be friends, and that’s it? You just give up?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what you do,” I insist. Too many guys think getting “friend zoned” means they should try harder, when really that’s a woman’s way of letting the guy down easy.
Except Kendra textedmeabout dinner. And “hanging out” in her apartment. I’m pretty sure she wants to hook up again, so maybe her morning-after brushoff was about not catching feelings more than anything else. If that’s the case, we need to establish some guidelines, so no one gets hurt. Again…
“I don’t mean you should stalk her or anything,” he laughs. My asshole clenches. I guess Icouldcut back on showing up at her events.
“I’m just saying,” Robbie continues. “She might not want to be boyfriend-girlfriendnow, but maybe she will in the future, when you get to know each other better. Amy thought I was a dumb jock at first, but now she’s my date for homecoming.”
Carter rolls his eyes.
“Robbie, my dude. Youarea dumb jock.”
Robbie flips him off, and their tenuous camaraderie dissipates immediately. They walk into the locker room, too distracted by their bickering to keep trying to give me advice.
Still, they have a point. I don’t know if I can be Kendra’s fuck buddy; I’m already too far gone. But I can be her friend. And I’ll always be her fan.
I open my phone back up, ready to decline her invite, when I see the Instagram notification. She posted about the fundraiser! I smile to myself and walk to the shoebox that’s masquerading as my office. Despite how complicated things are between us, she’s still willing to help the kids for a good cause. As if I needed another reason to fall for her…
Chapter fifteen
Kendra
Niko deftly avoids oblivious tourists darting into traffic and taxicabs rushing to snag their next fare. It’s Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer and less than a month until the next New York Fashion Week. I can’t believe how fast this year has flown by! Just the thought has my stomach churning with a mix of excitement andanxiety.
In the last Fashion Week almost seven months ago, I wore the dress that made big waves and solidified Denise Jeffries as a name to watch in the extended sizes space. I jumped at the chance to continue working with her, not just to bring better options to the plus-size community, but also to establish a foundation for my life after modeling. My days are clearly numbered; every year, the girls get younger, the year feels shorter, and I get fewer invitations to walk the runway.
Case in point: I’m only walking in one show this time around.One.I’m speaking on a panel about my experience as a model and a woman of color, I have an interview with Thicc Magazine that feels suspiciously like a career retrospective, and Curvy Media is presenting me with their Legacy Award for paving the way for plus-size models in the mainstream. At only thirty-five, I feel too young to leave a legacy. Do they think I’m done?
Well, I’m not! Not by a long shot. I did not fight my way out of Andre’s orbit only to be sent out to pasture while he gets engaged and starts a life with another woman. Yes, we’re over, and yes, I’ve moved on, but I won’t pretend I don’t want to rub his face in my success without him, whether by starting a new line with Denise, landing a spot with a coveted designer, or being spotted with a new man.
I snort to myself, irritated. Despite her rudeness, walking for Theodora Galette would’ve been the perfect feather in my cap. I did the right thing by passing on the job, but for about ten seconds, it was tempting. Icoulddo it; shrink myself down to nothing in hopes they’d finally accept me. But how could I accept a legacy award as a plus-size model while wearing straight sizes? How could I speak to young women struggling to accept themselves while hurting myself to suit the unhealthy beauty standards I’m constantly speaking out against? I couldn’t, so the answer always had to be no.
Denise and I had desperately hoped we could make her formal launch announcement in the lead-up to Fashion Week;everyone’s in town and eager to hear the juicy gossip. But with some of the designs still incomplete and no confirmed venue for her debut show, we agreed an announcement would be premature. Still, I’ve been dropping hints about the impending line with my buyer contacts, posting behind-the-scenes footage of our process on my socials, and having drinks with Cory’s investor friends in between my other appearances. Cory has been a godsend to our business strategy, though seeing him around Denise’s apartment reminds me of my most recent—and embarrassing—failure: Damon.
After so much buildup, I’m pretty sure things have already fizzled out between us. We had one great night together, followed by the world’s most awkward goodbye, and then…nothing. Oh, he’s texted a few times. He thanked me for posting about the exhibition game next month. He’s sent me links to cool things in the neighborhood, like Hi-Note, which has coffee, cocktails, and hosts community radio. But whenever I bring up grabbing dinner or a drink, or hanging out, he changes the subject, or claims to be busy with work.
I suppose it’s possible he really is busy. It’s the beginning of the school year, after all, and he’s preparing for his first official game as an assistant coach. But he was always free before we hooked up, always popping up unannounced and acting all tongue-tied. Now, it feels like I’m getting the brush-off.
Niko rolls to a stop in front of The Met, and the bright red banners sway ominously from the top of the iconic front steps.
On paper, I’m here for a private exhibit on Black style across the African diaspora. In reality, tonight is a chance to network, be seen by paparazzi, and maybe secure a last-minute spot in another show. I might besansdetails on the new line,sansa sexy boy toy, and currently only walking in one show, but I’m dressed to kill, and I won’t be leaving empty-handed.
It’s not the Met Gala, so there’s no red carpet, but the gauntlet of reporters and camera flashes still blinds me as I make my way up to the front doors with the help of an usher.
“Champagne?” a waiter asks once I enter the main hall. I smile in thanks and take it, then search the crowd for familiar faces. Unlike the majority of the museum, the walls of this exhibit are black, a nod to the theme. Photographers, designers, models, and even a few Hollywood types mingle over canapés and live music.
I spot Denise reading a quote from a GQ article on Walt “Clyde” Frazier. She’s practically glowing in one of her own designs; a floor-length gown of metallic gold charmeuse with a scandalous slit on one side, a plunging neckline, and an open back. It’s daring, and sure to turn more than a few heads tonight, especially with her ample cleavage.
I went with a dress inspired by Dorothy Dandridge. It has a mermaid silhouette, hugging my hips before billowing out in ruffles at my knees. The soft pink material brings out the honey undertones of my skin, which is on full display thanks to the strapless sweetheart bodice. My hair is mostly up, though I left a few tendrils loose to further accentuate my lush softness.
Denise turns when she feels my hand on her shoulder, then smiles in recognition.
