Chapter three Kendra
Chapter three
Kendra
“Kendra!” the backstage coordinator calls in my direction. “Come behind Lynn, here.” She gestures to a ginger wearing a green sequined jumpsuit with long sleeves and a wrap waist.
“Amanda twisted her ankle, so Ms. Mercedes said you’re going to kick off the printed pieces.”
I move behind Lynn, unfazed by the last-minute change. It’s part of the job. I just hope I can leverage this show to work with Melissa Mercedes directly in the future. Her full-length gowns are the stuff dreams are made of.
I inch forward in line with the other models, stylists and makeup artists buzzing around us. They smooth stray hairs, touch up lipstick, and double-check that all straps are buckled and collars are down.
I’m not always a fan of the clothes I have to wear as a plus-size model.
It’s painfully obvious when a designer is trying to hide us in billowing sleeves, wide pant legs, and boxy shoulders, offering extended sizes to avoid potential backlash rather than accommodate diversity of the physical form.
Thankfully, Eloquii collaborates with designers like Melissa Mercedes, who want to accentuate our bodies with bold colors, on-trend styles, and ruching to give garments shape.
Denise, too, is a designer seeking to highlight our attributes, not downplay them.
Once her new line is realized, she’s going to take the extended sizes scene by storm.
Before I know it, it’s my turn. I carefully walk up the platform stairs—don’t want to end up like Amanda—and step onto the stage, striking my first pose. The cameras flash like the sun glinting off a lake, and I soak up the light as I stride purposefully down the catwalk.
With each turn, I catch glimpses of the audience. Celebrities hoping to be snapped at the event by the paparazzi. Other designers checking out the competition. Reporters broadcasting the show live or whispering into handheld recorders.
And, of course, him. Damon. He’s become my shadow since we met months ago, attending every show, every pop-up shop opening, every panel appearance. I think I even saw him outside 787 Coffee when I picked up my daily oat milk chai latte.
He lurks in the back, probably assuming I can’t see him.
But how could I miss someone nearly a head taller than the rest of the crowd?
How could I not sense those dark, piercing eyes following my every step?
How could I not feel the electricity that sparks between us every time we’re in the same room?
I went home after that first night we met, still buzzing with the energy of the show, but melancholy that Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome hadn’t come home with me.
I assumed it was a run-of-the-mill brushoff until he showed up at my next event, decked out in full athletic apparel and slightly sweaty, like he’d run there.
He didn’t try to come over. He didn’t wave or force eye contact.
I thought he might wait to run into me after the show, but I came from backstage to a deserted venue.
That’s how it’s been at every event since then.
I’ve played along, pretending I don’t notice him, but no more.
With my final turn at the end of the runway, I lock eyes with him and give him my best smolder. I add a wink, so there’s no way he can pretend I’m looking at anyone but him. His eyes widen. Yeah, Damon. I see you. In the next blink, I break the connection, then make my way back down the runway.
I drop my keys on the entryway table, forego my kitchen for a post-show snack, and walk directly to my bedroom.
Between all the events in the city, and the Los Angeles and Dallas fashion weeks last month, I’m beat.
There’s no rest for the weary, though; I promised I’d call Denise once things calmed down for the season.
I’m just about to shoot her a text when my phone rings.
Dad
I roll up to sitting and swipe to answer, pressing the receiver to my ear.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, baby girl.” His rich baritone comes across the line. “How was your show tonight?”
Shocked, I pull the phone back and double-check the caller. Dad never asks about my job. Ever. He always said it was a waste of my degree.
“Uh, it was fine, Dad. H-how did you know I had a show?” I sputter. His frown is practically audible.
“I suppose I deserve that,” he mutters with a sigh. “Debbie told me. She showed me your spread in Essence, too.”
I bite back my knee-jerk reaction to finding out my stepmom is more interested in my career than my own dad.
I want to hate her—evil stepmom and all that.
Only she’s not evil. She seems perfectly fine.
Certainly better than Janet (two wives ago), who tried to put me on a diet and cosigned my dad whenever he ragged on me for going to a casting call instead of a job fair.
