I close early today for the fittings at three. The last customers drift out. Ren mops, and I wipe the counters until they shine. Marco drags his blanket to the loveseat by the small television in the office and watches an old cartoon about a train that sings. He shuffles down inside the blanket until only his hair and eyes are visible. The heater ticks. I turn off the front lights and stand for a second with my hand on the counter, listening for anything I forgot. I scrub a baking sheet one more time and prop it above the sink to dry.
My phone buzzes. Maya. I met Maya on a shoot where no one ate lunch. She smuggled me a sandwich and then dragged me to a diner after the makeup came off. She’s my best friend and Marco’s godmother, the only person I trust to keep him safe when I’m on a runway. She lives five blocks away and moves through the city like she was born for it. She gets a free pass and a front seat at every show, and she never lets me forget it.
“Car’s downstairs in twenty.We’ll make your three o’clock fittings,” she says. “I’ve got the bag. I’ve also got a boy who can’t stop telling me about sprinkles.”
“Bring the boy,” I say, smiling. “Front row will make his day.”
“Already handled,” she says. “He’s got little shoes that light up when he walks. He’s planning to flash them exactly when you pass him on the runway.”
I laugh. “That’s a plan.”
I wake Marco. He lifts his arms like a much smaller child and I carry him for a few steps, then set him down. He marches to the bathroom to wash his face, very serious about water and soap. We change fast in the office. I pull a black turtleneck over leggings and boots, shrug into a wool coat, and stuff a makeupbag into my tote. I twist my hair and secure it with a clip. Marco puts on a sweater with a knit snowman and a hat with a pom-pom that bounces when he bounces.
We lock up. Snow softens the stoop and settles in the bike basket outside. The car idles at the curb. Maya leans out the window, lipstick traffic-stop red, braids pinned in a crown.
“Stars,” she says, waving us in. “Get in. We’re tight on time.”
Marco climbs in beside her. He buckles with the gravity of a pilot. The city slides by, wet streets reflecting lights. Marco taps my sleeve, and I pass him a small container of apple slices from my tote. He eats two and saves the rest.
The car noses toward the venue and idles behind a line of black SUVs. Security cones blink. A woman in a headset checks our names on a clipboard, stamps our wrists, and waves us through a side door. We slide in just as fittings start.
The hallway smells like hairspray and hot lights, arrows taped to the floor pointing us left. Maya squeezes my shoulder and passes the garment bag to a runner. I kiss Marco’s hair and watch them peel off toward the front of house, then follow the arrows.
Backstage is heat, mirrors, and the sound of hairdryers. Models in robes stand in clusters, phones up for selfies. Lips tighten, then ease when the camera drops. I slide into a chair and let the makeup artist study my face like a canvas ready for careful coverage and subtle polish.
“We keep your freckles,” she says. “They feel like snow.” I sit still. The brush strokes are light.
The hairstylist smooths my waves and tucks them behind one ear. A dresser hangs a gown on a rack and taps the hanger, impatient in a kind way.
Maya texts,We’re in the sponsor lounge. There’s hot cocoa, coloring sheets, and a rehearsal feed on a TV. He’s fine.
She sends a photo of Marco holding two crayons like drumsticks.
Text when you’re lining up. They’ll seat us five minutes before.
I send a heart and tuck the phone away.
At 4:45, Maya texts,They’re sitting us now, front row, aisle. He’s got his candy cane, and he promised not to yell.
I smile without moving my mouth.
Copy. Tell him I’ll see the shoes.
“Showtime in ten,” someone calls.
Jules appears, checks the gown, and squeezes my shoulder. “Smile. They’re filming everything.”
Maya sends a burst from the audience—Marco on her lap, pom-pom hat high, a smile, a mittened wave, then he’s in his seat, feet not quite touching the floor. His eyes lock on the runway.
Your biggest fan’s ready.
I type a heart and slide the phone into the pocket of my jeans.
The gown’s winter white, satin that catches light without shouting. I step into it. It fits like a secret I hold. Cool fabric climbs my legs. The dresser lifts the zipper in one smooth pull. The bodice settles like a promise I intend to honor, seams quiet against my ribs, hem skimming my legs as I move. I stand tall,shoulders easy, chin level, hair brushed glossy and left loose, cheeks warm with a soft winter glow. The coordinator points. Music swells, strings bright with a hint of bells.
I walk.
The runway opens like a frozen river under stage light, a straight silver path with edges that blur. Heat blooms on my back from the lamps, but the satin stays cool against my skin. One foot, then the other, heel plants, toe glides. My pace matches the measure of the song. Cameras blink along the rail like landing lights guiding a jet home. I hold my gaze just above the crowd, eyes soft, mouth calm, shoulders loose enough to read as effortless. Fabric moves with me, not ahead of me, a liquid line that turns at the hip and breaks into a clean ripple.
