Following Isaac

by McMillin, Casey

  I slapped the back of his head and we both laughed as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. "I'll ask Gail about that other gym if you want to hit it this afternoon," I said.

  "We really should," he said.

  "Yeah, and you should be the one talking my ass into working out and not the other way around." I swiped the card in front of the box on the door and the light turned green. We stepped inside to an extremely nice suite. It wasn't huge, but it was expensively furnished.

  "Yes, son!" Shane said, crossing to the oversized, leather couch and collapsing onto it. He wasn't just my personal trainer; he was also my best friend—the guy who'd been with me since before I started making real money.

  Most of my job wasn't spent in front of a camera lens—in fact that part of it was a small percentage. Some of it was spent traveling, but the vast majority of my time was spent maintaining my body. I worked out five days a week, twice a day, for two hours each time. Sometimes it was even longer if I took a run. You can do the math. That's at least twenty hours a week of gym time, plus travel, emails, and phone calls.

  I'd considered the possibility that the amount of time I had to put into my appearance made me narcissistic, but I figured it was the same as anyone else who'd put time and practice into their profession. I was getting paid for looking the way I did, and I wasn't about to question it or doubt myself. At this point, I'd be stupid to quit or change what I did. If I continued at this rate, I could potentially retire by the time I was twenty-eight. Of course I'd have to be wise with my money, and I didn't plan on retiring anyway, but what I'm trying to say is… screw narcissism. If paying attention to my body was affording me this lifestyle, then that was what I'd do. Besides, everything I was doing was fun. I didn't mind working out, and shooting ad campaigns was challenging and rewarding.

  The bellhop left our bags in the living room, and I grabbed mine on the way to one of the bedrooms. "The other one's yours," Shane said, making me turn in my tracks.

  He always made sure I had the bigger room when we traveled together. I couldn't bring him on every job even though I liked having him with me. He'd been to London a couple of times, but never to Milan or Tokyo, and frequently gave me a hard time about being too cheap to bring him.

  "I'm gonna take a shower and then probably a nap," I said. "I'll text Gail for the address of that gym."

  "We should get in a couple of hours tonight," Shane said.

  I nodded. "I'm down." I looked over my shoulder before I went into my room. "That girl had yellow eyes," I said.

  "What girl?" he asked without looking at me.

  "The one I talked to in the lobby."

  "You're so weird," he said. "I don't know why you do random shit like that."

  "She was happy I did it," I said.

  He made a sarcastic sound. "She prolly didn't even know who you were, chief."

  "She could barely hold her phone for all the shaking," I said. "Either she knew who I was or she just really loves guys with neck tattoos." Shane just covered his face with a hand and stopped talking in a way that said continuing this conversation would be a waste of time. He was probably right. There was no reason to discuss the photo I'd taken with a random fan. It was something that happened all the time, and I wouldn't have brought it up in the first place if it hadn't have been for those yellow eyes.

  I set my bags on the couch at the foot of my bed before opening the curtains so I could fully appreciate the view. I stood near the side of the bed and fell onto it. I stayed like that—stretched out on my back for a few minutes before digging in the front pocket of my jeans for my phone.

  I typed out a text to Gail who was my liaison at Tang Models. She called me a few months ago after seeing some work I'd done for Diesel Jeans, and we'd negotiated a contract. I'd Facetimed with her several times from New York, but hadn't met her in person. That was scheduled to happen tomorrow morning. I'd been in contact with her enough to know that she had my number programed into her phone, so I didn't bother to identify myself when I sent a text.

  Me: "We're here. The hotel is nice, thanks. Can you forward me the address of that gym?"

  I sat the phone next to me on the bed, but heard from her instantly, so I picked it up again. I squinted at the screen through travel-weary eyes.

  Gail: "Wonderful news. Glad you made it and you like the accommodations. I've heard it's a nice place. I've attached the address to the gym. It's close to your hotel. It's called Flex and my contact there is Gage Dixon. Just tell them who you are. You're cleared to use their facility whenever you need it. I'll see you at my office in the morning."

  I smiled as I text back.

  Me: "Got it, thanks. I'll see you in the morning."

  Gail: "Looking forward to it."

  I almost put my phone down, but I decided to look at Instagram. I used Twitter and Facebook as well, but Instagram was my favorite, and I posted to it more regularly than I did anything else. My fan base had exploded within the past six-months, and every picture or video I posted got tons of comments… a lot of which were the aforementioned marriage proposals. There was no way I could or should take the time to read all of the comments, but I did scan through and read a few.

  My last post was one of Shane and I at the airport earlier this morning. It had over thirty thousand likes and six hundred comments. These numbers were low compared to what my usual post received, but that was typical for an airport selfie where I was fully clothed. I scrolled through a few of the most recent comments. I smiled as I caught one that said, "He makes my ovaries explode," but otherwise I didn't really even read any of them. I just absentmindedly stared at the screen before deciding to jump in the shower.

  I had just taken my shirt off when it hit me that I should use the opportunity to take a picture. My agent encouraged me to post to social media often, so I decided to take a quick picture before getting in the shower. The bathroom was sleek and modern, and I imagined it would look good in black and white. My hair was about five inches long on top with the sides and back shaved. I ran some water through it and messed it up a little bit before shifting it to the side. I shook my head, and some of it fell over one eye.

