A Perfect Fit

11

Isabelle

Sometimes all I want to do is just lie in bed and stare blankly at the ceiling.

Despite my marketing efforts on social media and promotion at my flea markets booth, ticket sales for my NYFW event have been slow. The venue capacity is two hundred people, and I've only sold seven tickets so far.

I keep telling myself that the event is still a few months away, but deep down, I can feel the discouragement and disappointment biting at me. Maybe I should have waited a few more years until my business was more established before trying to pull off an event like this.

Maybe my business wasn't enough. Maybe I wasn't enough.

No. Cut it out, Isabelle.

Taking a feel deep breaths, I try to focus on the progress I've made with other aspects of the event.

I have my venue. I've hired a photographer and gathered several models so far. I've started putting together my playlist for the show (with the song Style by Taylor Swift at the very top of my list). I'm working on my collection for the event and I'm making steady progress.

I'm trying. This is me trying. At least I'm trying.

Everything will be okay. Just take it bit by bit, day by day, piece by piece. Focus on what's within your control. You're doing great.

After my little motivational speech to myself, I open my business account on Instagram and scroll through my feed. Instagram is a great marketing tool, but maybe instead of simply promoting my event, I need to also build more of a personal connection with my "followers".

An idea forming in my head, I take photos of the two potential outfit ideas I had for tonight's Cherrybrooke High reunion—a black bodycon dress and a blue floral dress, both of which I sell through my business. Then, I post the photos on my Instagram story with the words, "Help me pick an outfit for my high school reunion tonight!"

Excitement bubbles in my chest several minutes later when a new notification from Instagram appears, indicating someone has replied to my post. However, it's quickly replaced by something else when I read the message and see who it's from.

A message from Jackson Carter which says, "You need to take photos of yourself wearing the outfits. How else are people supposed to pick?"

I don't know which is worse; the fact that I wasn't aware Jackson Carter was somehow also following my business account or the fact that I literally read his text in his cocky voice.

"It's called using your imagination," I aggressively type back. It looks like status quo Jackson and Isabelle are back, and whatever nice conversation we had at Taylor's Rooftop Bar had just been a temporary thing.

"Or maybe you don't have one," I add, sending him a second text.

Sitting down on my bed, I watch the three typing dots appear and disappear before his reply comes through: "My imagination can run very wild when I want it to."

With a scoff, I shoot him my reply: "No one wants to know whatever gruesome or dirty thoughts are running through your head."

His response comes moments later: "I can be as dirty or as clean-minded as you like. I'm flexible."

My cheeks instantly start to feel hot, so much so that I have to physically put down my phone on my bed. Because why am I suddenly imagining Jackson Carter being flexible, as in the physical, moving into all sorts of positions kind of flexible?

He's doing a great job at corrupting my mind, that's for sure.

When I don't reply, my phone lights up with another message from him: "By the way, my vote goes to the black dress. Have fun at the reunion, Isabella."