Saint

Victoria

“Good morning, Ms. Jacob.”

“Hey, Tori.”

“Morning, Tori.”

The members of my staff offered endless salutations as I floated the halls of the building. They were often met with a curt nod. If I acknowledged everyone, I’d be depleted before I reached my desk.

Armed with a cup of the finest coffee blend from I Hate Mondays and my portfolio in hand, I journeyed to my destination, ignoring several greetings until Marquis approached.

With a fierce strut that could put America’s Next Top Model to shame, he closed the space between us. Legs widely parted, hand attached to his hip in a stance, he tossed invisible hair and smirked.

“Ma’am, ma’am, ma’am? The NY fitted, the hoop earrings, the days-old twist out, the blazer, the bell bottom destroyed knee jeans, the Louis backpack… Can we all feast? Did you have to devour us like this on a Tuesday?”

Baring a hand to the chest, his lips parted as he glanced around the space exaggeratedly. The exorbitant energy was a welcome exchange. My coffee was no longer needed for now.

“Thank you, Marquis. Good morning to you, too.”

Absent of deep thought, the outfit of my choosing was thrown together on a whim caused by an excess of snoozes to my alarm. Laid back was the assignment, but according to Marquis, I still made a statement. At thirty years young in an ageist society, the complement dilated my ego.

Arriving in my office, I spoke to my assistant, Cora, and opened my emails to begin my day. It would be a long one, full of meetings, alterations, and rehearsals. I went through the motions, approving this alteration or that model swap. My team and I also rehearsed the show twice, further diminishing my energy.

By noon, I needed a nap. The prospect of such a treat wouldn’t be allowed, given my busy schedule. Despite my weary bones, I loved every minute of the chaos. My mother always called me a busy bee, bestowing the nickname Bee. I always had to engage in some form of productivity, but today, I’d overdone it. My gaze loitered on the pull-out couch in my office corner wistfully. One could only dream.

My hands skimmed over several sketches laid out on the desk, finally landing on the newest editions of Vogue and MLNIN (PRONMelanin). MLNIN was a local Black-centric fashion publication that amassed national reach. Deciding to skim through their issue first, I opened to the first page.

As I flipped through the latest issue, chaos ensued around me. What should have been a typical day in the showroom was everything but. At a mere four days prior to my winter couture show, there were several tasks to achieve. The brief mental reprieve came to an end as swiftly as it manifested.

My office was mostly white, accented with grays. Like a blank canvas, the neutral tones worked well in such an instance. Today, the colors of fabrics, drawings, and garments peppered the space since my team and I were actively working on a line. Excitement, anxiety, and rush filled the energetic air. Fittings, castings, and adjustments would be made up until the evening before the show.

Collection boards lined the wall behind me, showcasing my vision and my team’s designs in an array of drawings. High fashion, covered girl was the assignment. The chic styles lauded modesty in a world where women frequently exposed themselves. To assume such a stance, going against the status quo, was rare and daring, but I’d carved out an emblem of success for myself.

Demurewas a growing fashion brand and trailblazer in the industry. The brand appealed to both women who preferred being covered and those who dared to show a bit of skin. As far as my personal preferences went, I landed somewhere in between.

From my youth, I’d always been an artist, employing my right brain to create. I was a quiet girl, fascinated with the world and the impression it rested upon me. As such, I felt charged with the responsibility of sharing that impression with my peers. Eventually, I found my voice through my passion. Wild and sincerely, I dispensed my art in the form of exclusive fashion. I was convinced that the world needed it. Demure’s skyrocketing sales convinced me that there was a subset of people who demanded it.

As a child, I’d been, liberal with my tongue and even more gracious with my hands. I never steered from my desires and I always stayed busy. A restless soul, no rain nor scorching dessert could keep me still for long. The hunt for creative expression taunted me until I located my niche.

I would beg my parents for paper to color or draw on. My drawings always featured a girl dressed in magnificent garments that covered her from the neck or chest down. Religion did not motivate my stance. I simply enjoyed the look of a woman fully covered in elaborate garb. The body, to me, was a playground for intricate art and textiles.

