Moore To Love (23 page)

“AND THEN SHE CALLED ME
stunning. Me! Stunning! That word has never been uttered in conjunction with me. How is this happening? Is this real life?” I babble on and on to Tatum who is as much in shock as I am. Not for the same reasons, but simply because this is not the type of good fortune that ever comes my way.

“Have you told Lane yet? What did your mother say? Oh Em Gee, Ashley’s probably shitting herself.” Her bubbly reaction to my news gives me more reason to freak out.

“Would you come up for air? You’re the first person I called and I don’t have much time. I’m due back at the studio in less than an hour.” I’m frantically shaving my legs and plucking at the stray hairs that have sprouted since my last bikini wax a week ago. I knew the pain of that shit was not in vain. Though I had imagined Lane would be getting the benefit of my grooming before Siobhan would.

“Tell me again how this happened. Slowly this time. I need to soak it all in and live vicariously through you.” Tatum’s mouth runs a mile a minute. She might even be more excited than I am.

I perch my other leg on the ledge of the tub and switch the phone to speaker. “I told you . . . she loved what I did with the makeup and then she literally pointed at me and told me I was walking. At first I had no idea what the hell she meant, but after David—the photographer—gave me the run down, it all fell into place. She has a plus size line that is to die for, Tay. You know how much I hate bathing suits, right? Well, this . . . this thing is magical! I look slim and curvy and dare I say it, va-va-voom!” I can barely believe the words coming out of my mouth. Who is this woman who likes herself, and what has she done to the snarky bitch who hates what she sees in the mirror?

“Leni!” she squeals, her voice so high pitched I fear for the well-being of every dog within a five-mile radius of the hotel. “This is beyond amazing. This is epic. This is history in the making!”

“I know!” I squeak just as obnoxiously, because let’s face it—this is pretty freaking clutch. “I don’t have time to call Mom, Ashley
and
Lane. You think you can handle the ladies so I can share the big news with him?”

“Of course I can! Look at you all
have my people call your people
and shit. I can see it now. This is just another stepping stone in the direction of greatness!”

“Don’t do that!” I scold. “Don’t get me all hopeful. This is a one time, beginners luck kind of thing, Tatum. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what’s so special about me. It’s a lot to grasp.”

“Oh! Shut it! Grasp this.” I picture her flipping me the bird. “Own it, Leni! Own every last second of that shoot and prowl that catwalk like your life depends on it. I know confidence has never been your forte, but if someone as inspiring as Siobhan Colbert sees something in you, it’s time to realize what I’ve been telling you for as long as I’ve known you.”

“And what’s that?” No, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just need the extra push from someone who knows every little detail down to my molecular make-up.

“Beauty comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors, Len.
You
are beautiful. You’re modeling, for Pete’s sake! If you need a label, this is it, babe! Every doubt you’ve ever had about yourself, every asshole who rejected you because they couldn’t see past a few extra pounds, every girl who made you feel less than perfect because you weren’t a size two—this is a big fuck you to all of them! It’s a day of reckoning, goddamn it!”

Well, when she puts it that way. “Don’t wake me up,” I say on a sigh, and allow the joy of this moment to surge through me in a rush of victory. “I never want this feeling to end.”

“It doesn’t have to. Roll with it. The more you embrace your sexy, bad self, the easier it’ll be for you to accept that this new you is really just the
old
you with a little extra
umph
.”

Is she right? I mean, she has a point. I haven’t exactly morphed into a supermodel overnight. It’s not like I’ve lost a
ton
of weight or done much to change the way I look on the outside. The transformation, if any, has mostly been internal. A true learning experience. And this new gig is just the icing on the cake.
Mmmm, cake. Just one tiny peace of chocolate blackout to reward myself.
What?
Old habits die hard.

After a promise to recount every detail of my day once it’s done, I hang up with Tatum and set out to call Lane. Time is ticking away and as each second passes, my nerves unravel even more. Saying you’ll do something is so much easier than actually following through. I may have sworn to Tatum—and myself—that I’ll rock that runway like Heidi Klum but part of me is shitting a brick thinking my runway debut will be a lot more like Carrie Bradshaw’s.

“Hello?” Lane answers right away, his voice stirring even more excitement.

“You sitting down?” A bit dramatic, but if Lane and I are going to be an item, he needs to get used to the whole package. Sarcasm and drama are par for the course.
Poor guy.

“Actually, no, but—is everything okay?”

“Lane! It’s more than okay!” I go on to tell him about everything and his enthusiasm vibrates through the phone, making me wish he were here to experience it with me. I’ve never had a guy to travel alongside the ups in my life. I’ve had plenty who were the cause of the downs or who had a part in kicking me while I was there hoping and praying for days like these, but this—this is something I’ve always wanted.
Did I miss a genie escape from his magical lamp somewhere?

“I told you so! I knew you had this in you.” I remember how he assumed I was a model when I told him about the fashion shoot a few days ago. Maybe it was his conviction that oozed out into the universe and caused karma to repay me in kind? Who the hell knows? Either way, I’ll take it!

Suddenly the weight of it all consumes me. Happiness. Companionship. Success. I can’t bear to mask my true feelings any longer. We’re barely even dating, but I’ve come to like Lane—
a lot
—in this short amount of time. Above all else, he’s been a friend during a really weird time in my life and I want him to know what I’m thinking. It can’t hurt. “I’m so nervous, Lane. I really wish you were here,” I blurt it out with zero remorse.

