Page 103 of Plus Size Player

I cleared my throat lightly. “It wasn’t—”

“I’m sorry to run off in the middle of you telling me Taisha’s story,” he interrupted me, looking between Lori and Taisha. “But I need to meet with the photographer before we can begin the shoot. We can catch up once everything is set up.” Pointedly not looking at me, he said his goodbye to us. “It was nice touching base with you all.”

Without waiting for a response, he disappeared through the stairway exit.

“That man is about his business,” Lori told us, continuing to lead us to the showroom. “And somebody is in trouble.”

“You think so?” I asked, curious to get as much information as possible.

She nodded. “He has a tell. When he’s mad, he’ll fix his mouth like this”—she made her lips into a hard line—“and then he’ll address the problem. He’s a good leader and doesn’t get mad often. But he does like things to be up to his standard. And when it’s not, you fix it or you’re out.”

Taisha frowned. “He sounds tough.”

“He knows what he wants,” I stated unintentionally. When I realized I said the words out loud, my eyes widened. “I mean, it sounds like he’s cool, but if you don’t fix things when you have a chance, that’s it.”

Lori nodded as she opened the door to the showroom. “Russell Long built this company from the ground up with his bare hands. He started designing and selling T-shirts when he was at Hamilton University. He brought in some people and grew that to designing and selling streetwear. And then he brought on his sister and expanded things more, and we’re now offering such a cool variety of garments.” She opened her arms wide, gesturing to the racks of clothing all around. “He does not play about his business.” Lifting her hand to Angelica, she called out, “I have the last two right here for you!”

Once Angelica had us styled to her satisfaction, we were ushered up to the roof. The view of the city from that vantage point was unmatched. We met a photographer who seemed surprised to see me.

It seemed like everyone from the company was up on the roof watching us.

Everyone except Russ.

It was a bit unnerving to have that many eyes on us as we worked and took direction. As the RLF crowd had thinned out, people from other floors had come to spectate. While I didn’t mind anaudience, they were scrutinizing our every move. We could hear them commenting on our appearance, our poses, and the way the clothes looked on our bodies. To a certain degree, I understood that the RLF employees had a vested interest in the way the product was going to roll out. Their jobs depended on it as much as ours. But the remarks from the other spectators were uncomfortable.

Hearing some of the same comments that I would normally read in the comments section online was wild.

“Even though she’s big, she is so beautiful!”

“That top is a little too small for her.”

“She’s so brave to have the stretch marks on her stomach showing.”

“I wish I had her confidence.”

Since it was Friday and the afternoon was winding down, the crowd dwindled significantly. And I was ready to go as well.

“Okay, now, let’s bring you in,” the photographer stated, beckoning me over and positioning me in the back.

Again.

The photographer treated me as an afterthought for most of the shoot. He captured group and solo shots of each outfit. He placed me in the back, hiding me in most of the group photos. He took fewer solo shots of me. He made subtle comments that weren’t specifically targeting me, but it felt that way. I maintained my composure because nothing was explicit. And to everyone watching, it would appear as if I was just the angry Black woman, when in actuality, I was a victim of his microaggressions.

I sighed.

During my last solo shot, everything was fine until I was asked to leap.

I looked down at my cropped white RLF hoodie and the high-waisted, acid-washed jeans I wore. Although I looked great, I wasn’t wearing a bra that could handle a leap.

“Excuse me,” I said to the photographer, moving closer to him. “I don’t think me jumping up and down is a good idea due to—”

“Your knees?” he guessed, giving me a sympathetic look and patting me on my shoulder. “Listen, this is the last shot of the dayand it’s a low-impact jump. Don’t think too hard about it. You’re fine.”

Shocked and slightly taken aback, I made a face. “No. Actually my knees are fine. But since I’m not wearing a bra—”

“Is everything okay here?” Remedy interrupted, appearing on the other side of the photographer.

“Yes, the plus model had some difficulty with the instruction,” he told her. “But I think we’re all good now.” He ran a hand through his graying hair before giving me a thumbs-up.

---