by Alex Rosa
“Skyler!” is shouted out sharply from my left.
I think I may recognize the angry, foreign tone. I swivel around to see bright red lips, a tight bun of bleach-blond hair, and yellow, pointed nails as my first familiar signs. Her dark brows are tweaked high as she approaches.
Good to know she has a look and sticks to it, for my sake. I don’t know her name, but I exhale with the relief the recognition gives me.
“Hi,” I reply too softly, and my subconscious can’t help but tell me to buck the fuck up when onyx eyes watch me just as intensely as I remember.
“Buono,” she quips. “I’m Sophie. Nice to see you again.”
My left brow mirrors her right one as it rises, and the movement implies we’re questioning each other’s sincerity, though I can’t tell what I’ve done to hint that my intentions are sour.
“Nice to see you again, too, Sophie.”
She watches me a moment, chewing her glossy red lip. “We have high hopes for you.” Her eyes drag over my body, as if diagnosing me for the situation at hand, but at least her glare softens.
I nod, and she rolls her eyes as she continues. “I’m Gio’s assistant, and I have heard a lot about you. Ever since that first photo shoot it seems our Gio has got quite—”
I fling myself forward, covering her mouth with my hand, igniting her cackle.
“Shh,” I whisper. “Please let me go under the radar. I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I don’t want anyone to know that Gio and I are friends.”
I slowly peel my hand from her mouth, and though she’s scowling, and models are beginning to stare, her eyes hint at a dash of humor, and I wonder if I’m witnessing her maximum threshold of funny.
“First,” she says as she smacks my hand away, but it’s more of a love tap than a slap. “Don’t ever do that again. Second . . .” She pulls in a deep breath, her lips twisting into a surprisingly endearing smile. “Fine! Let’s get you dressed.” She lowers her voice an octave. “Gio told me to take care of you, even if I have more important things to do.” Going back to her regular, haughty Italian tone, she lifts the clipboard I didn’t notice she was holding away from her body, looking it over as she says, “Please put on the embroidered garment on the end of the rack. It should be tagged with your name. I didn’t know your size, but I remembered your thighs.”
My eyes heat as they fling their way to hers, and I know she’s laughing at me now. Nice to know that I just figured out her sense of humor. Granted, it’s the type of teasing humor I’ve become so attuned to. It helps having an older brother, too. I think I want to adore Sophie and her scowl, but maybe I’m just that desperate for a friend in this world. I shrug off the thought, rolling my eyes, trying my damnedest not to smile, but failing miserably.
“For the record, my thighs are worth remembering.”
She releases a high-pitched giggle, and I think we’re going to get along just fine.
Leading me to the rack, she hands me a stunning navy blue couture dress, and as my fingertips touch the fabric delicately embroidered with golds and reds, I know it must’ve been hand stitched and worth nearly a whole year of classes at UCLA.
“Put this on, and head to hair and makeup. Quit biting your lip. If the others see you’re nervous, they’ll eat you alive.”
She walks away before I can respond, my eyes trailing across the room to the others. Some smile sweetly, while others have resting bitch face. I smile back regardless, even if it feels like my belly is full of squirming worms.
I can do this.
***
The girls end up being nicer than I thought, although most didn’t exchange more than a handful of words with me, but they were still sweet, instead of stuck-up, which gave me hope when it comes to this whole modeling thing.
Actually, most of the girls really weren’t the conversational type, even though they didn’t mind me chatting. I couldn’t tell if this was them being cautious with a newbie like me or not, but I suspect so. I did make friends with a French girl named Amélie. She studies art history back at a university in France, but decided to take a year off to pursue this endeavor. We bonded over books, of all things. It wasn’t something I would ever assume we’d have in common, except I couldn’t help myself when I saw her giggling as she read the new David Sedaris memoir between takes. Our interactions were fairly brief, but meaningful. We at one point exchanged phone numbers, though I’m not sure we’ll ever call each other, but it was nice to feel accepted.
“Skyler, pay attention!” Gio barks over the camera as the afternoon winds down. “No daydreaming, cara mia!” His pet name comes out harsh, and it has all of us going rigid, making the woman’s arm slung over my shoulder tense at the elbow.
“No, no, relax, just focus!” Gio tries to correct. “Sophie!” he snaps, “Straighten Skyler’s dress, and smooth out the bodice of Mona’s vestito. Quick, quickly, per favore!”
Sophie scurries over and follows his directions frantically before leaping out of the shot.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
He barks more instructions, “Skyler, move to the front, relax your back. Amélie, push your shoulders back, and look off as if you’re staring into the setting sun, like your boyfriend just hopped on a plane and he’s never coming back.”
What the . . .
Does he just make this stuff up on the fly? He sounds like a Harlequin novel, and his Italian accent only proves my point further. It feels absurd, until he pulls his magic trick on me.
“Skyler, stare at me. I want you to picture your love telling you a lie, and you kick him to the curb.”
