She’s already there, my first model, tall, severe, wrapped in my blazer dress. I smooth the front once, tug the hem into place, check the shoulder seams.
“You look perfect,” I tell her.
“Ready when you are.” She smiles with her eyes.
I move down the line, touching each look like a talisman. Satin skirt. Cropped tux jacket. The backless top that tried to kill me last month. I tug, pin, smooth, breathe.
Beyond the curtain, the MC’s voice booms something I can’t quite make out. Then “…introducing our guest designer, Jessica Brooks…”
My lungs fold.
On the monitor mounted in the corner, my name flashes on the screen at the end of the runway in clean white text. The lights shift into the palette I picked from a PDF mockup.
“Look One, go!” the caller snaps.
The model steps out. The monitor switches to the live feed. There she is—my look, my lines, my baby—walking under real lights in a real room full of real people. The fabric moves exactly the way I dreamed it would. The shoulders catch the light like armor. I hear a murmur ripple through the crowd.
“Look Two, ready… go!”
The next model walks.
I hover in the wings, eyes flicking between the sliver of runway I can see past the curtain and the flat, unforgiving honesty of the monitor. Every insecurity I’ve ever had is waiting for something to go wrong.
Nothing does. My clothes don’t fall apart. No one trips. No seams pop. The audience leans in.
Between looks, my gaze snags on the crowd. I can’t see faces clearly through the glare, but the monitor feed pans out, just once, for a wide shot.
There, in the middle rows, is Dannie, with big hair and bigger energy, hands clasped under her chin, eyes huge, like she’s watching the birth of her firstborn. Why isn’t she filming? She promised she would film everything for my parents who—
My eyes shift to the people next to her and my brain lags for a moment.
No, that’s—
For a second I’m convinced I’m seeing things, that this is some stress-induced hallucination. But the camera lingers, just long enough for my mother’s profile to come into focus. My father’s jaw, clenched in that familiar, stubborn line, his shoulders squared.
They’re here. My parents are here. What are they doing here? They don’t have the money to spare for a flight, not last month, not this month. We talked about it. We made peace with it. I promised I’d send them the footage, and promised I’d FaceTime them after.
Emotion slams into my chest so hard I almost lose my balance. My throat goes tight, eyes stinging, and for one heartbeat I think I might actually cry.
They came.
They’re seeing this. With their own eyes. Not on a screen. Not through someone else’s shaky video.
My parents are here to watch their daughter’s name go up in lights, and I don’t understand how that’s possible, but I don’t have time to understand it.
My mom’s hand is over her mouth. My dad’s trying to pretend his eyes aren’t shining and failing.
The camera swings to the front row. I catch a flash of Melody’s profile, smiling from ear to ear, her wild curly hair like a halo. Next to her, Jace in a suit, grinning, pointing at Look Two. I see some of the other guys with them, but the seat next to Jace is empty. Dom’s seat is empty.
If Jace and the guys are here, he should be too. He’s missing this. He’s missing everything.
I hold back a sob. He’s not my emotional support animal. He’s allowed to miss things. But he should be here—
“Don’t look,” I hiss at myself. “Not now.”
“Look Three, go!”
The show rolls on without waiting for my feelings.