“I wish I were, too. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d pay serious dough to see you doing something like this, but work is—work—and I just can’t get away right now.” There’s no denying he’s genuine. Still sucks, though.

“I know and I’m sorry for laying any guilt on you. I have Raven, thank God, but a familiar face in the audience would’ve made it a little less terrifying.”

“Don’t you dare be scared, Leni. You have a fire in you that burns so brightly it makes me want to be around you all the time. I love that about you and you need to love it about you, too.”

Has everyone gotten into my Joel Osteen books? What’s with all the motivational pep-talks? Am I that much of a sad sack?

Never mind. There’s no reason to dwell on why everyone’s being so amazing. I’d rather relish in the fact I have so many supportive people in my life. “Thank you, Lane. That means more than you can know.”

We spend a few more minutes on the phone, laughing and joking. It totally cools my jets and makes me a little less nervous about what’s ahead. Lane encourages me to put my best foot forward and to enjoy myself during what could very well be a once in a lifetime experience. I hang up feeling truly blessed. My friends—new and old—have had my back all this time.

“Leni!” Raven rushes over to me, heels clicking, with tears in her eyes. “You look fucking gorgeous!”

My legs are wobbly trunks of panic; I’m not sure I’ll be able to prompt them to move when the time comes. Her tears incite more nerves and I lose it in the safety of her arms.

“This is crazy! I need more time! I don’t think I can do this!”

Raven brings me closer, patting my hair-sprayed head and trying to calm me down. “Tell your nerves to fuck off. You can walk out there and puke all over the catwalk and no one will notice because you look absolutely incredible.”

That gets me to laugh, but then I imagine myself hurling all over and my body erupts into overdrive again. “I’m not going to puke, am I? Oh my God, what if I fall? What if I—?”

“Stop it!” She pulls back and grasps my arms, staring into my heavily made-up eyes. “Do your best! This is an honor and you will accept it with grace and dignity.”

“Rave, we’re talking about me. When have I ever done anything with grace?”

She takes a beat and lifts her chin, jutting it out to make her point. “Always.” A single tear rolls down her cheek and she swipes it away, coughing and sniffling to pretend it never happened. “Everything about you is graceful and dignified. I don’t know why you can’t see that, but we all do. So make us proud, Leni, and most of all . . . have fun!”

I hug her again, completely overwhelmed by a swell of accomplishment. How am I this lucky? If I never lose another pound, or kiss another guy, or walk another runway, this moment will be forever ingrained in my memory as one of genuine pride.

“Thank you,” I say, choking back my own tears.

“You cry, I kill you,” Marjorie from my studio waves her blush brush at me, shooing Raven away.

I laugh, taking the twenty-millionth deep breath of the day. The hustle and bustle of backstage is enough to momentarily distract me and put me in the right state of mind.
It’s almost go time. Get your shit together.

I take another look in the bulb-lined mirror and smooth a few strands of my styled hair. The girls from the studio—my friends, teammates, the women I was supposed to be working alongside on this project—dolled me up to perfection. David and Siobhan instructed them based on the example I showed them yesterday. The rest of the models—mostly thin and svelte—look almost
fake
. What you think is airbrushed or superimposed in magazines—it ain’t, honey. These girls are
perfect
. And while I know I’m not, I won’t allow that to take anything away from me today. I’m here, too. Siobhan saw the same thing in me that she saw in Blondie over there.

“Show time!” Someone with a clipboard and an ear piece scurries through the dressing room.

The girls who’ve done this before—aka everyone but me—line up in the order they were assigned and I’m left lost somewhere between disbelief and delusion.
Is this really happening?

“Yes, it is! Now, make me proud.” I don’t realize I said it out loud until Raven slaps my ass and ushers me in line with the rest of the models.
The rest of the models.
Seriously? I’m one of the models. Holy mother hell!

I do as I’m told, inhaling and exhaling, shaking and swinging my arms, tapping my heeled feet against the floor. I squeeze between model ten and twelve, being as I was allotted the eleventh spot, and the rest unfolds so quickly I’m in the wings before I can talk myself into anything other than walking.

The audience applauds as model ten makes her way back down the runway and a backstage assistant pushes me forward. With my heartbeat thundering in my ears, the pulsing of my blood drowning out the crowd, and the commotion of everything all at once, I can almost swear I hear a jingly rattle accompanied by a shredding tear. Ah, whatever, there are so many noises going on at once, I can’t make sense of any of them. I take direction, a man pointing to a mark on the stage, highlighted by a glaring spotlight. My legs start to do what they were taught to do during the quick rehearsal and I plaster the most convincing smile on my face as I ready myself for a real, live catwalk.

One foot forward, one hand on my hip, one really, cold draft wafting right around my ass. I can’t look back to see where it’s coming from because that would be completely unprofessional, but I just know something isn’t right. One glance to my left and the look on her face—the girl that was in charge of sending me out—says it all. Not that I have to examine her face to get the picture, because hanging from her wrist full of dangly, obviously
sharp
, bangle bracelets is a huge, unmistakable chunk of my bathing suit bottom. Which means—my right ass cheek is in full view and indecently exposed for the entire fashion world to feast their eyes upon.

Face down, ass up . . . yeah, FML!