  I aimed my phone at the mirror, framing a shot. I was no photographer, but I could take the shit out of a selfie, and I smiled as I inspected the results. I took five photos, but ended up going with the first one. I was right about using the black and white filter. By the time I did that, it was less like a selfie and more like the work of art my agent was hoping I'd post every time.

  I typed in a caption that said: Stoked to be in L.A.#TangModels, and pressed 'share'. The little orange notification arrow instantly started going crazy, but I put down my phone in favor of a hot shower.

  Chapter 3

  Becca

  I absolutely had to call Naomi and tell her the news. I was so freaked out by the encounter I had with Isaac, that I had trouble pressing the buttons. The traffic light I'd been stopped at turned green just as I placed the call. I gripped the steering wheel for dear life as I drove, feeling utterly mortified about the way I looked and acted during that once in a lifetime encounter.

  "What's up?" she asked, answering the phone.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm at work."

  She was going into her senior year, same as me, and also worked as a nanny for a couple of toddlers.

  "What's up?" she repeated.

  I sighed, feeling like I still couldn't catch my breath. "You're never gonna believe who I just ran into," I said.

  "Jimmy Fallon," she guessed.

  "No."

  "Lady Gaga," she said, before I had the chance to answer.

  "No."

  "Who?"

  "Isaac Charles," I said. I felt like the biggest nerd on earth that I could barely get out his name. My voice was about three times deeper than it normally was, and it cracked as I spoke.

  "Who?"

  "Isaac Charles," I repeated, trying not to mumble breathlessly.

  Ther
e was a short silence, after which she said, "I have no idea who that is."

  "He's that model guy with the tattoos that I follow on Instagram."

  She gasped. "Are you serious? That’s so random. Where'd you see him?"

  "At a hotel."

  "One of your hotels, I assume."

  "Yessss," I said. I was simply unable to hide the excitement in my voice, and I heard her giggle.

  "Did you get his autograph?"

  "I'm not gonna ask him for his autograph," I said, almost offended. "That's dorky."

  "How do you even know it was him?"

  "There's no one else on this planet who looks like him," I said. "He's unmistakable. Plus I took a photo with him and I've already looked at it. It's definitely him. I'd know that neck anywhere."

  "How'd you get a photo with him? I thought you just said that was dorky."

  "I didn't ask," I said. "He just came up to me and asked me for my phone. He posed next to me for a photo, kissed my cheek, and walked off."

  A few seconds of silence passed and I wondered if we got disconnected.

  "Naomi?"

  "I'm here. I'm just trying to imagine what happened."

  "It's just like I told you."

  "Why do you think he did that?"

  "I guess he could tell I knew who he was and thought I'd be glad to have a photo with him."

  "That seems sort of presumptuous."

  "It wasn't. I'm sure I was gawking, and it was really sweet the way he did it. He was being nice."

  "Was he checking you out?"

  I felt a wave of something akin to embarrassment wash over me when she asked that question. I knew she wasn’t trying to be mean, but that was a ridiculous question. I was 5'5" and weighed 190 pounds. In spite of those stats, I was a fairly confident person, but there was no way on God's green earth that Isaac Charles would ever be checking me out. What was she thinking asking a question like that? I almost said something really sarcastic, but then I realized she might have actually been serious.

  "He's famous and I was staring at him. He was just being nice," I said.

  "I wanna see the picture," she said.

  "I'll send it to you when I get home."

  I pulled up at my house twenty minutes later. I stopped by the recycling bins to throw away the empty flower containers before heading into the house. Uncle Greg was sitting at the bar with a huge box that at one point contained the metal detector he was holding. He also had on a pair of weird magnifying goggles that looked like something a jeweler would wear.

  "What's happenin' Peanut?" he asked, shifting the goggles to the top of his head.

  "I just ran into a supermodel at one of my hotels." I tried my best to be calm, but the statement came out in a giddy tone.

  "Cindy Crawford?" he asked.

  "No. It's a guy."

  "I didn't know there was such a thing." He adjusted the goggles and proceeded staring at the workings of his new gadget.

  "Maybe there's not," I said. "I just said that because he's super famous."

  "More famous than Mick Jagger?"

  "He's the most famous person I've ever met, that's for sure. His name's Isaac, but his Instagram name is New York Nicky. He's got almost a million followers."

  "A million, huh?" he asked absentmindedly. "How'd you meet him?" He pushed a button on his contraption and it lit up and made a few beeping noises, but he looked up at me like I should go ahead and answer the question.

  I told him the whole story about how he walked up to me as I was packing up. It was the second time I recounted the story since it had happened, and the whole time I gave details, I had an overall yucky feeling about being the girl he'd never be interested in.

  I was never skinny.

  Starting in about the second grade, I was the chubby kid. I was popular in school, and always got voted "most friendly," and ended up on the student council, but I was not, I repeat, not the hot girl. I had no problems fitting in during high school, and even in college, had an easy time making friends, but I really didn't date much. I was a chubby girl with hot girl taste, so I chose to remain alone rather than settle for someone who was in my league. I wasn't down on myself or anything—I was just realistic. I'd been living in my body for twenty-one years, and I knew where I stood with men.