Stretching my restless limbs, I rose, tucking the MLNIN magazine under my arm. Exiting my office, I treaded my feet toward the atelier. Here, my seamstresses could be seen creating the various designs I’d envisioned for Demure. All the magic occurred in this room, making it one of my favorite places to be. From here, one could witness the fine details of each design slowly coming to life. From the handstitched beadwork to sequins and feathers, the visions of my two-dimensional designs were manifested into the three-dimensional.

At the top of the room, I stood in silent awe of my team. The space was mostly hushed, save for the occasional whisper of an adjustment that needed to be made. As everyone diligently worked, the soft notes of a jazz quartet played in the background.

Satisfied with what I saw, I directed my limbs back to my office. Hardly a minute passed before I was being summoned on my phone by the man who brought a smile to my face. Javier Reed was my current flavor of the last few months, and he was absolutely insatiable.

If ‘threaten me with a good time’ were a person, it would have been Javier. We’d been out on several dates, and it was all face-splitting, big-grinning fun. He knew how to enjoy himself.

“What’s going on, baby?” Into the phone, he flourished suaveness.

“Javi, how are you?” Settling in my seat, I twirled my natural curls and grinned.

“Missing you. I can’t wait to see you and see your eyes light up on Komodo Island.”

My expression faltered, swiftly replaced by gratitude that we weren’t on a video call. Javier had been adamant about getting me on a plane to visit Indonesia with him. He swore the pink beach on Komodo Island would inspire my next show. Fashion shows were typically launched two seasons ahead of the anticipated collection. With my winter show approaching, it was time to begin thinking of what was next for the following spring.

Succeeding to create for that next show had been fruitless. Sketch after sketch, I discarded crumpled sheets of paper into a trash bin. My potential spring collection was in default of something inspiring, something beguiling, and something breathtaking. Frustration coupled with exasperation had prevented me from attempting further. Javier made a hard selling point.

“We’ll see, Javi.”

“The only thing to see is that beautiful pink beach with you on it, mi amor.”

I chuckled. Not because I found him funny. It was just one of the many ways I displayed my discomfort. His invitation was tempting, but only as tempting as a candied apple in a snake pit. There was something about Javier’s offer that didn’t feel inviting at all.

“I’m gonna get back to work, Javi. I’ll chat more with you later.

We’d only been dating for two months. I didn’t love him. I wasn’t even sure I had deep feelings for him. Javier was just a good time. He knew how to make me smile. He exposed me to the thrilling side of life that my family tried to shelter me from.

Despite the world of fun we had together, I was still hesitant about leaving the country with him. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, which gave me pause about the entire idea. Instead of delving too deep into my head and overthinking the entire notion, I brought it to my girlfriends. Typing out the message weighing on my heart, I pressed send. Releasing it into the girlfriend group chat, I awaited their response.

Javi is still pressed

for this Indonesia

trip.

Girl, please. In a world full of

substandard men, please go.

Javi has been nothing

short of amazing.

Dream

Yes, if you can’t go to Bella

Noches, go to Komodo Island!

Luna

Luna’s reference to the old internet meme

birthed a chuckle from my lips. She always knew how to make me laugh.

It’s upsetting me, and my

homegirls.

Dream

Dream instigated, further encouraging me to go on the trip with Javier.

As long as you’re comfortable.

Robyn

The last message from Robyn gave me pause. She was always in my corner despite what everyone else was saying. She’d picked up on my uncertainty and had no issue making it known. Of all my girlfriends, she and I were closest.

I continued my day, pushing thoughts of Indonesia and Javier Reed to the depths of my mind. My focus was required for much more pressing tasks. My upcoming show took precedence over the possibility of a pending vacation.

Later that evening, Robyn and I met up for dinner and discussed the prospect of my travel with Javier.

“He’s a nice guy. He makes me smile. He’s been really sweet so far…”

“His pockets are deep,” Robyn added.

“That’s not a selling point for me,” I fussed. “Robyn, you know I don’t care about that.”

Earning early success with Demure made it challenging to locate men who matched or exceeded my income. As I acquired more success, the dating pool became a shallow pond. At thirty, I intimidated the men in my age group. If I applied my requirements for sameness to the men I sought, I’d be scouring through a dried-up puddle.

“Tori, goodbye. Because you know as well as I do that you would not be dating the nigga that bussed tables at Butter Sage.” Robyn punctured through my musings, taking an exaggerated sip of her drink.

