Thigh Highs

by Katia Rose

  As I take in what’s lining the walls of the closest, I can’t even find my voice to answer.

  12

  Focus

  They’re photos, dozens of them, all of the same girl.

  She’s beautiful, blonde and willowy with a perfect rosebud mouth. The photos are so intimate I instantly want to look away, like I’ve barged in on some private scene. There are shots of her brushing her teeth with a towel wrapped around her head, lying in bed with her hair splayed on the pillow like a halo, standing staring out a window wearing nothing but a men’s shirt.

  I focus on the photo in the very centre of the wall. It’s printed out slightly bigger than the others. In it, the girl is frozen mid-laugh, delicate mouth stretched wide in a smile and her eyes downcast as golden light pours into the frame from behind her. She’s tugging a beanie that’s way too big for her onto her head.

  In all of Aaron’s photos, I’ve been able to tell exactly what his subjects were feeling, but in these ones, the most powerful emotions in the shots come from behind the lens. I may have yet to find a love this deep and desperate with anyone, but I know that’s what Aaron was feeling when he took these: the kind of love that hits you like a nuclear explosion, changing the landscape of your life forever and making it impossible to go back to the way you were before.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump at the harsh sound of Aaron’s voice and turn towards him. His face is twisted with a cold fury.

  “What—What is this?” I stammer.

  He steps closer and slams the closet door shut.

  “What makes you think you can just go around opening closets in my house?”

  He looms over me, spitting the words out, and I take a faltering step back.

  “Well I didn’t think you’d be hiding something like that,” I answer, finding my confidence again. “What the hell is that Aaron? Some kind of...of...shrine?”

  “I’m not talking about it.”

  He starts to walk into the living room, but I follow right on his heels.

  “Um, that’s not exactly something you can choose not to explain.”

  He whirls around to face me again. “I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t been going through my stuff.”

  “I opened a closet Aaron, not some treasure chest marked ‘Top Secret.’ Who even is that? Why do you have a closet full of photos of her?”

  “You should have left it alone.”

  My mind is going a mile minute, trying to come up with possible explanations. The thought of every single one of them stings.

  “Is she...a girlfriend?” My voice almost breaks. “An ex-girlfriend? Are you still seeing her?”

  “I’m not talking about it.”

  My trepidation is catching fire and starting to burn like anger.

  “I was about to have sex with you after you told me you have feelings for me. I think I deserve to know if there’s someone else in the picture you’re madly in love with.”

  “She’s not in the picture.”

  I’m taken aback by the bitterness in his voice. He clenches his hands into fists, breathing hard.

  “So, what?” I continue. “You’re not over her? Was I just some kind of experiment, to see if you could get her out of your system?”

  He doesn’t say anything in return, and his silence slams into me like a rock smashing through glass.

  “That’s something I would have appreciated knowing before I started to...to really like you.” I swallow down the hurt and let it fuel my anger. “Do you wish I was her? Is this”—I thrust a finger towards the closet— “what you think about when we fuck?”

  “Shut up!”

  His shout is so loud it echoes around the room. I just stare at him, not blinking until he looks away.

  “You have ten seconds to give me some kind of explanation, Aaron, or I’m walking out the door.”

  He keeps his head down, eyes glued to the floor. I watch him inhale and open his mouth like he’s about to speak, but then he sets his jaw again and I know I’m not getting an answer.

  I turn around. He doesn’t stop me when I go.

  “Foda-se!”

  I slam my hands against my steering wheel, and when the action gives me a tiny spark of satisfaction, I do it again. And again.

  I pound my palms against the wheel until my skin goes red and I’m panting. My heart races from the exertion, but the urge to scream and break things has dulled enough that I can drive. As I pull out of the parking lot, I push all my feelings into a dark corner of my mind, focusing on staying numb until I’m back in my own room.

  When I finally make it to my apartment, I belly flop onto my bed without even taking off my shoes.

  This is not how Christina Dominguez handles things.

  When things go wrong, I take action. I come up with a plan and then I do what I need to do in order to make them right. I don’t curl up in bed and wait for it all to get better. I make it better.

  I don’t even know what step one for fixing this would be, though. Going back in time and never modelling for Aaron Penn at all would be a good place to start, but that’s not an option. There’s no reset button for your heart, no memory card you can wipe to make it all go away.

  Is that how Aaron feels, when he thinks about her?

  Part of me starts to feel sorry for him, even as the rest of me keeps raging with anger and pain. Whatever I was starting to feel for Aaron, it had definitely not gotten anywhere near love. If this is what being hurt by someone I was only just beginning to care about feels like, I can’t even imagine how hollow, how completely and utterly empty he must have felt when that girl decided to leave him.

  I lie face down on my bed for a few more minutes, giving in to the pain, letting it make a space for itself inside me. I didn’t even realize Aaron meant this much to me. A dark laugh slips out of me at the thought.

  You never really know how much you care about someone until they prove how much they can hurt you.

