14. early bird
early bird
MARLEY
It’s after five am when I wake up the next morning, and I find two bottles of water on the nightstand.
Leaning against them is the resort's stationery, with the words “drink me” written on it in Othello’s handwriting.
I groan, pressing my hand to my forehead, but a smile still finds its way to my lips.
Cute. But I’m still mad at him.
My head is pounding. Not as bad as I expected, but pounding nonetheless.
I grab one of the bottles of water and take a long drink.
The curtains are pulled back, and outside the sky is still dark.
Just below, along the shoreline, is where sunrise yoga will take place in the next thirty minutes.
I debate whether I should stay in bed and nurse this hangover.
Or if I should do at least one thing I had planned on this vacation.
I felt the need for a reset. Some sense of calm after the day I had yesterday.
Othello telling Carina I was his girlfriend threw me for a loop. And the look on Carina’s face when she realized we were “a couple” was all too baffling.
What the hell was that about?
I couldn’t help but notice that flicker of disappointment in her eyes when Othello grabbed my hand. Does she still have feelings for him? Does he still have feelings for her?
He sounded sincere that he wasn't trying to use me, but why the panicked decision? Why did I have to be the center of it? Every moment we’d shared up until that point has felt so genuine. I don’t know if I trust what he says is true.
My mother’s voice echoes in my mind. A smooth road doesn’t mean there aren’t potholes waiting ahead. And if this isn’t the biggest pothole I’ve ever landed in, then I don’t know what is.
I finish the bottle before deciding that yes, I will go to sunrise yoga. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull my hair into a low ponytail. I get dressed in my mint green yoga pants and matching sports bra.
By the time I'm ready to put on my shoes, the throbbing in my head has subsided.
A little.
I take more pain meds and then put on the only pair of tennis shoes I packed. I grab the second water bottle from the nightstand. I toss it in my canvas bag along with a clean towel from the resort.
I open the bedroom door and step out soundlessly so I don’t wake Othello.
I hear him before I see him, the moon casting a glow into the darkness of the living room.
He is snoring softly and stretched across the couch in a way that looks anything but comfortable.
His arms are flailed above his head, his feet dangling off the end, with a blanket twisted around his waist.
I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.
Poor thing.
For a second I consider waking him and telling him he can take the bed. After yoga, I’ll be checking into my new room anyway. But he looks too peaceful, in that kind of sleep that says, 'do not disturb’. So, I don’t.
The sound of the waves grows louder the closer I get to the beach. The sun is still hiding behind the horizon.
Seems like I’m not the only vacationer bold enough to do the downward dog before sunrise. As I get closer to the designated area, I spot another early bird already unrolling her yoga mat.
The instructor is nowhere to be found, but her mat waits front and center, positioned closest to the waves. With a view like this, I might actually survive this sunrise yoga session, hangover and all.
The early bird, dressed in a chic pink workout fit, is already moving through her stretches, every motion sharp and graceful. She is older, with hair that gleams a striking silver that is either her natural color or the works of a master colorist.
I unroll my mat next to hers and shove my water bottle halfway into the sand to keep it from tipping over. We glance at each other, trading a smile and nod that says hello without words. But her face makes me do a double-take.
Wait. No way!
“I thought I’d be the only one crazy enough to do yoga at sunrise,” the early bird says, not even sparing me a second glance as she folds into another flawless stretch.
I bend over, forehead to knees, hands to toes, my curiosity working overtime.
Don’t stare, Marley. Don’t stare. Just be cool.
The instructor, Alicia, finally appears, all chipper and glowing, with her kinky puffball at the nape of her neck and her pink, pedicured toes.
She apologizes for her tardiness, blaming it on an important phone call.
She gets right to it after introducing herself and cues us into our breathing, but all I can think about is the woman on the mat beside me.
It has to be her.
Collette Randolph.
Former editor-in-chief of Vogue. She is one of fashion’s most influential editorial voices, helping shape trends and launch the careers of emerging designers.
She is a fashion icon. Someone I've admired for years.
She reminds me so much of the late André Leon Talley.
Poised, commanding, and effortlessly elegant.
