Page 57 of My Real Love Affair

“It’s exhausting. It’s soul-crushing. And for so long, I believed it. I thought something was wrong with me.” She took a sip of champagne, her eyes bright with emotion. “Then I found this community of women who looked like me. Being overweight or a little bigger than a size two does not mean you can’t be fashionable and confident and happy. When I accepted my body, it changed my entire life.”

I found myself leaning forward, completely absorbed.

“I realized that plus-size women are the majority. We’re not some tiny minority that the fashion industry reluctantly has to acknowledge. We’re the majority of the population. But we’re treated like we should be grateful for any scrap of representation we get. Like we should thank brands for deigning to make clothes in our sizes.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is. And social media has made it worse in some ways. Because now the negative messaging is constant. It’s everywhere. All the filters on your phone cameras are like dangling candy in front of little kids. Everyone is afraid to justpost a picture of themselves as they are. Like they’ll never be good enough no matter what they do.”

“Do you use filters?” I asked.

“At times.” She nodded. “Not often. But I’m very honest and I make sure I put it on my post. I use good lighting for some of the more professional pictures, but I also don’t sit down fresh-faced ten minutes after I’ve crawled out of bed and talk to my followers. Women all know we don’t roll out of bed looking like this.” She gestured to her face. “But it’s pretending you did that I think is just so shady.”

Her hands were moving now, animated and expressive. I could see why the situation was so important to her.

She took another sip of the champagne. “I was so damaged as a kid. So convinced that my body was wrong. That I was wrong. And building my platform, connecting with women who felt the same way and getting to show them that they could be beautiful and stylish and confident exactly as they are was amazing.” Her voice cracked slightly. “That healed me. That gave me purpose.”

“So when Femme Curve edited your photos, you took it personally?”

“It felt like betrayal. Like all that work and progress meant nothing. They looked at my body and decided it needed fixing. That even in a campaign about body positivity, I still wasn’t acceptable enough.” She wiped at her eyes quickly. “Sorry. I’m getting emotional.”

“Don’t apologize.” I reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re allowed to be emotional about this. It mattered. It still does matter.”

She looked down at our joined hands. “The ten-year-old version of me would be so proud of where I am now and what I’ve built.Ilike the woman I’ve become.” She met my eyes. “And seeing those edited photos? It broke my heart. Because it feltlike they were telling that little girl that she still wasn’t good enough.”

She had something to fight for. Something that mattered. I had never had that. I’d spent my whole life either trying to meet my family’s expectations or rebelling against them. But I never had a cause. Never had something I believed in enough to fight for.

“You’re one of the good ones,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“You’re one of the good ones. You care about something bigger than yourself. You’re trying to make a difference, not just make money. That’s rare, Melody. Really rare.”

She blushed, looking away. “I’m just doing what feels right.”

“That’s exactly what makes you good.”

I waved the waiter over, ordering us appetizers without consulting the menu. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, we’re celebrating.”

We ate and talked. I realized I was having more fun than I’d had in months. Maybe years.

Melody was smart, funny, and passionate. She challenged me. Made me think. She was sonormal. In a good way. I wasn’t plotting on how to get her into bed. I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to gently dump her in the morning. I was able to sit and enjoy the moment.

People were definitely photographing us. I’d caught at least three phones pointed in our direction.Perfect.

“Thank you again,” Melody said as we finished eating. “For everything. The lawyers, the negotiation, and this lovely celebration.” She gestured at the restaurant. “I’m not sure I can ever repay you.”

“You can,” I said.

“How?”

“Sunday night. Wear something nice. I’ll pick you up at six.”

Her brow furrowed. “What’s Sunday night?”

“Dinner.” I tried to keep my tone casual even though my stomach was already knotting at the thought of dinner with her on my arm. I stood, pulling out my wallet. “Come on. Let’s get you home so you can do all that important content creation work you mentioned.”

“You’re paying?”