Another photographer joined us while we acted out ways to show off the shoes. She had a hippie vibe with her bohemian shawl and long purple hair.
"You said your name is Marcie, right? You should really be like a commercial model or something."
"Oh . . . no, not really me," I said awkwardly, stopping at the mark the photographer with the goatee had told me to stand on. "But I would love to have photoshoots for my designs on other people once they're out there."
"You have your own line? What's it called?" the bohemian photographer exclaimed.
The question stirred up emotions I didn't realize were bottled up. I hadn't even had time to think of a name for my future line. Yes, I had the designs, but only a couple of dresses and a top. For once, I wanted to share my creations and network—but I couldn't, because I was still his secretary.
"I actually don't have a line right now. But hopefully soon," I replied with an uneasy smile.
Andrew and I took more shots before the others signaled for us to join them on the other side. I hadn't realized how far we had gone, but I couldn't complain about the walk back. It was nice to be in nature and not in the office. The air was fresh and crisp. LA had almost no humidity compared to the state I was from. I watched my steps carefully, avoiding the yellow flowers, and noticed Andrew doing the same. We glanced at each other and smiled, as if we had just read each other's minds.
"Looks like I have to avoid stepping on a certain shadow while you dodge flowers."
"What do you mean?" I laughed, stepping over another yellow one.
He pointed at the ground beside him, where a shadow stretched across the path. I looked behind me and saw the owner.
"Feel free to step on that one all you like," I muttered, rolling my eyes back to the front.
Andrew's smile was contagious. His laugh, even more so. I can't help but feel sorry for him, though. His employers treat him like dirt—their backhanded comments during volleyball proved it. At least he was the only one giving thumbs up to my team from the other side.
"Andrew?"
"Hm?"
"How long have you been with Nylon?"
"Oh . . . about a month. But it feels like a year," he said with a laugh.
I couldn't match his laugh this time, and my smile faded.
"It's always good to have a job lined up if you're an assistant," I advised softly, so the others couldn't hear. "Just saying. Assistant-to-assistant advice."
He didn't laugh, but gave me a gentle smile as we continued walking.
. . .
"I think we should all break into threes. Model how to hit a volleyball, and my team will keep taking pictures. Then that should be it."
We all gave either a thumbs-up or a clap in response, then branched off. I teamed up with Ms. Fallon when Andrew was pulled away by a woman with long red fingernails and heavy eyeliner that made her green eyes look almost reptilian.
"Ms. Marcie, teach me how to hit a volleyball real quick."
I figured I'd give her a few quick lessons. Someone would eventually notice we needed another member and join in.
"So just throw it up in the air. Nope, not that high. Like tossing up a coin. No, that's too low," I breathed out.
How could someone not know how to toss a ball at this age?
"It has to fall right at chest level so you can easily bounce it back up with your hands."
"Oh . . . like this?"
When the volleyball rolled away again, I decided to show her instead of telling her.
"Let me show you how to spike first."
I should have stuck with the first lesson, because as soon as I spiked the ball—my cleanest shot yet—a loud smack cracked through the air. The man it hit stumbled back like a giant before collapsing onto the grass with the weight of one too.
"Oh—oh—that's two accidents in one day! Ms. Marcie, I'll be your witness that it was an accident! Do you think he's okay? Oh crap, he's not moving!"
Ms. Fallon's frantic words were background noise until my brain finally clicked back on. I rushed to Mr. Fabrizi, placing one hand against his face as I tried to lift him with the other.
"Are you—okay? Does anything hurt?"
Honestly, I was surprised by how soft my voice was. I didn't think I was capable of it. But his eyes blinked open, his hand touched his nose, and then came the stream of blood.
"Tissues! We need tissues—now!" I shouted behind me.
Some higher-ups from Nylon rushed over first, tissue in hand. I thanked the heavier-set man with the bald head, ready to press the wad to one of Mr. Fabrizi's nostrils. But he glanced at the man, yanked the tissue from my hand, and sprang up.
I was still crouched when I'd tried to help him, so his sudden movement knocked me off balance. I fell hard on my backside. I knew he hadn't pushed me, but it felt like it. All that softness I'd shown him—gone.
I looked at him like a tiger provoked. But he didn't even glance my way. He walked off as if I were nothing more than a ghost.