  Flipping onto my back, I reach for my phone and enter my password, wondering if I should call Alice or wait until I’ve calmed down a bit more. I look at my inbox and notice a new email that came in just a few minutes ago.

  It’s from Epsilon Media.

  I sit straight up in bed, not even considering whether it’s wise to open up a message that might have bad news when I’m already so down and out. I look at the address and see it’s from the woman we spoke to at the showcase. My heart rate skyrockets and I open up the message.

  Dear Christina,

  Thank you for following up with me, and for your interest in Epsilon Media.

  I’ll admit I got a bit of backlash for pushing our attendance at your college’s showcase, but after the results I came back with, all of my colleagues agreed it was a worthwhile endeavour. Epsilon will be in attendance at all future events. Your project in particular was well received, and I’ve had feedback from multiple sources saying you have just the kind of originality we pride ourselves on here at Epsilon.

  I regret to inform you, though, that for the foreseeable future we have no relevant openings available. Even our internships are highly sought after, and all positions are filled well in advance. However, your resume will be kept on file, both with the company at large and personally with me.

  I would encourage you to continue building experience in the industry and to check back with Epsilon in the future. You’re welcome to contact me directly, and should the opportunity arise, I’m sure we would be lucky to have you.

  Sincerly,

  Robyn Tanner

  I don’t even remember the last time I cried, but as soon as I saw the infamous words ‘your resume will be kept on file’ I started to break down. My phone drops onto the mattress and I pull my knees into my chest, tears streaming down my face and seeping into the fabric of my blanket. I feel my body shaking as I cry until no more tears come.

  If Alice was here, she’s be belting out Daniel Powter’s ‘You Had a Bad Day’ at the top of her lungs.


  The thought brings a watery smile to my lips and I sit up, mopping at my face with my sleeve. All I want to do right now dive under the blankets and pull my curtains closed, but I know I’m not going to feel any better if I sit around acting pathetic and sorry for myself. I need to do something to remind myself that I’m strong.

  Demolishing a punching bag sounds like a good place to start.

  The kickboxing studio is in walking distance of my house, so I grab my gym bag and head out, pulling up the studio schedule as I go. My luck doesn’t appear to have totally run out; there’s an open gym session going on all evening, which means I can work out on my own for as long as I need to.

  There’s only a handful of people in the room when I walk in after changing. A guy and a girl are sparring, while two other women drill with strike pads and a man on his own lifts some weights. I run through a few quick warm-up stretches and then pop my headphones into my ears, blasting ‘Hell’s Bells’ as I strap on my gloves and take my stance in front of the punching bag.

  I start jabbing hard and fast, my blows landing with the satisfying thud I’ve found myself craving ever since I started kickboxing. I work the bag until my lungs burn and sweat trickles down my back, soaking my clothes and coating my skin in a slick sheen. An ache forms in my arms, but I push past it, envisioning my limit as a wall I have to break through.

  When I finally drop my arms and gasp for breath, I hear a voice calling my name over the music still blaring through my headphones. I pull them out and turn to find Coach Kelsey watching me.

  “Good work,” she says with one of her curt nods. “You have a knack for tapping into your aggression and channeling it.”

  “Didn’t really require any ‘tapping in’ today,” I pant.

  She doesn’t ask for details. “Then let’s put that anger to work.”

  Even though she’s not getting paid for it, she picks up some strike pads and straps them on, motioning for me to come stand in front of her. I assume my fighting stance and we start to drill.

  “Arms in tighter, Christina. Keep tension in your core.”

  I try to do what she says, but I know I’m off my game. Everything that happened today might be making me hit faster and harder than I usually do, but it’s messing with my precision.

  “Focus that aggression. Sharpen it.”

  I miss the pad completely and stumble forwards a bit. Coach Kelsey drops her arms and tells me to stop.

  “Don’t be an angry, raging bull, charging blindly at whatever makes you see red. That’s not going to get you anywhere.” She steps over and adjusts my stance a bit. “Your anger shouldn’t guide you; it should be a tool. Don’t keep it locked up inside. That’s what’s making you miss your shots today. Let it move through you. Let it fuel you. Take the adrenaline it gives you and focus it on something constructive.”

  If this were anyone but Coach Kelsey, I’d feel like we were talking about more than kickboxing now, but she’s not really the emotional type. Still, I give her a small smile over the tops of my gloves as she picks up the strike pads again, and I swear I see the corner of her lip pull up as she nods.

  We drill until all I want to do is drop to the floor and lie there for a few hours.

  Coach Kelsey says goodbye with typical Coach Kelsey gruffness: “All right, Christina, you’re done. Good improvements today. Now get the hell out of here.”

  I grab a quick shower before I go. Under the glorious water pressure, I let my mind wander to the events I was trying to keep it away from during my practice. I’ve worked the edge off my feelings and I can think about what happened with Aaron without wanting to break something.

  Maybe it’s not such a big deal after all. I slept with a guy, I started to like him a bit, and then found out he has feelings for someone else. It’s not exactly an original story; I’m far from the first girl to have to deal with something like this.

