Page 89 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

I smiled despite myself and pushed open the door. The boutique was stunning. High ceilings, marble floors, racks of clothes organized by color like some kind of fashionista’s fever dream. I ran my hand along a rack of dresses and felt the quality in my fingertips—real craftsmanship, the kind that made my heart skip.

I pulled out a burnt orange dress with dramatic sleeves. Then an emerald green one with a plunging neckline. Then a purple number that made me think of Cleopatra. I absolutely had to have the purple one. It made me think of Cash and something told me he would love it.

I looked around for someone to help me find a dressing room.

The boutique was quiet. Three women stood behind a sleek counter at the back, talking amongst themselves. They were all impossibly thin, impossibly chic, wearing black in that effortless European way that made American attempts at sophistication fall just a little flat.

I walked up to them, dresses draped over my arm.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I get a dressing room?”

The women looked at me. All three of them, in perfect synchronization, their eyes moving from my face down my body and back up again. Not even trying to hide it.

The tallest one—blonde, severe cheekbones, filled lips painted red—almost sneered. “I’m sorry, we don’t carry your size.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Your size.” She said it slowly, like I might not understand. “We don’t carry it.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “I haven’t even told you my size.”

“We can see.” The second woman—brunette, equally thin, equally dismissive—gestured vaguely at my body. “This boutique caters to a very specific clientele.”

“A specific clientele,” I repeated.

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable shopping elsewhere.” The third woman didn’t even look at me. She was already turning back to her colleagues, conversation over.

I stood there with my arms full of dresses, my face burning, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.

I’d dealt with this before. Of course I had. I was a plus-size woman who loved fashion. I’d been turned away from stores, ignored by salespeople, made to feel like my body was an inconvenience to the industry I loved. I’d developed thick skin. I’d learned to advocate for myself.

But something about this moment shattered something. They found my soft underbelly. Their arrows landed. It hurt. I felt less than. I put the dresses back on the rack with shaking hands and walked out.

I wasn’t going to cry. I fumbled for my phone. My hands were trembling so badly I almost dropped it. I found Melody’s contact and hit call before I could talk myself out of it.

She answered on the second ring. “Hey! How’s the shopping? Find anything good?”

“Mel.” My voice cracked.

“What’s wrong?”

I told her. The words came out in a rush. The boutique, the women, the way they’d looked at me like I didn’t deserve to even touch their clothes. By the time I finished I was crying, standing on a street corner in Rome like a tourist who’d gotten pickpocketed, completely falling apart.

Melody listened. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t try to fix it.

When I finished, she said, “Fuck them.”

I laughed wetly. “Mel⁠—”

“No, I mean it. Fuck them. You know what those women are?”

“What?”

“Miserable. They’re miserable people who make themselves feel better by making other people feel small. They haven’t eaten a decent meal in years. That’s what miserable, no-carbs, no-sugar diets do to you. We were not meant to survive on lettuce and bone broth. It short-circuits the brain and turns you into a mean girl.” Her voice was fierce. “You know who you are, Cleo. You’re a badass. You’re brilliant and talented and you have more style in your pinky finger than those women have in their entire overpriced boutique.”

“I know, but⁠—”

“No buts. They should be embarrassed. They should be ashamed. Not you.” She paused. “Where are you right now?”