Page 90 of Gym Bros
I sip my own wine and shake my head. “Should I?”
“Probably. It’s gay, though.”
“Is that why you like it?”
“No, I like it because it’s beautiful, and sad.”
Sounds like someone I know. “Not a huge fan of sad movies.”
“What’s the saddest one you’ve seen?” he asks.
“The Green Mile.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
“Yeah, I get the feeling there’s not a lot of movie overlap here,” I tell him with a gesture between us.
“No one’s perfect,” he says.
I lean back on the arm of the couch, getting more comfortable. “If you don’t mind the question, why the break from modeling? Since we’ve got some time to kill.”
“Just burnout,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, but then he tucks some hair behind his ear and casts his gaze to the sofa cushion.
“What burned you out about it?”
“Traveling. Castings. Early mornings. Late nights. It’s a grind, you know?”
“Sure.”
“Okay,” he says with a deep breath. “Honestly, there was this one moment that kind of pushed me over the edge and I knew I needed a break.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
He gives me a tentative glance. “There’s this new designer in London—Noel—and he had this amazing new line. Like shockingly gorgeous. I couldn’t wait to wear the clothes. Usually with new designers it’s like—take it or leave it—the job anyway, but I loved this one. I wanted everything.”
There’s a band of tension wrapping around my midsection as he tells the story. Admittedly, I’ve got no idea where it’s headed, but I already hate it.
“It was the same as anything else. I showed up early. Marcus was there because he had two other models—women—in the show and he’s always got to watch out for them because they treat us like meat, you know?”
I frown. Is that why my dad travels to all the shows?
Calyx clears his throat. “Anyway, it was the usual—go there, come over here, let me fix this, sorry I just stabbed you with a fucking needle. Same thing. But like I remember that day, and Ihave no idea why it stood out, but it did—the way no one looked me in the eyes.
“They looked at my face, like they were making sure my makeup was right and I hadn’t gotten ugly all of a sudden, but no one made eye contact with me. I started talking. Like babbling, waiting for someone to engage with me, but I got nothing. And then I walked. I had three looks to show. And on the runway, same thing. I mean I know it’s about the clothes. I really, really do. And normally, I’d just stare at a spot straight ahead or into a camera, but this time, I placed at the people in the front rows. No one was looking at me. They were looking at the clothes.”
My eyes take a moment to scan him, look at what he’s wearing now, the way the cute pajama set shows him off, exposing collarbones and long golden legs. The way the color white makes the rest of him look like the color has been enhanced. It’s hard to believe no one saw him.
“And I don’t know why,” he says, “it just felt horrible. Like I was a mannequin. Like it didn’t matter that it was me up there, and I was doing good work, but anyway. I had an anxiety attack. I think I blacked out after that. I don’t even remember the rest of the walks, but I got paid for the full show, so I must’ve finished it.”
“Sorry,” I say.
He shakes his head. “It’s stupid. I know my job. I get it. It’s got nothing to do withme. And I made it through a couple more shows that week, but I puked before all of them and after, and then I just needed a break. So it was nothing, really.”
“I’m not gonna try to say I get it, but it does sound like you needed a break.”
He gives me a weak smile and a nod. “It’s not like I was traumatized. Way worse things have happened to some of the other models.”
“I don’t believe in comparing trauma,” I say. “We all have our limits.”