I try to focus on my inhale and exhale, but it's damn near impossible. I feel like a creeper, staring at Collette every five seconds. I hope I’m not being obvious.
But she is perfect, and her skin is literally flawless in real life.
The whole time I thought it was filters and great editing.
I can’t help but sneak peeks at her as she moves.
Her form is impeccable. Meanwhile, my balance is all off, and I’m wobbling like a drunk flamingo.
So much for focus and reset.
Alicia calls out warrior two. I sink into the stance, thighs screaming and arms trembling.
I glance over, and of course Collette looks like she’s posing for a fashion spread, serene and unbothered. Not even a bead of sweat. I grit my teeth and try to get into my zone. Yoga usually comes pretty easy to me, but today I feel like an amateur.
Note to self: do not do yoga the morning after drinking yourself into oblivion.
“You’re doing well,” Alicia shouts to us both. I almost blow out a breath. By the time we reach savasana, I’m so tense from trying to stay focused that I can barely compose myself.
“Alright,” Alicia says gently after a moment. “Let your body settle. Close your eyes and breathe.”
I do exactly as she says, settling myself and letting my body and mind grow still. I listen to the waves roll in and out as the sun finally begins to rise, brightening the sky. For a few quiet minutes, the only movement is the breeze moving through the palms above us.
Ah! There she is.
My peace.
I let the sun warm my face, my body finally rooting itself in the calm of the morning.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Alicia continues softly, “begin to bring awareness back into your body.”
We sit there for a minute or two before Alicia thanks us for our time and patience. “Namaste,” she smiles gracefully.
“Namaste,” Collette and I repeat.
I take a second to roll up my mat, working up the courage to say something. Collette glances my way as she rolls up her mat and tucks it under her arm.
I take advantage of the moment and work up some courage.
“Hi. Um, Collette Randolph, right?”
“Yes, hello.”
When she confirms my suspicions, I let out a sigh of relief. “Oh my God, wow! I thought that was you.”
“The one and only,” she teases.
“I just want to say I’ve admired your work for years. Everything you’ve built, everything you’ve done. It’s just so remarkable!”
Collette smiles, flashing the whitest set of teeth I’ve ever seen.
“What’s your name, darling?”
“Oh,” I laugh, softly. “I’m Marley Jacobs.”
“Marley Jacobs? The creator of Mod? I adore your magazine. It’s beautifully curated.”
I’m jolted into silence.
Stunned.
All I can do is blink. When the boulder that feels like it has been lodged in my throat removes itself, I laugh in disbelief. “Wait, wait, wait. You’ve read my magazine?”
“Well, honey, who hasn’t? Your magazine is making quite a name for itself.
Stunned. Beyond stunned.
“I can’t believe you read my magazine. You’re like a legend.”
“I’m an ordinary woman just like yourself.”
My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. I almost reach out to hug her.
“That means a lot coming from you. I’ve followed your journey from stylist to journalist. I’ve always looked up to you and your career.”
Collette politely waves her hand at me. “Now you’re making me sound old, darling.”
We share a laugh, and then Collette tilts her head, finally studying me with interest.
“I must admit, I’ve admired your journey as well. You’re a force to be reckoned with. I like that you started with a digital platform, built a loyal audience, and then made the leap into print. That was brilliant groundwork.”
Fucking. Stunned.
“The fact that you know all this is blowing my mind right now,” I exclaim.
“I make it my business to keep up with all the black influencers in the world. We’re all we got at the end of the day,” she says with a smile.
I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. The Collette Randolph reads my magazine! I almost faint from sheer disbelief.
“You’re doing big things. Really big.”
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I’m seriously fan-girling right now. I still remember my first Vogue magazine. I was in middle school, and Naomi Campbell was on the cover, and I must have stared at her pictures for hours, begging my mom for that leopard print bikini.”
“Ah, I was 33 years young when that issue came out. I’d just stepped into creative direction at Vogue, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.”
“That cover gave me such a boost of self-esteem. I immediately thought, the world is finally starting to make space for us.”
