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But now it seems that won’t be happening. Not unless I figure out how to get there on my own. And it looks as though that is my only option. But I will make it happen.
* * *
My fourth job interview ends like the previous three. With a “we’ll get back to you soon.” Which equals we have no intention of hiring you. Why is it so fucking hard to get a job? Working retail isn’t rocket science.
I walk out of the preppy clothing store with my head hung low. Where the hell will I get a job? At this point, I am not above selling shit on the streets to get the money I need. Whatever it takes to get me back to Cora. And although I haven’t spoken with her in far too long, in my mind’s eye, I picture her face lighting up the moment we reconnect. As if we scoured the earth to find each other and succeeded.
There is one more interview on my list today. One more opportunity. And I hope like hell it won’t end like the last four. This interview is a long shot, but I have to try. At this point, what do I have to lose?
Two hours later, I walk through the front door of Elite Models. My stomach twists in a knot and a bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. When I approach the reception desk, a woman ten years my senior gawks at me head to toe. Her perusal isn’t distasteful, but makes me want to curl inward.
“Can I help you?”
I step closer to the counter. “Yes. I have an interview with Sharon and Gus.”
The woman peels her eyes away from me and scans her computer screen. A few scrolls and clicks later, she locates whatever she had been looking for and smiles. Her fingers tap the keyboard before she picks up the phone and dials.
“Your next candidate is here,” she says. Her eyes pop back to my body and visually rip away my clothes. The act is a total violation and I wonder if this is what girls feel like when men ogle them in public. If so, it is awful and makes me want to cover myself with my arms.
She sets the handset back down, but keeps her eyes trained on me. I want to look away, escape the unease of her gaze, but choose not to. Because who knows how she will visually obsess over me when I turn away.
God, this is awkward.
A set of smoky glass doors open and a man walks out. He could be Dad’s age, maybe older, but is layered in makeup and trendy clothes that shave years off his appearance. His hair is styled like a magazine ad—not a single strand out of place. For a moment, inferiority swamps me. I can’t do this. But I have to do this. Every other option has been tossed away.
“Gavin Hunt?” the trendy man asks and I nod. “Hello, Gavin. Gus.” He extends a hand and I shake it. “It’s nice to meet you. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.”
I follow him through the smoky doors. With each step, I ask myself if doing this is the right thing. If getting sucked into the limelight is how I get back to Cora. The hall we walk down is littered with countless photos. Women, men, people my age, people my parents’ age. The images range from luxurious to hobo and everything in between. Each face is beautifully sculpted and emotionally connecting with the onlooker.
How the hell do they do that? How the hell would I do that?
There is no way I can do this.
Two hours later, I shake Sharon and Gus’s hands. They don’t throw me the infamous line I have heard at every other interview. Instead, they tell me what time to return on Monday. Relief courses through my veins.
Finally, an opportunity.
Not only did I land a job. I landed the opportunity of a lifetime. Modeling will not only flood my pockets, it will have me back in Cora’s arms sooner than expected. Today ends on a high note and I wish I could share the news with the one person who matters.
Soon. After I get a couple photo shoots under my belt, I will call Cora and let her know the good news. That I will return home.
* * *
Why is this shit so goddamn difficult?
Every photo I have studied makes modeling seem effortless. Smiles and smirks and deadpan expressions. All in my repertoire. Stand in front of the camera, plaster your face with whatever emotion the photographer seeks and pose. Boom. Photo acquired.
Wrong.
After several failed attempts to appear smoldering, I am asked to put my shirt back on and report to Karen on the third floor. What the fuck is smoldering anyway? If I didn’t fear the repercussions of having my phone out, I would search the term online.
Instead, now I sit in a room with five other people. Our chairs in a small circle facing each other. Feels like I am at a group therapy session. My knee bounces and I gnaw on my thumbnail.
A fifty-something woman glides into the room. Yes, glides. For a moment, I wonder if she wears special shoes under her floor-length, flowy dress. She owns the room in one breath. Everyone in the circle equally mesmerized by her appearance. Her finesse. Her ability to instantly garner everyone’s attention.
“Good afternoon. I’m Karen, your modeling coach.”
Modeling coach? Damnit. Obviously, my modeling skills were zero on a scale of a million. Because this sounds like school. And school hasn’t been something I excelled in since moving.
