Moore To Love (24 page)

THINK FAST. I CAN EITHER
stop the show like the amateur they already think I am or . . . the show must go on, right?

Everything floats around in slow motion. Stage lights, cameras, a rumbling audience, the low hush of backstage snickers—no doubt all the skinny minnies are having a field day with this back there.

But rather than allow my wardrobe malfunction and major WTF moment to steal my thunder, I channel the deepest, most neglected parts of me. Behind the bulge, beneath the self-doubt, right below the worst of my insecurities.
Own it
, they told me. I’m not about to destroy Siobhan’s art or disappoint Raven. If not for me, I decide to do it for them.

With a sexy pout and a confident arch of my brow, I jut one hip out and trace the outline of my plus-sized but fierce figure. The audience seems to approve of my gutsy demonstration because their low murmurs are replaced with noticeable praise—and a catcall from Raven. This sparks a fire that’s always been dormant inside, fueling me to kick it up a notch. I sensually slide my hands from my breasts, to the curve of my waist, down the swell of my hips, and bring them around to my rear. With one single hook of my index fingers in the remaining elastic of the swimsuit bottom, I bunch the fabric together and stick it right where the sun don’t shine. This full-coverage, full-figured piece of art has just become a thong—improv at its best.

Without so much as a thought about the fact my cellulite riddled ass is on display for this whole room of spectators, I strut down the aisle with as much grace and dignity as one can muster with her bare cheeks swaying in the wind. I make it down to the end of the ramp and pose the way I was instructed. Surprisingly, it comes naturally and the amazement of actually going through with this floors me. Like almost literally floors me. As I swivel to make my way back, I nearly lose my footing, but when I catch Raven’s proud-mama-gleam in her eyes at the front of the auditorium, I take another deep breath and continue on steady feet.
Sashay, shante. Shante, shante, shante.
RuPaul would be proud.

Once back at the start, I give a final pose and then walk off the stage as if that was not the most humiliating
and
exhilarating moment of my life. My ribcage is probably cursing my heart right now because it’s beating so rapidly, it’s on the verge of popping some serious vesselage. I notice that the girl with the bracelets has been replaced by a gawky young dude with no accessories to be seen, but I spot her in the corner, blowing her nose into a wad of tissues. I could walk away. I’ll never see her again. But this isn’t her fault and honestly, it could have gone so much worse. So what? My ass had its debut. If Kim Kardashian became famous for her big, naked ass all over a sex tape . . . the future is bright for Leni Moore. Maybe I’ll get my own reality show, too. Andy Cohen, here I come!
Mazel!

I accept the terrycloth robe handed to me by another backstage assistant and kick off the killer heels. Making my way to Bracelet Girl, I look around the rest of the buzzing area. The show is almost halfway through and we’re all due back on stage for a final curtain call. The models who walked before me are all off sipping cucumber water and getting touched up, but before I return for duty I’d like to talk to this poor girl.

“Hey,” I say, approaching her.

She looks up and starts to blubber again. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry!” Her words are muffled by tissues, hands, crying, but her red-rimmed eyes hone in on me, pleading for mercy.

“Come on, now. There’s no need to cry.” I place a hand on her knee and smile. “I survived. The show went on without a hitch. It’s nothing to get your panties in a bunch over.” I force a laugh, hoping my jibe will lighten her mood.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she cries.

“Well, yeah.”

The girl—whose name I never actually got—jumps out of her chair and stalks off in a string of moans and wails. I’m left in utter shock as she disappears into a room behind a door, hidden by a row of racks, lined with hoards of clothes. “Well, then. Bye, Felicia.” No skin off my back. Oh, wait. It actually kinda was.

“Jesus, Rave. Did you call TMZ? I feel like a celebrity.”

The mini after party at the auditorium was hard enough to take in. Everyone was congratulating me and pawing at me, and all the attention, although fabulous, was distinctly uncomfortable. I stayed as long as I could until the spotlight and questions became too much. While I pretty much had the time of my life, Dirty Dancing style, I left that party knowing today was the first and last day of my short lived modeling career. Been there, done that, came, saw, conquered. A model I am not cut out to be, and while everyone was trying to convince me otherwise, my mind was made up that I’d rather be behind the scenes than in them.

Once back at the hotel, I finally had a moment to check my phone. The calls and messages came flooding in in droves. First it was my family, then Tatum and Ashley. Lane not only called and left me the sweetest message, but he had flowers delivered to my room that had me giddy and gushy and over the moon. Then there was Hudson. I’m not exactly sure
how
he found out about my fashion shenanigans, but he did and he left a message, congratulating me with an invitation to dinner.

“How exactly did Hudson find out?” I ask, scrolling through the rest of the messages.

“A little something called
social media
.” Raven sings and sips the glass of pink champagne sent to us from Siobhan herself, thanking me for
rocking the runway
, as she put it.

“What did you do?”