I’m sure I should be angsty with my crafted look, but instead, an appalled expression flits over my features as I shoot it back to the lens, as if I’m shooting my anger to Gio instead of his camera. I shouldn’t take it so personally; none of this is personal, but when I hear the rapid fire of more camera clicks, I can’t tell if my ornery reaction is the one he’s looking for, and whether I should be angrier at that, or at his choice of words.
I just wish he wouldn’t toy with me so publicly, if that’s what he’s doing.
“And we’re done! Finito!” he shouts, letting the heavy camera fall to his side in his hand, his eyes purposeful as they drag over our faces, finding their resting place on mine to match the tight curve at the corner of his mouth.
My shoulders slump. The looming lights are hot, even in the openness of the grungy building. Our beautiful clothes matched against the derelict surroundings give the shoot an urban edge that I adore. Though, my main focus has been to make sure this priceless garment doesn’t touch anything remotely dirty, which is pretty much any surface of this locale, other than the makeshift changing room.
I swiveled and swayed, pouted and paused my way through every camera click. To think, all of us women moving in unison with each other, and with each shift, like a wave of fashion-forward angst, all in sync and beautiful.
I watch the models scurry away. They must all have places to be as their leggy strides are quick and purposeful, but little do they know that their hero photographer is my ride home, and I decide to hang back.
When I watch the girls until they round the corner, their shrieks of conversation beginning once out of view, I feel safe enough to face Gio, who seems to have already strutted the ten feet toward me.
“You’re a natural, bella,” he hums.
I wrinkle my nose. “Whatever.” I grin, because I feel good. I love the sound of his camera as I work the angles. It allows me to get lost, while at the same time feeling free, even with his direction as long as there is a mood set. Wearing such beautiful clothes brought it to a whole new level that I loved even more. The clothes, their intricate design, and the thick fabric hanging against my skin whisked me away to a world where logic doesn’t matter, and I could finally breathe. Similar to the world shift that Blake puts me in. It’s new and
fantastical, and pretty much out of my league of understanding, but I revel in the challenge. I enjoy this new frontier.
“You capture the scene without even trying, and you look stunning. Your eyes, bella, I wasn’t kidding when I said they were a endless sky when I first met you.”
I feel like he’s going out of his way to flatter me even if I’ve only ever known Gio not to waste his words. The reference only has my body humming with the memory of my recent date with Blake, and how he sang me a song involving the same thing. I don’t even try to hide my dopey smile.
“I did good,” I jokingly gloat, lifting my chin in mock pride.
He nods. “There’s always room for improvement, but considering you’re still just getting the swing of it, you acted like you’ve been doing it for much longer.”
I stand up straighter, leaning toward Gio, allowing myself that little bit of confidence where I know it’s best placed. I want to be better in whatever it is I choose to attempt. Whether it’s school or this glamorous charade. “Will you help me become better?”
He grins wide, and I love that he’s so thrilled by my words.
He raises his large hand to my face, cupping my jaw like I’m precious as he replies, “If you let me.”
“Would you like that?” I goad. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m fueled by the thrill of accomplishment.
“I would like that very much.” He allows himself to get lost in my eyes for a longer moment than I think he intends, and I’m pulled in by the glow of his. The ambers that twist around splashes of green in the irises of his eyes are as endless as a galaxy, and I, too, get lost for the briefest of moments. It’s as if he catches himself, and releases my chin, taking a deliberate step back.
I giggle, sort of enamored by his charm, and his need to keep the boundaries defined.
My giddiness of the day morphs into more confidence as I snatch the camera out of his other hand. It’s heavier than I realized it would be, which has me lugging it up to my face.
“Bella . . .” he whines.
I peek over the camera, my giggles relentless as I try to reply. “Oh, stop it. It only seems fair that someone turn the tables on you. You’re beautiful, too, you know?”
An earthquake erupts in my chest at the admission, but I force a grin. I don’t regret saying it, but I worry it’s inappropriate.
The briefest of crimson appears on his high cheekbones. I shy away by using his camera to cover my face, and snap a few pictures of his shell-shocked state.
I groan, ending it with a laugh. “Speechless, Gio? Who would’ve thought? Don’t act like you don’t know it. Your ego fills this warehouse.”
He chuckles, and I take the opportunity to snap a few more photos, our laughter tangling around each other in echoes.
Click. Click. Click.
“Bella . . .” he tries again.
I shake my head, admonishing him, rapidly clicking as it takes only one giant stride for him to reach me.
“Stop being cute,” he begs as he grabs the camera from me.
I stumble a bit, the tight ensemble restricting me from moving fully and as freely as my laughter.
“Come with me to Milan.”
Sound stops coming from my lips as they hang open, and I tilt my head. “W-what?”
“Come with me to Milan to cover a Spring Collection debut in a couple of weeks.”
This time I shake my head. “And do what, Gio?”
“Walk in the show?” he asks with a shrug. “They’re short a girl, and asked if I knew anyone.”
I choke through another laugh, waving him off. “First off, are all models flakes? Second, you can’t be serious. It’s too much.”
He places his camera on the ottoman to the right, his eyes deadly serious with that crisp sense of wisdom that I saw when I first met him.