Collette lets out a soft, indulgent laugh. “Darling, Naomi had graced many covers by that time, but we still had a long road ahead of us. We had to fight, and prove, and fight again just to hold the space we’d been given.”
“I feel like we’re still fighting.”
Collette gives me a look we both understand, and then we break out laughing.
“I don’t think the fight ever ends, but the support can be unwavering if you have the right people in your corner,” she says.
I nod, reflecting on her words. “It’s not often women are sticking up for each other. It always seems like a competition out here sometimes. That’s why I value people I can trust.”
“Tell me about it. I don't hand out my trust easily either. And unfortunately, that sort of thing still happens more often than it should. But when I recognize talent, I have no problem acknowledging it. You, my dear, have talent.”
I press my palm to my chest, genuinely touched.
“You know what, I like you,” Colette says. “We should continue this conversation soon.
As if my smile couldn’t get any wider, I beam. “We should!”
“How long are you here for?” she asks, starting to walk back towards the resort. I step beside her, our footprints forming prints side by side in the sand.
“I’m here for the rest of the week. What about you? I have to say I miss reading your articles in Vogue. What have you been up to since retiring?”
Collette’s eyes sparkle as if her mind is sifting through the years.
“I can’t lie. I miss Vogue too. But I’ve been traveling.
Mentoring here and there. And taking time to actually enjoy my life for once.
Lately, it's been planning and designing for my daughter's wedding.
I'm sure you've heard the speculation and assumed that's why I'm here. "
The mention knocks me over the head like a cold, hard reminder I’d somehow managed to forget. How? I have no idea. But considering everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, it’s easy to see how something like that could’ve slipped my mind.
Of course.
Carina Sterling is the daughter of Collette Randolph. Even after she married, she'd never changed her last name. She'd spent too many years building her own identity to give it up.
“Yes, actually,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I’ve heard.”
Collette’s head tilts, like a cute puppy, confused with their master's command. She studies me as if trying to pry my secrets and thoughts from my brain, then gives me side-eye that puts me on edge.
“How so? Are you here to spy on us?”
The breath I was holding releases in a nervous giggle. “No, no. Absolutely not. I-”
I pause briefly, hating what I’m about to do. Lie. And lie to a woman I look up to, of all people.
“I’m actually here with my boyfriend. Othello.” The deception slips out with a quick ease, and regret follows just as fast.
“The best man?”
“Yes. Othello,” I say as if she doesn’t already know who her daughter's ex-boyfriend is.
“Wow, isn’t this interesting? You know, I haven’t heard from Othello in a very long time. But I’m sure you know why. I’m surprised that he came, but I feel like I’m even more shocked that he brought a date,” she says amusingly.
“Why is that?” I ask.
We've nearly reached the building, the crash of the waves fading into the distance behind us.
“Not that I think the man would have a hard time finding someone, but he is a hard-to-catch kind of guy. Very guarded. Private. And the fact that he brought you here to an event like this says a lot.”
Her words send a ripple through me. In reality, Othello hadn’t chosen me, and he hadn’t brought me here either.
But the adjectives she’d chosen to describe him all make sense.
Because the world had no idea he was dating Carina Sterling.
There wasn’t one photo of the two of them together on any trash media site or gossip magazine I’ve ever read.
A guy in black shorts and a black shirt approaches, his quiet, watchful presence leading me to assume he’s security.
He takes Collette’s yoga mat, Christian Dior tote, and bottle of water.
Then she casually retrieves a pair of sandals from the bag, using his beefy arm for balance as she steps into them.
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you tonight for the welcome dinner.”
What?
“Oh, yes,” I nod enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Shit.
Why didn’t it register that playing Othello’s girlfriend also meant attending wedding stuff?
“Perfect,” Collette says. “We can talk more about Mod, then. It was so nice chatting with you, Marley Jacobs.”
“Likewise,” I tell her. “It was a pleasure meeting you!” I’m waving like mad as she walks away with her guard.
I feel like a goofy doofus.
I watch her and her bodyguard disappear into the resort as I stay behind, looking through my own bag for my sandals. I still can’t believe what just happened right here on this beach.
I met Collette Randolph.
And lied to her.