Page 114 of Road Trip to Forever
He smiles and cups my cheeks with his palms, kissing me in front of hundreds of people. The world stops spinning when he presses his mouth against mine, and for a second, I forget where we are.
Fashion show,I think.The biggest event of your life.
It amazes me how easily Patrick can get me out of my head. One touch from him and I relax, not a single worry left inside.
“Will you let me know how everything looks? Pay attention to what I might need to fix before the men’s division tomorrow?”
“Everything is going to be perfect, but I’ll let you know if something seems out of place,” Patrick says.
“Okay.” I nod and kiss him one more time, not wanting to let go. “Thank you.”
“You’re going to knock ’em dead,” he says, disappearing to the right of the large black curtain and out into the crowd.
I let out a sigh and release the tension in my shoulders, double checking my watch and the call sheet with the model order. I’ve spent years working for this. Spent countless sleepless nights and frustrating mornings where I feel like I’m close to a breakthrough, close to finding my voice in a saturated market, just on the brink of something big.
I think of all the tears I’ve cried over ideas that have grown stale, ideas I can’t find a way to bring to life, sketchbook after sketchbook of charcoal drawings and chicken-scratch doodles shelved away to try again another day.
All the money, all the time, all the classes I’ve taken to better my skills and learn from the best of the best… It all comes down to this.
My future hinges on the next five minutes, and at this point, everything is out of my control. It’s up to the judges to see my creative vision and the story I’m trying to convey: fashion forall. A line that doesn’t care about your finances or the other brand names you have in your closet. A line whose soul focus is wanting to be affordable for anyone while still looking high-quality.
“First show?”
I look up at the model in front of me.
She’s giving me a kind smile. Her legs are long and her hips are curvy, breaking from the traditional mold of women the industry salivated over fifteen years ago. She looks stunning in my favorite outfit of the day, the dress covered in stitched flowers and bright colors.
“What gave it away? The sweat stains on my shirt?” I ask.
She laughs. “No. I can tell you’re a natural.”
“I’m Lola.”
“I know who you are. I saw your initial application and was hoping I’d get paired with you. I’m Brielle.”
I blush, the flattery catching me off guard. “Really? I didn’t know you all saw the designers ahead of time.”
“We see portfolios, but to keep it fair, we don’t get to pick who we wear. So, I manifested the hell out of hearing my name called under your set of models. It’s obvious when someone puts their heart and soul into their work, and it’s even more obvious when they’re mass-producing clothes for monetary gain, not caring who ends up buying them. You love what you do, Lola, and it shows. It makes wearing the outfits you create even more special.”
I put my hand over my heart, touched by her words. “Thank you. That’s incredibly kind of you say. I just love designing clothes. I’ve always loved designing clothes. The only time I feel like my brain truly shuts off is when I’m in front of my sewing machine. It’s when I’m the happiest.”
“I feel the same way about the runway,” Brielle says. “I step out there and the lights disappear, the people disappear and it’s just me and the stage.” She takes my hand in hers. “It’s an honor to wear your name today.”
“You’re going to make me cry. Thank you. That means a lot.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She glances over her shoulder. “Looks like it’s almost time. Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” I nod and fix one of the buttons on the front of her dress. “Let’s do this.”
“Lola Jones,” Brielle says. “You’re going to make the internet lose its mind.”
A coordinator comes over and directs the line of women to the steps at the back of the stage. They all smile at me as they pass, giving me nods of encouragement. I wish Patrick were here to experience this moment with me, but I know he’ll be back once my outfits have been paraded down the runway. I already can’t wait to see him again.
The music shifts, the beat picking up speed to a quicker tempo. It’s electric, the thump of the bass vibrating in my blood, and I grin. The woman with the headset nods to Brielle leading the line, and just like that, they’re off. The picture of pure professionals, they march up the stairs and onto the runway, their elegance, grace and confidence shining through in their high-heeled shoes and leather boots.
As they disappear one by one, I wring my hands together, trying not to place too much emphasis on the way the crowd cheers. The crescendo of applause, the whistles, the catcalls. It sounds like they like the lineup, but it’s also possible someone fell and got back on their feet quick enough to garner some pity claps.
The judges of the show hold the primary votes for the winners of each division, plus the overall Best Of winner, stopping backstage at the conclusion of each day to look at stitching, needlework, and overall cleanliness of the designs. The audience also votes though, their opinions contributing a small percentage of the outcome. An enthusiastic response is a good thing.
