4. April 17, 1994
BUNNY
The rain hasn’t stopped for days, leaving everyone in a foul, sour spirit. People come in all day and night, barking out their orders, demanding their food to be heated just right, frustrated when I don’t clean their messes fast enough. Everyone seems to be in a bitchy mood—all but one.
This man with swooped-styled caramel hair has sat by the window for three days, ordering the same Red Eye that now rests carefully on his pleated khaki pants. Occasionally, our eyes meet, allowing me to get a glimpse of the red hues woven through the rich brown before they fall back into the binder he carries inside a thick leather backpack.
“Hey, can you clean up those bits left on the table back there?” Pulling my stare away from the strangers flipping pages, I nod once. Craig’s huff of annoyance follows me, but I don’t turn back to give him the attention he craves. It’s been like this between us for the past week-and-a-half, a tension heavy enough to cut with a spoon. I refuse to pay his temper tantrums any more of my time. He knew what I came to the city looking for, and he expects me to quit because he”s fallen in love? That’s bullshit. He’s been in love countless times, with his first wife, his second, and his third. I’m sure there will be another, but it won’t be me.
“I’m sorry?”
What? Snapping out of my thoughts, I turn toward the caramel-haired stranger. He watches me with curious, playful eyes, his coffee inches from smiling lips.
“What?” I ask, this time aloud.
“You said it won’t be you. What won’t be you?”
“Oh…” I laugh, waving away his question with a flick of my wrist. “It’s nothing. Boyfriend troubles.”
He laughs while taking a sip of the still-steaming coffee, licking his lips before muttering, “It wouldn’t be the man behind the counter, right? The guy trying not to stare.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder and catch Craig glaring before he can look away. His blatant attempt at dominance only adds to the building frustration between us, pushing me further into the corners of my mind. “Yep. That’s him.”
“He’s a little old for you, isn’t he? You can’t be any older than eighteen.”
“Mhm,” I agree with a smile, then wipe the crumbs from the table beside him onto the ground. “What can I say?”
He regards me for a moment, eyeing me over the rim of the mug while he downs the rest of his drink. I attempt to ignore his observant stare, focusing all my attention on spraying down the wooden tabletops.
“You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”
His question comes out of nowhere, stunning me still for a moment before my senses kick in enough to face him. His eyes have taken on that curious, spirited look again, roaming from my gaze to take in the shallow curves of my body. He drops his stare to dig into the pockets of his backpack, coming out with a card trapped between his fingers. “I’m a scout for multiple modeling agencies, but you have the look one of my clients has been searching for.”
I take the card quicker than appropriate, studying the information printed in shimmery teal letters.
Michael Taylor
Modeling and Talent Scout.
I run my eyes across the number and email attached, burning it into my memory in case I lose this tiny card. Hope blossoms inside my chest as I clutch the thin paper, but as soon as it comes, it begins to dim when I remember all I’ve neglected to do.
Squeezing the card in my fist, I ruefully shake my head. “I don’t have headshots or a portfolio. I—” Shit. I’ve failed before I even started.
My brain tells me that I blew my shot being unprepared, but Michael surprises me again, reassuring me that it’s nothing to worry about.
“If you’re interested, come to this studio tomorrow around noon.” I wait, my bottom lip trapped between my teeth, as he writes an address on a fresh napkin. “Don’t worry about headshots or a portfolio. Don’t even worry about outfits. Everything she needs or wants you to wear will already be there.”
I take the address, holding it carefully in the palm of my hands as he stands from the table. The buzz in my ears silences the world around me, trapping me in a bubble while I admire the opportunity I’ve been given.
“I’ll be there.”
“Work won’t be an issue?” Michael asks as he hauls the backpack over his shoulders.
“Nope.”
Suddenly beaming, Michael holds out a hand for me to shake. “I look forward to seeing you there—” He pauses, and it takes me too long to realize he’s waiting for me to offer my name.
“Bernice Walters.” Craig still doesn’t even know my last name.
“I look forward to seeing you there, Bernice.” With that, Michael leaves me a fifty-dollar tip and walks into the rain. My eyes follow him as long as possible, but eventually, I lose him to the fog blanketing the streets.
“What’d he want?” Craig asks as I approach the counter, pretending to wipe away the non-existent sticky residue while eyeing the napkin in my hold.
Tucking it, along with his business card, into my back pocket, I answer as nonchalantly as I can. “A modeling scout. I’m going to take pictures for his colleague tomorrow.”
As expected, Craig scoffs at the idea, shaking his head vehemently. “No. No, Bernice, that’s… That’s?—”
“What? What is it?” Tossing my rag onto the nearest table, I force my tone to stay neutral so as not to attract the readers” attention near the window. They notice me anyway, their eyebrows raising high above the thin Cat-Framed glasses. I send them a tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
Stop fucking looking at me.
Eventually, they do, giving me just enough privacy to rip the apron from my waist, hang it on the hook behind the counter, and take the money I earned this week from the register.
“What are you doing, sweetheart? Don’t?—”
“You knew what I wanted when I came here. The second I walked through that door, you knew my dreams, and yet you’ve done nothing but try to convince me out of them. And here, finally, I get an opportunity, and you can’t even be excited!” The middle of the café probably isn’t the place to have this argument, but it’s out now. There’s no shoving it back inside to pretend we’re fine.
“Can you fucking blame me? The guy was a creep preying on your dreams.”
Slamming the register door closed, I pocket my share of the cash, “He was giving me my shot! Do you know how many girls get to say that? Not a lot. But I do, and I’m taking it.” With that being said, I swipe my bag from beneath the counter, a used, faux-leather, light brown piece I picked up from the local Goodwill, and storm into the whipping rain.
* * *
I had enough money to cover a hotel room for the night. What I’m going to do about tomorrow can be figured out then, but I can’t go back to Craig’s. I can’t go back to his harsh words whispered under his breath and the judgmental eyes when I practice my studio makeup or my runway walk. More than that, I can’t go back to living with a person who doesn’t believe I can be more than the girl who crawled out of the gutter.
I want more.
I’m going to have more.
Hopefully, Craig won’t be too surprised when he returns home to find my stuff packed and gone. We were never anything, at least nothing you could label. So, whatever love he feels for me will die within a few months. That’s how long it took him to feel this way, to begin with.
Dragging the tattered army duffel behind me, I search for my room, muttering the three-digit number beneath my breath until I find it in the center of the hall. “Oh, thank God.”
I wanted to stay somewhere close to the studio, which happens to be in the middle of the city. I didn’t want to waste the money I’d saved on an extravagant hotel, so I found something cheap, and I wasn’t about to call for a cab, so I walked the entire way.
Stumbling into the room, my feet throb and cry out from the long distance. I try to search for the positive while my soles bleed, figuring maybe I can find something classy to show up in from one of the stores outside my window. I don’t need anything flashy. Something simple would be nice, as long as it shows off the different shades of red in my hair and the ocean in my eyes.
I want to shine at the photoshoot tomorrow.
Eager for that time to come, I throw off my clothes, letting them pile in the middle of the room before I collapse face-first onto the bed. I should shower. I know I should, but sleep pulls me under faster than the thought comes.