Chapter 26
MELODY
Three weeks later, I sat on a velvet couch in a studio in Brooklyn, trying not to completely fangirl. I hoped I was giving off cool and confident. I remembered not to smile too big while keeping my back straight without looking like there was a two-by-four under my dress.
“So, Melody.” The host of the very popular style podcast leaned forward.
Stylin’ with Stacy was a big deal. She was who I wanted to be one day. Cleo and I talked about starting a podcast. I had the platform, but I wasn’t sure I was interesting enough to fill an entire hour.
“Let’s talk about your approach to plus-size styling,” Stacy said. “You’ve built this incredible platform around the idea that fashion isn’t just for sample sizes. What made you take that leap?”
I’d been listening to Stacy’s podcast for years.
She interviewed designers, influencers, activists—anyone doing interesting work in the fashion and culture space.
And now I was here, sitting across from her in my carefully chosen outfit.
It was a beautiful burnt orange wrap dress with statement earrings.
“I think it started from a place of frustration,” I said, finding my rhythm.
“I was tired of walking into stores and being told ‘we don’t carry your size’ or being directed to a tiny corner in the back with limited options.
And I realized, I’m not alone in this. The majority of women wear a size fourteen or above.
So why is the fashion industry treating us like an afterthought?
We want to look pretty. We want to be fashionable.
We don’t want to wear tents or stretchy clothes.
I thought if we could bring some light to the situation we could get some designers to start giving us some cute stuff. ”
“Exactly!” Stacy’s enthusiasm was infectious. “And you’ve made such an impact in changing that conversation. Talk to me about your styling philosophy.”
We dove deep into the work I loved. I gushed about how to dress for yourself rather than hiding your body.
How women could find pieces that felt authentic rather than following trends.
And my favorite about how fashion could be a form of self-expression and empowerment rather than a set of rules to follow.
Off to the side, just out of frame, Cleo sat in a director’s chair giving me encouraging nods and the occasional thumbs-up. She had come as my “assistant” but really she was here for moral support. And to make sure I didn’t say anything she’d have to clean up later.
The conversation flowed easily. Stacy was a skilled interviewer, asking thoughtful questions and genuinely listening to my answers.
I felt confident, capable, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
I could talk for hours about fashion and styling.
In the back of my mind, I was beginning to think I could really do the podcast thing.
Maybe start with some short form at first and work our way up.
Then Stacy shifted in her seat. I recognized the transition. The tone was about to change. I glanced over at Cleo. She noticed as well. She was sitting up a little straighter.
“So, I have to ask about the Femme Curve situation,” Stacy said.
I had prepared for this. I knew it would come up. But my stomach still knotted.
“The brand released a public apology a few weeks ago,” Stacy continued.
“They took full responsibility for editing your photos without consent. They’ve been dealing with some backlash since then, implementing new policies.
From your perspective, do you think it was genuine? Would you ever work with them again?”
I chose my words carefully. It wasn’t just Femme Curve I would be talking to. All future collaborators would want to know how I handled the situation. If I threw a fit, I wasn’t going to get another brand collab.
I took a deep breath and put on the smile I practiced so often. “I think the apology was necessary. And from what I understand, they are making real changes to their practices. That’s important.”
“But would you work with them again?”
I paused, weighing honesty against diplomacy. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to trash the brand. I think they made a mistake, and they’re trying to correct it. They have beautiful clothes and I’m so grateful I was able to explore their new catalog. But trust—once it’s broken, it’s hard to rebuild.”
Stacy nodded, encouraging me to continue.
“To be honest, I think I’m done with brand deals and sponsors for a while,” I said, surprising myself with the admission.
I had not planned to say that. “I’m enjoying being independent, operating on my own with my bestie and assistant.
” I gestured toward Cleo, who beamed. “I’m happier when I have full creative freedom.
And I have more time to actually engage with the women in my community this way, because I don’t have deadlines from companies hanging over me. ”
“That’s a powerful choice,” Stacy said. “Walking away from that kind of revenue stream to maintain your integrity and independence.”
“It’s scary,” I admitted. “But it also feels right. Like I’m building something that’s truly mine, you know?”
“I do know.” Stacy’s smile was warm. “And I think your community is lucky to have someone who’s willing to make those hard choices.”
I felt a swell of pride. This was going well. Really well.
Then Stacy leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. That’s when my stomach flipped and twisted. “And what about you-know-who?”
I frowned. “I’m sorry?”
I knew exactly who she was talking about, but I wasn’t about to make it easy. Cleo had specifically said no questions about personal issues. But we both knew the questions would come anyway.