“I could make a mess of everything. I’ve never walked a runaway. I’d probably fall flat on my face. You don’t want that, trust me. I’d ruin you.”
He smirks. “Imagine the exposure.”
I shake my head. “Gio, you’re acting crazy. It’s too much,” I repeat.
His face tenses, and I watch the dramatic plunge of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “You do that to me.”
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my eyes heavily scrutinizing him, but his eyes and stance are solid. Gio isn’t one to cower, especially if he’s trying to hide his nerves.
I get distracted when I hear the hum from the girls rising anew as they make their way out.
Most utter good-byes, and a couple of them even shout out that it was nice to meet me, but they all give me the same curious look as they notice me still in my dress, and sticking to Gio’s side. I don’t have the energy to care. They can think what they want, and I doubt it would have any affect on the situation, whatever situation I’m referencing that I don’t quite understand. What a predicament. What’s going on?
When the final girl leaves, I notice Sophie trying to do her best impression of not eavesdropping as she starts to grab for miscellaneous items of clothing and accessories planted around the set, but even I can tell her ears are pricked up to listen in. Everyone else, though? Other hands-on assistants are busy breaking down equipment, chatting with one another. It seems everyone always gives Gio his space. No one ever dares to enter his bubble, which has me constantly wanting to pop it.
Gio is close now, and I turn to shoot him a scowl. His hand flinches as if he’s holding himself back from reaching for the camera, and my smile is back in a flash.
“Oh, Giovanni Vigilucci, you’re some kind of ridiculous, aren’t you?” I say as I rub at my temples. “Aren’t we friends?”
Even his nods are solid and purposeful. “Of course we are.”
“You know, you’re kinda more important to me than I let on, even though I want to strangle you sometimes,” I add.
The mood levels out, and his breathing goes back to deep, drawn-out breaths. I knew he was nervous.
“That’s good to hear,” he replies.
I revel in the moment, because this is not Gio’s forte: vulnerability. It feels like he is baring some part of him that I can’t place.
“I trust you,” I hum, letting my eyes dart around the room as I gather my wits. “I’m your muse, and you’re my guide. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work between us?”
I’m trying to lead this into where I get Gio to admit what he’s thinking, but, always an emotional step ahead of me, he replies, “Yes, but sometimes it’s hard not to adore and fall for one’s muse.”
My lungs deflate, and worry begins to drown me.
“Stop, bella. I guess it’s better to just say it, huh? You Americans pride yourself on honesty, and if you trust me, then that’s how we should do this, no?”
I nod. Is this what Blake was afraid of all along? Is this modeling career nothing but another man’s whim as a way into my heart? I’m shrinking by the minute.
“But you don’t love me, bella. I know this. You have found your soul mate, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but it doesn’t mean I also don’t find it beautiful and inspiring. It’s the pain of an artist, I think. I’m observer of the priceless things this life offers, and sometimes I adore things too much, especially the things I can’t have, but I appreciate them. You’re one of those things.”
“Gio, I—”
“Stop,” he says again, raising his hand to halt my words. His accent more obvious in that word than all his ones before. “I don’t want to ruin you. You and Blake. I won’t let myself, and I won’t let you. Maybe my admiration is simply an infatuation. It’s hard to tell. But it doesn’t mean I don’t think you can do all the things I’ve been telling you to try. My camera adores you just as much as I do, and it’s not because I am the one behind the lens. Do I enjoy your company? Yes, of course. You’re as mu
ch a friend to me as I am to you. But do I also think you could do great things by expanding your horizons? This, I know.”
I’m just staring at Gio. He’s so honest. So blunt. And so unforgiving about his emotions that I can’t help but feel envious of the secure grasp he has on himself while I’m still trying to figure myself out.
“Think about Milan,” he pleads.
“When?” I ask, wondering if I should even broach the topic from before.
“End of November.”
I nod, but I’m too scared to commit or reject the invite. “I care for you too, Gio. I want to tell you that, but I also don’t want to hurt you.”
He smiles, and it’s stunning when the corners of his mouth perch high on the jagged lines of his cheekbones. His eyes are like the setting suns in between them. “You scared for me, bella?”
I blush. “No. Yes. Maybe. I love Blake.”
His grin only widens, and I think he’s fighting off a laugh. “I know.”
I consider for the briefest of moments what it would be like to love someone like Gio, and I’m sure it would be incredible, but that’s not a risk I could ever consider or want. But I’m positive he could make any woman incredibly happy.
“You’re not going to fall in love with me, are you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m trying not to.”
I grunt. I hate this. “I want us to be okay.”
“We will be.”
“How can you say that?” This time it feels like a whine or a plea.
“Because, like I said, I won’t let it ruin you. I just wanted to be honest. I’ve kept myself in line all this time, haven’t I? I sit far across couches from you. Never pushed you to feel uncomfortable. I keep my distance.”
“But you flirt!” I blurt out.
“I’m Italian!” He shrugs, and I let out the loudest, most cathartic string of laughter.
“So, we’re okay?”
“We are perfect.” He pauses, his lips squirming at a secret joke. “We’ll be fine. But I won’t apologize for my honesty.”
