Chapter fifteen Kendra
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 and anxiety.
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.
I could do 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 be sans details on the new line, sans a 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.
“Oh my God!” she exclaims, leaning in to hug me. “I worried you might be one of the producers skulking around looking for ‘new talent’.” She makes air quotes, and her mouth twists in disgust. “I thought Me Too got rid of sleazebags like that.”
I turn to where she’s looking and see a tall white man in an off-the-rack blazer. Sure enough, he’s leaning way too close to a much younger woman who, thankfully, isn’t alone. I suppress the chill that runs up my spine at seeing a predator so openly on the prowl.
“Unfortunately, they’re like a hydra; cut one head off, two more grow back in its place. There are a lot of great things about working in fashion, but men like that aren’t one of them.”
Little does she know that I’m speaking from experience. That I was too much of a coward to raise my own Me Too claim and risk the only life I’ve ever known. It turns my stomach to think I might still see him at an event. Denise sucks her teeth.
“Anyway,” she beams, “you look amazing! I’m worried my dress won’t be able to stand up to a classic like yours.”
I rear back, looking at her like she’s crazy.
“Girl, hush. Your dress is gorgeous! You stand out like a beacon compared to all these prom dress wannabes.”
It’s not empty flattery; her work is stellar. I wouldn’t attach my name to her if it weren’t. She blushes at the compliment.
“Thanks. Let’s just hope I’m shining bright enough for Cory to find me through all these people. I didn’t expect it to be so crowded!”
No sooner has she said the words than Cory comes up behind her with a flute of champagne and a saucer of crab cakes and bruschetta.
She gratefully takes the refreshments and tilts her chin up when Cory bends down for a kiss.
I avert my eyes, trying not to stare. Do they have to be so freakin’ in love? Give us poor single people a break!
“Hey, Kendra,” Cory mutters when he’s finally done feasting on Denise’s neck.
“Nice to see you, Cory. You and Denise look so cute together. It’s making me wish I’d brought a date,” I laugh.
He looks at me, confused.
“You aren’t here with Damon? When I talked to him earlier, he said Noah had tickets and took him to buy a new suit.”
I feel Denise’s eyes and quickly paste on my public smile, hoping it hides my reaction to Cory’s statement.
So, not only is he lying about being busy, but he’s going to fashion events without me?
I have no right to be jealous—and I’m not!
—but…I don’t know. I thought he wanted me.
That he was coming to all those shows to see me.
Was it all just a coincidence? Would he have been happy with any model?
But that can’t be it, because he’d stayed!
He’d looked so hurt when he left that morning. Now he’s ghosting me?
I huff to myself. Cory, oblivious to my inner turmoil, nods at someone approaching from behind me.
“There he is! Damon, bro. I knew we should’ve shared a car. Your girl thought you weren’t coming!”
I freeze. Maybe if I don’t move, he won’t see me.
“Uh…,” he sputters, as shocked as I am.
I slowly turn my head, as if he might morph into someone else by the time we face each other.
No such luck; staring back at me is Mr. Fizzle himself, looking downright edible in a black tux with velvet lapels and a pearl cravat.
A fucking cravat! Dude leaves me on read and then shows up looking like a Bridgerton wet dream?
Sensing the tension between us, Cory clears his throat and takes Denise’s arm.
“Uh…C’mon, babe. I think I saw some Beef Wellington bites circulating by the chocolate fountain.”
Cory leads a confused Denise away, catching Noah’s arm before he even makes it to us. Damon and I stand next to each other, shifting uncomfortably.
“I didn’t realize you’d be here,” he mutters, avoiding my eyes.
“No shit,” I reply through clenched teeth, waving when I spot a photographer I worked with a few years back.
“If I had known, I would’ve—”