Page 1 of Blurred Lines

1

EMILY

"Ready to roll?" Sasha's eyes glint as he adds the finishing touches to my makeup. I nod briefly. He brushes glitter on the hollows above my collarbones. "You're going to be amazing."

I have to believe him. From a clinical point of view, I'm good at what I do. I run a finger over the thin gold bracelet on my wrist and exhale. Pulsating bass lines vibrate through the soles of my Jimmy Choos. A shiver dances up my spine that has nothing to do with the glacial waves from the air conditioning blasting backstage.

"What's on your mind?" Sasha persists, flicking an array of brushes, one after the other in quick succession. I don't know what he's doing to my face, but I'm sure it'll be good.

"Tonight's pretty important," I admit softly. "It's my first time opening a show. I kind of feel like a glamzilla about to scare what should be a very elite audience."

Sasha snorts. This, I observe casually, is something he does when he emphatically disagrees with something. "Em, could this be because of the … stuff Celia showed us in the green room?"

A little while ago, Celia, one of the models in tonight's lineup, had casually shoved a picture of me from her Instagram feed in our faces. It's one of my favorite stills, with me standing in my favorite spot in Central Park.

The first comment is by a self-proclaimed fashion influencer who has amassed a following of upwards of two million, Andrew Graham. His words shouldn't hurt, not when I've read and heard renditions of them multiple times over the last few years.

She literally gets paid to look good but can't be bothered to care. She's one of those typical Instagram models trying to sell toxic body positivity.

I hear glasses clink. The champagne is gushing more than a geyser in the Med, but my throat feels dry.

"Want a glass?" Sasha offers.

"Absolutely not."

I can't afford a slip-up. That's an express ticket to Critiqueville, population: me. They call me "Emily Earthquake Martin." Yeah, that moniker's fresh off the press from some fashion guru. My Instagram has become a playground for keyboard warriors schooling me on how my fat paycheck should mean an Insta-fit body.

Newsflash: equating health with being a human pencil? I don't care for that brand of beauty, even if it's still shoved down our throats.

"Girl, don't let the assholes get to you," Sasha murmurs as he examines me one last time. "Those heels you're wearing? They're designed for only wow, no wobble. You're brave, amazing, and beautiful. Go show the world what you're made of."

I incline my head momentarily—Sasha's right. I have a lot of time to worry about what influencers think about my life. Right now, I need to walk.

The silk taffeta crackles, protesting the backstage draft, shimmering like a disco ball's less flashy cousin. The moment I hit the ramp, it's showtime.

"Confidence," he smiles, tapping my shoulder lightly. "Has always been your thing. Sell it like it's going out of style."

This time, I'm the one to snort. "I've got 'Owning It' stitched right between 'Awkward' and 'Vertigo-Victim,'" I quip, dry as a martini. I look down at my emerald bodice. It hugs my curves just the right amount. Everyone thinks I'm confident, but honestly, on most days, I'm faking it till I make it.

But tonight has to be different. I take a few deep breaths. If I cinch this, I'll have more opportunities to open shows. I can project what I truly believe: that beauty and health don't necessarily need to fit a mold that's been set by people who have no idea how women's bodies function. If I could get a dollar for the number of times I've wondered how I fit in the size medium of one brand while feeling like a walrus in the size large of another, I'd be a billionaire.

Sasha holds a compact mirror in front of my face. I check my makeup one last time. Smokey eyes, subtle lips, shimmer bathing my shoulders. I smile slightly.

"It's time," Sasha says as a countdown begins, crackling through our earpieces. My heart begins a mambo in my chest, growing louder as I begin walking. Stage lights flare blindingly white. A beat of silence, then the music—a sultry samba, slithers into my soul.

Heads turn as I reach the main ramp. I keep my eyes fixed. My insides are squirming like jelly, but I'm okay. I'm okay. The stage shrinks to the familiarity of a catwalk. My heels click defiantly. I walk to the very front, where camera bulbs pop like firecrackers.

My skirt flows behind me as I move, left, right, a slight sway. Every pleat carries like a river of green silk. I reach the end of the runway and pause for one moment.

Breath, Em.

I tilt my chin upward, exposing my long neck and the single diamond necklace that graces it. Then, I flick back the strand of hair falling on my collarbone. The cameras go wild.

Applause breaks through the room. The crowd's enthused energy drenches me like mulled wine. I've made my statement. I turn on my heels and strut backstage.

The space is buzzing. Makeup artists, hair stylists, designers, and models all merge into one vibrant tapestry of organized chaos.

"Emily, that was stellar!" exclaims Maria, a makeup artist with a flair for dramatic eyeliner. She's huddled over a young model, deftly applying a burst of glitter to her eyelids. "You owned that runway!"

---