  That was my attitude before today, but seeing Isaac Charles in person made something flip in my brain. Maybe it was the fact that he noticed me and took the time to walk over, or maybe I was just blown away by the way he looked (which, unbelievably, was better in person than in photos). Either way, seeing him made my thinking shift. Suddenly, I had a goal. I'd honestly never been so moved by a guy that I'd be willing to try to change the way I looked, but that's exactly what I wanted to do with Isaac. The sight of him motivated me in a way nothing else had. By the time I was finished telling Greg the story, I'd already decided I was going to start making major changes.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, seeing how deep in thought I was. I cleared my throat, trying to stall while I sorted out some of the feelings that were surfacing.

  "I've obviously never seen myself as the type of person who works out," I said. "I'm wondering if I could even do it, or if it'd physically be too hard for me."

  Greg gawked at me through the goggles with an open mouth. I had no idea what he was thinking. "Of course you could to it," he said, staring at me in disbelief as if he thought I might have been joking. "You're twenty-one years old and you're healthy. Why wouldn't you be able to do it?"

  "Because I'm not that girl. I'm not a go to the gym type of person. I've never in my life sought out an opportunity to break a sweat." He stared at me so I continued, "I don’t even know if I could make it through a workout. Actually, I'm not even sure what a workout is. I know I don't want to go jogging, and I'm pretty sure I hate those machines." I sighed. "I look like crap in yoga pants, and I can't even imagine what I'd wear to work out in front of people."

  "You should do some of that Richard Simmons stuff. You can work out in the living room and not have to worry about what you wear."

  I didn't know what he was talking about, but I figured it was something like P90X. I'd tried several workout videos over the years and nothing had ever been effective. I just ended up cheating or giving up when it became too difficult. I was relatively sure I needed the peer pressure that came with going to a gym, but the same peer pressure that could help me succeed could also keep me from going in the first place.

  I lost thirty pounds one time in eighth grade by eating only baked potatoes for a few months, but gained it back almost as quickly as I lost it. I knew in my gut that real exercise was the only way to get the results I wanted.

  "I think I might need to sign up for a gym or something."

  "You should do kickboxing," he said. "Then you can kick that guy's ass if he rejects you."

  "I'm not losing weight for him," I lied. I only did it because somewhere in the back of my mind I thought it might make me seem like a crazy person who would go to any length to get a guy.

  "You look fine like you are," he said, just like any good uncle would.

  "I'm not saying I look bad," I said, sighing. I was glad he was preoccupied with tinkering with his new toy, because I needed to talk it out, and he was content to sit there and listen. "It's just that I've never been the hot girl—never the center of attention, unless it was because I was being funny."

  "And this guy makes you want to be the hot girl?"

  "I guess."

  "Well, you have the face for it. It's almost completely symmetrical."

  Only from him would I get a compliment like that. I felt a rush of hot blood move to my cheeks when he mentioned me having a good face. The symmetrical part was funny and made it a bit easier to swallow, but that was a backhanded compliment I'd received several times over the years, and it stung every time. One time, someone said, "You'd actually be really pretty if you lost…" They trailed off before saying the word weight or suggesting the number of pounds I should lose, bu
t offense had already been taken. At least five other times in my life someone had said, "You have a really pretty face." I always wondered why they couldn’t just say, "You're really pretty," but for some reason people felt compelled to add the 'face' part. Maybe it was so I didn't misunderstand and think they thought my body was pretty too. Well, guess what—I wouldn’t.

  Anyway, all those memories came rushing back to me when Greg said I had the face for it. I was glad he was busy with his metal detector and didn't see me blush. "I'm not trying to say I think I could get that guy, no matter how much weight I lost," I said, clarifying.

  "I don't care who you're trying to go out with," he said. "Just don't start gagging yourself."

  The thought had never even crossed my mind. I hated throwing up, and would much sooner exercise than do it intentionally.

  "I don't even know where to start," I said.

  His gaze snapped up to meet mine. "Someone gave me a card for a gym the other day. I think it's supposed to be a thirty day free trial."

  "How long do you think it'll take me to lose weight?" I asked.

  "How much are you trying to lose?"

  "I don't know, really. I guess about fifty or sixty pounds."

  "Probably longer than thirty days," he said.

  "I figured that, but I was just wondering what sort of time frame I should expect."

  "You're talking to the guy who can't gain weight to save his life," Greg said.

  "I seriously can't imagine making a statement like that."

  "You look fine," he said, feeling bad for me.

  "I know I'm not bad looking, but I want to be the girl Isaac Charles walks up to because he wants to meet her, not because he wants to be nice to a fan."

  "So you are losing weight for him."

  "Noooo, but it was meeting him that made me want to lose weight."

  He stared at me as if wondering how that was any different.

  "Let me put it this way… I have no chance in hell with a guy like that, no matter how much weight I lose, but today, I wasn't happy about how I looked and I just feel like I want to make a change."