“Well, Austin Bancroft, of course.” Her eyes sparkled. “What’s the status of your relationship with him?”
There it was.
“Oh, um—” I tried to pivot. “I’m really here to talk about fashion and my blog.”
“Come on,” Stacy teased gently. “My listeners are dying to know. You two were all over social media for weeks. That kiss? Iconic. And then that whole club incident—people are still talking about it.”
“There’s no relationship,” I said again. “Not anymore. It was fun while it lasted. Austin is—he’s a good man. I was lucky to get to know him the way I did.” The words felt hollow even as I said them. “I wish him all the best.”
Stacy’s expression shifted to sympathetic disappointment. “Oh no. So you two really are done?”
“We really are.”
“That’s too bad. You seemed good together.
” She put on a bit of a show for her listeners, dramatically sighing.
“Well, that wasn’t the tea I was hoping for.
But I appreciate your honesty. And Melody?
You are as beautiful as your style. Inside and out.
I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but he is definitely the one missing out. ”
“Thank you.”
I wasn’t a fool. I knew she was looking to align with me. She was hoping I would spill the tea she was anxious to get. It wasn’t going to happen. I was staying far away from that topic.
The rest of the interview wrapped up quickly after that. Stacy asked a few more questions about upcoming projects and where people could follow me, and then we were done.
“That was amazing,” Stacy said as the recording stopped. “Thank you so much for being here.”
“Thank you for having me. I’ve been listening to your podcast for years, so this was amazing.” I felt my cheeks warm. “This was kind of a dream come true.”
“Well, you were a dream guest. Come back anytime.”
Cleo and I gathered our things and headed out of the studio into the Brooklyn sunshine.
“You killed it,” Cleo said immediately. “Like, absolutely destroyed. Stacy loved you. Her audience is going to love you. This was perfect. Exactly the kind of publicity we need. People are going to eat it up.”
“Even the Austin question?”
“Especially the Austin question. You handled it with class. Didn’t trash him, didn’t get emotional, just kept it dignified.” She linked her arm through mine. “And in another couple weeks, people will have moved on. They’ll forget about Austin Bancroft. All he’s got going for him is a nice face.”
“Cleo,” I warned.
We had been over this several times. I would not disparage him to her or anyone else. Whatever Austin did, that was his choice. I couldn’t be mad at him for cheating on me because we were never actually together.
“And a great butt,” she continued, warming to her theme. “And those shoulders. The forearms are my personal favorite.”
“I get it.”
“Do you? Because you’ve been moping for three weeks.”
“I haven’t been moping.”
She gave me a look. “Melody, you’re moping.”
“I’m processing.”
“You’re moping.” But her voice was gentle. “Which is fine. You’re allowed to mope. He hurt you. But also—and I say this with love—he’s been trying really hard to make it up to you.”
He apologized. Big deal. It didn’t matter.
None of what he tried to do erased what had happened at that club.
The photos. The embarrassment. The way it had felt to see him with someone else mere hours after we’d kissed.
People didn’t know what we had wasn’t real.
They believed it was and it was humiliating.
I stopped reading the comments. They were too much.
And the speculation was ridiculous. People got very creative when they were spinning stories, especially when the Bancroft name was involved.
“I know he’s trying,” I said quietly. “But trying isn’t the same as trusting. And I don’t know if I can trust him again.”
Cleo squeezed my arm. “That’s fair. You don’t have to trust him. You don’t have to give him another chance. You just have to do what’s right for you.”
We turned a corner, heading toward the subway station. And stopped dead.
Because there, parked at the curb, was a very familiar red sports car. I knew that car. I had driven that car. I watched like things were happening in slow motion.
The brake lights went off. The door opened.
Oh God no. Please no.
I couldn’t see him. If I saw him, I was going to be sucked back into his orbit.
He stepped out of the car looking like every fantasy I had tried to suppress for the past three weeks.
He wore dark jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms Cleo had just been rhapsodizing about.
His hair was slightly messy. From the wind or intentional, I couldn’t tell.
Sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel his gaze on us.
On me.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cleo muttered. “Can this man take a hint?”
“How did he even know we’d be here?”
“Your Instagram story this morning? The one where you were like ‘so excited for this podcast interview’?” Cleo’s tone was dry. “Yeah, that might’ve been a clue.”
Austin straightened as we approached, pulling off his sunglasses. And damn, those dark eyes that had haunted me for weeks locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
Oh, I had it so bad for the man.