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I thought what we had was real. I believed him when he said he liked me. Part of me still does, and that’s what hurts the most.
Knees to chest, I wrap my arms tightly against them, pressing my cheek to them, and close my eyes, praying this is nothing more than a nightmare One, two, three breaths do little to make my new reality disappear.
I search my reservoir and dig deep for the strength to continue. Standing, I smooth down the Magic jersey top and approach the full-length mirror by the door. Stacy renamed this spot the hype spot.
The place where I take a final glance at myself prior to stepping out into the world. The place where I inspect how I look, check my makeup, my hair, and my outfit. It’s where I give myself a daily pep talk, paint on a smile, and enter a world that I pray will finally see me for me.
I stare at myself and realize what I’m doing. What I’ve been doing. Every day, I’ve been putting on a costume. Auditioning for a part, hoping my company, playing the role of a casting director, would choose me. Six times, I’ve stepped onto their stage, recited their lines, and tried to get them to see a version of me that’s different from the script they hold in their hands.
The role they hold calls for a rule follower, someone who designs by committee, someone comfortable with nine-month-long production schedules, and someone who’s willing to compromise every element of a design all in the name of reducing production costs and raising profits.
No wonder they never selected me.
I see it all now. And the only reason I do is because of Devon.
I hate… hate how much just the thought of his name doesn’t make me want to curse but rather cry. I hate that even though I know he was playing a part and kept his true identity from me, I still want to rest the palm of my hand on his chest and get lost in his eyes.
I hate that I know the next time I’m in the Coffee Loft, my eyes will search for him. And disappointment, not hurt, will flood my chest when I don’t find him.
I hate how much I miss him already.
I fist the bottom of the jersey top, ready to rip it over my head. But I don’t. I smooth it back down and twist, looking over my shoulder at the mirror. It’s a beautiful design from every angle.
My chest warms with pride. I did this. By myself. I created a design worthy of a professional sports team. I plant my feet, shoulder-width apart, hands on my hips, a pose Devon taught me. A superhero pose.
Despite the obstacles, the naysayers, and my own doubts, I’ve crafted something extraordinary. And the world deserves to bear witness.
This jersey isn’t just a piece of fabric. It represents my journey. My transformation. It embodies everything I am. Everything I am capable of. Everything I’ve become.
This jersey is me.
This jersey is magic. And it deserves a stage.
Thoughts of skipping out on the pitch evaporate. I won’t let his deceit turn me into a recluse like Xenia, hiding away like cicadas only to emerge every few years. I’m better than that. I’ve worked too hard for too long to give up now.
I don’t need him. My pitch will go on. The world will finally get to see the true me.
Chapter Seventeen
Devon
The phone in my hand buzzes, and I leap. Could it be her?
I read the screen—Marvin. I exhale and let the disappointment roll off my shoulders. For the last three hours since she stormed out of the café, I’ve called and texted Zara.
She’s gone radio silent, and I get that. She’s pissed. She deserves an explanation. And so much more.
“Marvin, it’s not a great time.” I hope to keep the conversation short in case, by some miracle, Zara decides to reach out.
He ignores me with a classic Marvin gruffy laugh that lets me know he’s in a good mood. “What are you talking about? I just got off the phone with the studio. You nailed it. Xenia is raving about you in the café. Pre-production starts a week from today, and they want you on set for readings and fittings. Congratulations! This is the moment you’ve been working so hard for.”
I’ve dreamt of today. Manifested Marvin saying these exact words to me. Yet, it feels nothing like I imagined. An uneasyjitter sits in the pit of my stomach. I may have gotten what I’ve always desired, but at what cost?
“Text me the details.” My voice is flat and lifeless, and I brace for Marvin’s reaction. He’s always attuned to his clients; it’s one of the reasons he’s lasted so long in this business.
“It’s the girl, right?” Like I said, he’s good. “She found out before you could tell her?”
I close my eyes. The image of the hurt in Zara’s eyes is permanently ingrained in me. “She was in the room when Xenia visited the café.”