  There’s a whisper inside me that says ‘started to like him a bit’ is vastly underestimating what Aaron was beginning to mean to me, but I ignore it. It’s irrelevant. He’s Aaron Penn and I’m Christina Dominguez. I was stupid for thinking anything could ever come of that.

  I’m still not ready to let all the hurt go, but I’m going to do what Coach Kelsey said. I’ll use my feelings as a tool. I won’t let them control me. I’ll focus all the energy they give me on one thing.

  I’m going to blow Palmer & Turquot away.

  13

  Brand Representative

  “Hi. I’m Christina Dominguez. I have an interview with Jim Sanders.”

  I approach the woman behind the P&T reception desk, the clack of my heels echoing in the sizeable lobby. I wore the same outfit I bought for the showcase: a fitted pantsuit and striped blouse.

  “With Jim Sanders?” repeats the secretary, as she stares at her computer screen with a puzzled look. “Are you sure?”

  “It should be at two,” I answer.

  She squints at the screen for another moment and then understanding lights up her eyes. “Oh! Are you here for the audition?”

  “I mean, if it’s at two with Jim Sanders, then yes, I probably am.”

  Audition is a weird choice of words, but I brush it off as corporate semantics. The secretary gives me directions to a suite, and I ride the elevator up to the ninth floor.

  When I walk inside the suite, I find what looks like a waiting room, lined with chairs occupied by about a half dozen girls in their twenties. A small hallway leads to a door, and as I’m wondering if I should check the suite number to make sure I’m in the right place, a brisk looking young man in a suit and headset opens it and walks up to me.

  “Name?” he asks, looking down at the clipboard he’s holding.

  “Yeah, um, I’m here for an interview with Jim Sanders. Is this the right place?”

  “Mr. Sanders is overseeing the auditions, yes. Name?”

  “Ch-Christina. Christina Dominguez,” I stutter, more than a little confused.

  “I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  Without another word, he heads back through the door. I take a seat and glance around at the girls in the room. They’re all gorgeous and wearing much more casual clothes than me. None of them seem to share my confusion; every pair of eyes is either glued to a cell phone or one of the magazines available on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I sit there, drumming my fingers against my arms.

  Maybe Jim is busy today and had to schedule me in the middle of whatever this is.

  I try to let the thought boost my rapidly diminishing confidence. I walked into this building feeling like a badass boss ready to take on the world, and I grasp at the image again, straightening up in my seat and letting my hands lie still in my lap.

  A few minutes pass, and then a girl steps out of the doorway, followed by the clipboard guy.

  “You,” he says, eyes focused on me. “They’ll see you now.”

  They?

  I swallow and stand up, ignoring the death glares the other girls are shooting at me now that I seem to have jumped the queue. I follow clipboard guy into a large room where three men are seated along one side of a table. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, and one corner has been set up with a photography backdrop and a few reflector umbrellas. A guy with a camera is lounging on another chair beside them.

  “Miss Dominguez!”

  Jim Sanders stands up from the table and approaches me, hand outstretched. I give him the firm, doing-business-handshake I’ve practiced enough that it comes automatically, even when I’m feeling uncertain.

  Which I definitely am right now.

  “Mr. Sanders,” I greet. “Good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you too.” He gives my hand a final squeeze and sits back down at the table, motioning for me to take the chair in the middle of the room.

  “These are two of the team leaders I have working on the campaign, Leon Schultz and Harry Bell.” I exchange nods with the two men, who look like slightly modified carbon copies of J
im. “I was just telling them about your work at the showcase.”

  “We like the sound of you,” says the one named Leon. “This isn’t a typical modelling job. We’d like someone who can work with a bit of autonomy when it comes to branding. We were intrigued to hear you’ve received some advertising training in addition to your work as a model.”

  I look back and forth between them, and it all starts to fall into place.

  “Jim showed us some of your shots. You have exactly the aesthetic our client is going for,” adds the man third man, his eyes raking over my body.

  My suspicions are confirmed. This job has nothing to do with being part of the campaign team.

  I clear my throat. “I’m very honored that you’ve asked me to be here today, but I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not a model.”

  Harry and Leon both look at Jim.

  “Right,” he says carefully. “Your focus right now is on advertising, which is what makes you such a strong candidate for the position. A brand rep needs the kind of skills you have. What you’d be doing here would be just like what you did for your lingerie campaign: finding the right way to present yourself to personally market the product.”

  This is starting to feel more like I’m being convinced to take the job, rather than convincing them to give it to me.

  “Would I work directly with the campaign team to develop those marketing strategies?” I ask.

  “Most of the work would be done via correspondence. You’d create social media material and submit it for approval. You’d be involved in professional photo shoots and the like when they happen here, of course,” answers Jim.

  “How much decision making influence would accompany the role?”

  Without even thinking about it, I’ve slipped into full on negotiation mode. I make sure to meet all of their eyes, and speak with the precision I use when presenting a project.

  “Like I said,” Jim responds, “you’d be responsible for creating your own social media material. You’d need approval for anything you post, but a lot of the idea generation would be up to you.”