All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

how-to guides. And while I was all about supporting a healthy body image for young, impressionable girls, I was just as passionate about staying true to my brand. And to my own body comfort level. “I find nothing natural about me sweating on camera and talking about how comfortable workout wear is while I huff and puff and jiggle in places I don’t want jiggling in front of the whole wide world. I’m just not the type of gal to promote workout wear, Ethan.” I reached for a black pair of straight-leg dress pants and a gauzy cream tunic blouse with a tie at the natural waist. I held the blouse up to the mirror, then tossed it on my bed in search of the right shoes.

“You don’t need to worry about any of that. I know what your preferences are. You can trust me. I haven’t led you astray yet, right?”

True. “Send me what you have, and I’ll try to look it all over tonight when I get back.”

“Or I can just take care of it for you since you’re busy with the charity stuff. You are good with a pool, though, right?”

“Wait—a pool?” My mind raced ahead to a punchline I hadn’t seen coming until now. The subscription box was for early summer usage. That meant towels, sandals, sunglasses, sunblock. “Ethan, is this summer workout wear you mentioned actually . . . swimwear?”

“I don’t believe they specified that term.”

“But they specified a pool? Unless they’re asking me to try on a wet suit, my guess is they’ll expect me to be in swimwear, and you know how I feel about that.” We’d been over it countless times. “I do not want to model swimwear. Ever.”

“Hey, hey, I know that. There’s no need to get worked up. I’ll take care of everything. Promise.”

His reassurance eased the cramp in my stomach, and I exhaled a deep breath. Ethan knew me. And he knew my brand—after all, he’d helped build it to what it was now. He’d never let me down before; I had no reason to believe he would now. “Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, sounding less like my manager and more like the boyfriend I so rarely got to see these days.

“Hey . . . will this shoot be in California?”

“Malibu. Why?”

“What if . . .” I sat back on my haunches for a moment, thinking of how I might phrase this, of how I might ask him for more time when he already gave so much energy to my projects and my career and future. But it had been months since we’d spent any kind of significant time together. And even longer since we’d had a conversation about anything other than Makeup Matters or endorsement deals or metadata. “What if we did something together after the shoot?”

“What did you have in mind?”

I sighed dreamily and closed my eyes. “What if we went to the beach for a date? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to walk on the sand together and eat ice cream from one of those cute little pedal trucks? It would just be so nice to . . . to have a day out of the office together. Like our entire purpose could just be to enjoy each other’s company.”

At his lack of response, my stomach clenched in a whole new way. “But it’s okay if you can’t. I know you’re super busy and that you don’t really enjoy ice cream all that much—”

“I think it’s a nice idea.”

“You do?” I hated the girlish swell in my voice.

“Let me see what I can work out, okay?”

“Sure, great.”

A door opened in the background, and I overheard someone speaking to him. “I need to go, babe. But we’ll talk more about this later. Keep next weekend open for travel dates.”

“I will. Bye.”

With a smile I hadn’t worn in quite some time, I rummaged deeper into my shoe shelves, looking for an appropriate pair. Strappy? Tall? Peep-toe? No. No. No.

And then I saw them: my favorite leopard print wedge heels.

I would be teacherly, yes. But I would definitely still be me.

From the moment I exited my car, my nerves began acting as if tonight wasn’t just my first time teaching at The Bridge but quite possibly my first time interacting with humankind. Neither my persuasive speeches nor my late-night syllabus writing could guarantee me a victory tonight. Because tonight was live. As in me, standing in front of an audience, speaking to a group of actual people with real faces and names that didn’t start with an @ sign.

“You doing okay back there, Kitten Heels?” Glo asked, leading me down a long hallway upstairs with renovated classrooms on either side.

“Yes,” I said, trying to work the moisture back into my mouth while rehearsing the notes I’d talked through on my drive over.

My mind slipped and stumbled in reverse, falling back more than a decade, to that first day of my senior year in high school when I’d questioned my ability to blend with such a new environment. To be accepted. Liked. Approved. And just like then, as the classrooms on the left came into view, I fought the urge to fidget with my blouse, my hair, my earrings.

Only I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl going to an actual school building for the first time in her life. I wasn’t wearing borrowed clothing, makeup, or confidence. I didn’t need to remember the cool-kid phrases I’d practiced from watching the CW’s The Vampire Diaries at Mimi’s house.

I was twenty-seven years old. And I knew how to be liked.

That was just so much easier to accomplish from behind a screen.

I concentrated on my steps, how the arch of my foot flexed with each strike of my heel, how my toes compressed with the exchanges of weight. How my ankle steadied itself over and over again. It was a dumb distraction trick I’d created years ago, a coping mechanism birthed on platforms in front of dozens of congregations while my parents dedicated their latest church-planting effort to God.

As I