Page 41 of My Real Love Affair

She took a sip of wine. “I get it. People think influencing is just snapping pictures all the time. It’s a little more than that.”

“Okay,” I said. “Tell me more.”

“I was twelve when I realized I’d never see someone who looked like me on the cover of a magazine. At least not a fashion magazine. I’d see plus-size models occasionally in like, Target ads or whatever. But never in Vogue. Never in the campaigns for the brands I loved.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is. And for a long time, I internalized that. Thought something was wrong with me. That I needed to change my body to be worthy of beautiful clothes.” She traced the rim of her wine glass with one finger. “I spent most of my teenage years hating myself. Trying diet after diet. Wearing baggy clothes to hide. It was exhausting.”

“What changed?”

“College, actually. I had a roommate who was into body positivity before it was trendy. She introduced me to plus-size fashion bloggers, showed me that women who looked like me could be stylish and confident and beautiful. It changed my entire perspective.”

“So you became an influencer.”

“Not right away. I started a blog just for fun. Posted outfit photos, talked about where to find clothes that actually fit and flattered. It was just me rambling into the void, basically. But then people started following. Commenting. Telling me I’dhelped them. And I realized I could actually make a difference. Help women see themselves the way I’d learned to see myself.”

I leaned forward, genuinely interested. “And your family? What did they think?”

“They were skeptical at first. My dad especially. He wanted me to get a ‘real job’ after college. Something stable with benefits and a 401k. But my mom understood. She’d struggled with her body image her whole life too. She got why this mattered to me.”

“They sound supportive.”

“They are. Now. Once they saw I could actually make a living doing this.” She smiled. “What about you? Why do you need to fake date someone to keep your family happy?”

And there it was. The question I’d been avoiding.

“Because I’m the family disappointment. Have been for years. And they’re finally tired of waiting for me to get my shit together.”

“You don’t strike me as a disappointment.”

“That’s because you don’t know the Bancroft standard. My brothers are all successful in their own right. Running companies, making deals, expanding the empire. Making babies. And then there’s me. The youngest. The one who can’t seem to commit to anything longer than a weekend.”

“Why is that?”

The question was gentle, curious rather than judgmental. She asked it like she actually wanted to understand rather than judge, which made me want to answer honestly.

“I tried,” I said. “To be what they wanted. Did everything I was supposed to do.”

I wasn’t going to get into the details. They didn’t matter and I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Can I ask you something?” Melody said.

“Shoot.”

“Why do you still care? About your trust fund, I mean. You could walk away. Start over somewhere else. Build something that’s actually yours instead of living under your family’s thumb.”

It was a good question. One I’d asked myself more than once.

“Pride, maybe. Stubbornness definitely. Or maybe it’s because despite everything, they’re still my family. My father is a judgmental ass, and Cash needs a serious chill pill, but they’re mine. And some stupid part of me still wants to prove I’m not the complete waste of space they think I am.”

“You’re not a waste of space.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough. You stood up for me at that wedding when you had nothing to gain from it. You’re sitting here listening to me talk about body image and fashion like it actually matters to you.” She held my gaze. “Those aren’t the actions of a waste of space, Austin.”

Wow. When was the last time someone had defended me? Seen something worthwhile in me beyond my last name and bank account?