Chapter Thirty-Six
Julian
skimmed my hand over the breast pocket of my suit, right where my phone lay hidden away in a pocket. I knew as soon as I pulled it out, the show would begin. Even still, I itched to pull it out and check in on Josephine. All day I’d tried to come up with some sort of casual way to reach out to her: How is your Saturday going? Hey, that song you like just came on the radio. What’s up with the unrest in the Middle East?
Thanks to my better judgment, I’d yet to send any of the texts I’d drafted throughout the day. She’d see right through my veiled attempt to pull her back to me. I had to give her space and hope that by Monday, she’d be ready for things to go back to how they’d been before. (That is, us pretending to be friends while subtly eye-fucking the shit out of each other.)
My sister and I were front row center at the Marc Jacobs fashion show. I was mostly out of my element, but I was wearing a new navy suit and Lorena assured me that I fit in just fine. She’d conveniently left out the fact that I’d be one of only a handful of men in attendance. There were beautiful women surrounding me, celebrities I recognized from the latest blockbuster hits, pop stars, and other faces I vaguely recognized from TV, but all I cared about was the phone in my suit pocket and its lack of text notifications.
“You look really handsome,” my sister said from the chair beside me, nudging me with her shoulder.
I peered over and smiled. I may have preferred to be watching a basketball game, but at least I was in good company. My sister looked like her old self for the first time in months. She’d spent the entire afternoon getting ready with people in my hotel. I’d stayed down in the hotel bar, far away from the smell of hairspray and nail polish. They’d delivered a dozen dresses up to my room and she’d picked a beautiful, long green gown that was as unique as she was.
“You look beautiful,” I said, wrapping my arm around the back of her chair and kissing her forehead. Maybe I’d made a mistake staying so far away in Boston. Lorena needed family support, and while my mother appeared to be coming around slowly, there was no replacement for a big brother.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Are you going to come with me to the after party?”
I frowned, thinking of all the alcohol and other substances that would surely be supplied in abundance at an event like that. “Do you think that’s a good idea on your first night?”
She pressed her hand to my arm as reassurance. “I won’t go for long. I just want to say hello to the designers and then I’ll get a cab back to my apartment. It just feels like I’ve been away from the fashion world for a while and I don’t want people to forget about me.”
I nodded. I could see why she wouldn’t want to miss it. It’d be a good networking event for her, especially in a world that thrived on relevance, but it definitely wasn’t my idea of a fun Saturday night. I could imagine someone asking me about my favorite look from the show and me having to scramble for the name of some fancy item of clothing. What exactly is a blouse? A fancy shirt?
“We can go for a bit,” I relented.
She beamed and then her gaze darted to the front of the theater.
“The show is starting soon!” she said, clapping her hands with excitement.
I sat back in my chair and scanned the room. The first few rows were dominated by young women, some of them probably bloggers like Josephine. They were dressed to the nines, some in eccentric outfits that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around.
The woman on my right was an older woman with sunglasses on. Lorena had whispered about her being the editor of some big magazine. Everyone seemed to be impressed by her—a few young women had even asked for her photo—but all I cared about was the amount of perfume she’d sprayed on. I was starting to get a headache from the overwhelming scent of roses.
There was a convoy of photographers near the end of the runway, shouting over one another to be heard. At least a dozen of them had lenses the size of my head, all lining up to get a good shot of the runway.
I was still watching them when the house lights dimmed around us and loud music started pumping through the speakers. There was no real introduction before the first model started down the runway with an angry expression on her face. She looked skeletal in a white gauzy dress. Maybe her face was so scrunched up because her dress was so tight. Seriously though, soaking wet she couldn’t have been more than ten pounds.
The photographers went crazy, snapping away as she approached the end of the runway. The next few models that strolled out after her were just as lithe with sharp cheekbones and confident walks. Some of the outfits were sexy as hell, but most of them I didn’t understand. Some of them wore hoods not attached to anything. What was the point of that? Everyone around me was oohing and awing, including Lorena, but I just adjusted my suit jacket and pretended to be interested. Lorena was going to owe me after this one.
And then Josephine walked out from backstage.
Wait.
My mouth dropped.
What the hell?
Josephine.
Why was Josephine walking in the fashion show?
I blinked and then squinted to confirm that she wasn’t some kind of mirage. She looked different, more made up than usual, with a polished edge to her usual girl-next-door beauty. She was in a midnight blue strapless dress that cut off way too short. She had on heels that strapped up around her ankles and made her long tan legs go on for miles.
Maybe to everyone else, she looked like a standard model, but I could see the nerves lurking beneath the surface. She clenched and unclenched her fists as she walked and every few steps, she glanced down at the runway as if to ensure it wasn’t going to slip out from beneath her.
As she passed in front of me, I resisted the urge to reach out and touch her, to pull her close and ask her why she was modeling in a fashion show. She’d never once mentioned the fact that she was a model.
Instead, I sat in shock, following her walk down the runway in utter awe. My heart was beating in step with the up-tempo bass. She walked to the end of the runway, propped her hand on her hip, turned toward the cameras, and then strutted back just as quickly as she’d come. She’d been on stage for less than a minute, but I could have sworn time had stopped all together.
Lorena leaned in and whispered, “That model looks just like your assistant!”
I nodded and followed Josephine’s figure as she walked off the stage.
“It was.”
Suddenly it looked like I had a very good reason to accompany Lorena to the after party.