Raven downs the rest of her bubbly—I’m not sure how she can even look at alcohol let alone drink it after yesterday afternoon’s booze fest by the pool. “I might have posted a montage of you.”

“
Montage
? What is this, a Sweet Sixteen? Rave, it wasn’t exactly my most shining moment.” My ass tingles with the reminder of its shameful unveiling.

“The hell it wasn’t! Leni, get over it. You were amazing, and even if you don’t want to do it again, you did, and you deserve every bit of the praise you’re getting.” She cups her hand to her ear while I nose around her Facebook page. “I’m waiting for my thank you.”

As I scan the pictures and read the comments from clients, friends, family, and strangers, my heart fills with something very foreign. Pride. I can count on like three fingers the moments in my life when I could look at myself in a picture and not want to cringe. I don’t know whether it’s the lighting or the make-up or that the moon is in retrograde, but . . .”Wow. I actually look pretty good.”

Raven rushes over and plops down next to me on the edge of the bed. “Not pretty good, gorgeous! And this is just with my iPhone camera. Can you imagine what the photographer’s shots will look like?” She claps her hands and bounces up and down.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes at her childish excitement. “What am I going to do with you?”

She throws her arms around my shoulders and squeezes me. “The question, my dear friend, is what are we going to do with
you
?”

“Meaning?” Insert scowl here. Not her, too. The act of convincing people is utterly draining.

“I’m just saying that this is quite an accomplishment and you’re not nearly as keyed up as I thought you’d be. A little confidence goes a long way.”

What is she, the excitement police? “I didn’t realize my feelings were being measured on some emotion meter.” I don’t mean to be curt, but until she’s walked a day in my Chuck’s, she shouldn’t judge. I don’t get my hopes up about things like this. This was a one time, one trick pony kind of deal. Luck, if you will. Not everyone is as accepting of the plumper peeps. Believe me, I know. I’ve had my fair share of ridicule, and just because one person happened to find me and my size appealing, doesn’t mean the world has suddenly changed its view on the topic.

My flippant comment seemingly offends Raven so she walks back to the mini bar and refills her glass. “I would ask what’s up your ass, but after the show, I know the answer to that.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny. Let’s drop it. I want to call Lane and thank him for the flowers, anyway.”

“I’ll drop it after you admit that you’re wrong.” Raven’s my friend, but she’s also my boss. I never thought to tread lightly around her because we have a great relationship, but even though I’m trying to curb myself, I can’t help but be annoyed by her insistence.

“Wrong? What could I possibly be wrong about?”

She slams the glass down and beelines it to me in one long stride. With her finger in the air, she reminds me a little too much of my mother right now. “You! You’re wrong about
you
and this ridiculous image you have of yourself. It’s got to stop. It’s not good for you or your career, Leni. You hold yourself back because of your insecurities. You don’t think I see it? Because I do. Stop worrying about what you can be by losing weight or changing your appearance. Focus on who you are
now
!”

I don’t know how our celebration turned into a screaming match. One minute we’re laughing and toasting and the next I’m being schooled. All because I don’t want to model again? Getting up there and agreeing to what I did was one of the scariest moments in my life, and while it all turned out okay in the end, one wrinkle in time does not erase a lifetime of misgivings. How the hell does she know what goes on in my head on a daily basis? She doesn’t! “It’s so easy for someone like you to say, Miss Size Two, Successful Business Owner, Married with Three Gorgeous Kids. What can you possibly know about hating what you see in the mirror? About failure?”

Raven’s determination never wanes. Her face is red and splotchy with heat, her hands tight at her sides. I ready myself for another lesson in self-worth brought to you by Raven Lee, but a calmness washes over her and she laughs, condescendingly. “If you think you’re the only woman in the world with insecurities, then you’re out of your mind. We all have them, regardless of how pretty, skinny, or rich one might be.” Raven starts to unbutton her blouse and I blanch. Am I losing it? First champagne, then a fight, now a strip tease?

“Raven, what are you—”

She sheds her shirt and drops it to the floor, her beautifully slim figure covered only in a lacy push-up bra and a fitted pencil skirt. My eyes immediately fixate on her belly. While it’s flatter than mine will ever be, it’s marred from sternum to belly button and beyond with deep, white stretch marks and loose, inelastic skin. I would’ve never guessed that was hiding behind such a poised woman.

I pick up the shirt from the floor and drape it around her shoulders, urging her to redress. “You didn’t have to show me that,” I say, feeling bad that she had to expose this part of herself to prove a point.

“I know I didn’t but I wanted to, and while my war wounds of motherhood might be the only visible thing that make me hate the mirror, there are so many other things about me that I wish I could change, too. I was a gawky kid with braces and frizzy hair. I was bullied in junior high because of that. I grew out of it, and later I met James and the rest is history, but you don’t think that scrawny, ugly duckling doesn’t still live inside me?”

I bite my lip, unsure how to answer.