“Why not? Butter Sage pays well enough,” I shrugged.

It never mattered to me what a man had. For me, the winning card was held by the contents of a man’s heart. He could be obese. He could make less money than I did. He could even have kids. As a successful woman, I understood that most men weren’t one percenters. I didn’t pigeonhole myself when it came to dating based on superficial societal norms. I loved for the sake of love. As long as that man respected me, made me feel safe and secure, and was a good person, I could be his.

Robyn rolled her eyes. “Well, Homegrown. If a nigga were busting tables at Homegrown, you’d look the other way,” she insisted.

“Robyn, please. If he works at Homegrown, he’s probably too young for me.”

“Okay, but what if he was our age? What if his fine late twenties or early to mid-thirty-year-old ass was busting tables at Homegrown?”

“No contest. Because if that hypothetical man were in such a state, his last concern should be giving his time to a woman.”

“Touché!” Robyn burst into laughter at that, and I joined her.

We settled back into seriousness as I watched her pry onions off her sandwich.

“If you’re comfortable with Javier, I think you should go. I mean, as he said, Komodo Island could inspire your next line of clothing.”

“He’s so eager, though. Doesn’t that seem weird to you? What man would beg for a woman he hardly knows to go overseas? There’s probably a host of willing women. Why me?”

I understood thirsty, but Javier was dehydrated. That was a red flag in my book.

Robyn was digging into her Reuben sandwich as I looked on. When her mouth was finally free of food, she rushed out, “Why not you, Tori?”

I shrugged, feeling like the conversation was over before it even started. Maybe Robyn had a point. Sometimes, I could get far too immersed in my head and overthink.

“Listen, sis, go or don’t go. Just don’t come crying to me over a missed opportunity,” she floated, swatting my hand away as I attempted to steal one of her fries.

I ended up going.

Javier was waiting in the crowd after my show with three dozen blush-pink roses in his arms. It was my favorite shade of pink, so naturally, it brought a smile to my face. After being celebrated and congratulated by my friends, I eased myself into his arms.

“Congrats, baby.”

Once he handed me the roses, he pressed his lips into my hair. We hadn’t exactly established ourselves as a couple, but he’d taken to the term of endearment.

Two hours later, hand in hand, we were boarding a flight to Indonesia. When I entered the cabin, the first thing I noticed were other women. And… men. They were all in the company of other men, which, I guess, wasn’t odd. Javier didn’t tell me we’d be in the company of his other friends, though. It was the only thing I found myself both relieved and annoyed about. Relieved that I wouldn’t be completely alone with him on the trip. Annoyed that he’d omitted such a detail.

Everyone appeared relatively comfortable with their person. Most of the women were snuggling in for the nine-hour flight. Contented that my surroundings weren’t strange, I decided to follow suit.

I didn’t wake up until we’d landed. The overhaul of work to launch a successful show tattled on me. My weariness was intoxicating and evident. Groggily, I swiped a hand down my face, seeking to clear away the sleep it housed.

Once I’d come to my senses, I fished around my bag for my phone. With the device in hand, I texted my parents and friends, informing them that I’d landed safely. My phone sounded off with several messages from the girlfriend group chat wishing me a good time. Ignoring those, I shoved the phone back into its hiding place in favor of giving Javier my full attention. As we deplaned, he muttered something in Spanish to one of his friends, though I couldn’t make out the meaning of the words.

“Llévalos a la villa y luego agarraremos a las chicas de abajo.”

Despite the group we’d flown with, Javier and I broke away to enjoy the island on our own. I asked him if we’d be reconnecting with his friends, but he swiftly told me no.

We arrived at a quaint and cozy villa. The unassuming space looked like a page torn from an old memory book. Though I’d expected something more elaborate—considering how Javier spent money in the States—it was still nice. Behind us was the famed pink beach, which I’d heard so much about. From where I stood, it was magnificent and made up for the modesty of our accommodations.

Behind me, I could hear Javier suggesting that we shower together before enjoying the beach. His intentions were transparent. He wanted me stripped bare to indulge in the heat my body housed. We had yet to have sex with one another, but I ignored every word in favor of sinking my toes in the coral-stained sand.