Or Destiny, who tried to make herself my agent even though I already have a damn good one.
“Baby girl?” he interrupts my brooding. “You still there?”
“Sorry, Dad. I’m still here.”
“Great, because I also called to let you know that Andre stopped by the apartment.”
Just hearing that name makes my blood run cold.
“What?” My jaw is so tight, it’s hard to speak.
“Don’t worry,” he says, attempting a soothing tone. “I didn’t let him up. He just caught me in the lobby…He said he was worried about you.”
“Worried?!”
That negro has some nerve! He wasn’t worried about me when he had his dick inside his background singer’s mouth. Nor when he missed our last anniversary dinner to meet up with some Instagram ho. Page Six broke that story.
I roll my suddenly tense shoulders.
“Andre gave up the right to be worried about me the moment he signed the divorce papers.” But not before making my attorney earn his hefty retainer and then some. Despite our odd first meeting, Henry Park was worth every penny.
“Baby girl,” he begins, but I cut him off before he can launch into another lecture.
“Don’t ‘baby girl’ me, Dad. Andre is a liar and a cheat. If my lawyer had been anyone else, I would’ve wound up paying him alimony to travel the world getting “strange” at every tour stop.”
A liar, a cheat, and a moron. The prenup was ironclad; even infidelity couldn’t disqualify it.
What it didn’t allow was committing any crimes.
Like, say, siphoning a percentage of every check I made into a secret account for his own personal slush fund.
Even a misdemeanor on either of our parts would tarnish the “lover-boy next door” image the label created for him, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?
! Thanks to society’s engrained misogyny, they could write cheating off as a “moment of weakness”.
Stealing, however, was apparently too far.
After more than a few messy squabbles played out in the media, he finally settled out of court to keep the truth hidden.
“He made a mistake, Kendra. He’s a rich, handsome man with women throwing themselves at him daily. Is a wandering eye really worth throwing away four years of marriage?”
My jaw drops in disbelief. Andre had a whole wandering dick, and my dad wants me to take him back? He may not know about the thief part—strict confidentiality was a stipulation of the settlement—but the habitual cheating should be enough. I should be enough.
“If I were going to get back with him,” I say through clenched teeth, “it probably would’ve happened before I filed for divorce and moved out. It’s been final for two months, Dad. Andre and I are over. End of discussion.”
“I just don’t want you to end up like me,” he admits, sounding resigned.
“Debbie is great, but it shouldn’t have taken me four walks down the aisle to find her.
Your mother and I were dumb and in love, rushing to get married without thinking.
But you and Andre did it right. You took your time, did the whole white wedding thing.
There must be something there worth saving. ”
“Maybe there was. But it’s long gone now. I just wish you could be on my side for once,” I reply sadly.
We talk for a few more minutes; him about how Debbie wants to put an herb garden in the backyard, me with some vague details about tonight’s show. But it’s all white noise. Talking with my dad is like doing an interview, and the only way to get through those is with my trusty public smile in place.
I promise to reach out next week, and he finally ends the call, having drained every ounce of good feeling I had from tonight’s show.
Instead of glowing about eye-fucking Damon on the runway, right in front of everyone, I’m scowling about Andre’s triflin’ ass.
Andre, who hadn’t made me feel as hot as that look did in over a year.
The cheating was bad. The stealing was worse. But nothing hurt more than how he made me feel when we were intimate. When we tried, at least. We used to have amazing sex. Hot, steamy, marathon sex that required electrolytes and a sandwich to recover.
Then the Viega shoot happened, and everything changed.
My body, which had brought me so much success through the years, which I took great pride in despite it not conforming to traditional beauty standards, became a prison.
Andre tried to be understanding at first. He tried to work with me and ease me back into intimacy, but after a while…
I shake my head to cut off that train of thought. Enough. He’s out of my life, and I’m better for it. I just had a killer fashion season. Now it’s time to find someone hot, available, and interested to help me with my little problem so Sexy Kendra can finally get her groove back.