Keisha had a curious look in her eye. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever known somebody who was adopted. Isn’t that so weird?”
Pablo didn’t think it was that weird, but they’d been drinking champagne and eating a lot of sugar.
“I don’t think I could handle the rejection. I mean, your own mother abandoned you.”
“I wasn’t left in a basket like Moses,” Pablo said as he sat back, trying not to feel offended. Keisha was clearly abandoned, but he didn’t dare bring that up. He chirped, “Besides, she gave me great parents. My mom is supportive about me finding my birth mother if I want to, but I’m not interested.” He dabbled with his ice cream. “She was just a carrying case for nine months, you know? I don’t even wanna know about my birth family. What would I do after I meet the woman who gave birth to me? Send Christmas cards and chat on the phone once a month?”
Keisha shook her head. “That’s all I get to do with my mom, and she birthed me.”
Pablo felt like one of the bulimic models on a binge. Keisha had probably been one, once. “Life is so hard,” he murmured.
“I feel like all I do is fight people who are trying to take me down.” Keisha finally shifted her gaze from the ice cream to look Pablo in the eye.
“Hey, you fought your way to the top and had to challenge the powers that be. That doesn’t mean you’re ugly or a bad person. It’s hard for women. Hell, it’s even harder for black women.”
“Truth.” She zeroed in on him. “I need someone like you. Someone I can trust. Someone who gets me.” Pablo mashed the ice cream beneath his spoon and nodded. He was loyal, empathetic, hardworking and besotted. Could she be…
“I used to be full of dreams. I used to think the entertainment world was all about everyone getting along, helping each other, supporting each other.” She stared into the second empty tub of Dulce de Leche. It was all soupy at the bottom, and she was stirring and sipping it from her spoon now. “But it’s so cutthroat and superficial, you’ve gotta have someone you can trust to stay sane. You were meant to come into my life, I know it.”
Pablo didn’t know what to say. They barely knew each other, yet Keisha was so earnest in her affections towards him. Strange. It made him feel a little uncomfortable. This friendship was clearly going to develop fast. Superfast. Did all Supermodels operate in the fast lane? Pablo certainly didn’t know. Nonetheless, she was the dream BFF he’d always wanted. That was the blessing. And no one is so rich as to throw away a friend.
On the giant flat-screen TV that reigned supreme over the living room fireplace, Pablo recognized the black-and-white Turner Classic film. A young Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney were hugging each other and running toward a barn. “Babes in Arms,” he whispered. “Ever watch it?”
Keisha looked at the screen and turned up the sound.
“Let’s put on a show!” Judy was saying to Mickey.
“It’s so much easier when you’re a white girl,” Keisha scoffed.
“Who can sing,” Pablo added. They both burst out laughing.
“Mr. Pablo, you wanna know a secret?” Keisha’s voice suddenly sounded like that of a five-year-old girl’s.
Pablo tilted his head away from the screen to glance at her. Of course, he wanted to know a secret.
“I used to watch the Oscars when I was a little girl and I knew I would be there one day.”
“Me too,” he blurted.
“OMG.”
“And the Emmys too,” Pablo said. “But, you know what I’ve always secretly wanted?” Pablo paused for a moment. He’d never told anyone his dream job, but he felt like he could tell Keisha anything. “I wanna have a talk show and really help people.”
“You are such a good person. I can totally tell.”
Tears sprang back into Pablo’s eyes. He’d never found a reason for so many tears as he had this night. He was so moved that she really did see him. And for the first time, he felt like he was on the path his life was meant to follow. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you have any dreams other than being who you are right now?”
“Now? This is a nightmare, not a dream. I’m just this objet d’art that gets picked apart every chance they get. Nothing I ever do is good enough.” Keisha’s voice cracked. “I’ve never heard anyone tell me I’m beautiful other than my mama.”
“What are you talking about? I hear people say it at least twenty times a day. You’re stunning. Believe that.”
“No, Pablo. Keisha Kash, the celebrity, is beautiful, not me. They see the hair, the makeup, and the clothes. They see the fantasy. That’s all a lie.” She wiped her face and stared at his chin. “I wish that people would see me for a change, the real me. Maybe then I could love myself more. Who am I really when I’m not Keisha Kash, Supermodel?”
Pablo could not believe what he was hearing. How could someone so stunning be so insecure, so vulnerable, and so fragile? So much like him? He wanted to protect her and help her. “But you are you.” His voice was soft and reassuring.
“Oh,” she gasped, her lips quivering. “That’s so profound.” She looked at Pablo with those amber eyes that had inspired contact lens companies to create a new color in her honor. “I love you.”
“OMG, I love you too.” Pablo blurted. And that was the clenching moment. Their relationship was a narcissist’s dream come true.
* * *
Fashion Week was a polar vortex of revelry amid hard work and fawning fans. Now, everywhere that Keisha went, Pablo was sure to go. He didn’t have much choice. She wouldn’t let her new BFF out of her sight. She bragged about him to the press, touted him at after-parties, and munched on French fries in his ears during one-on-one tête-à-têtes at Buddakan and Per Se. Since she’d fired her assistant, it seemed only natural for Pablo to step into that role. He was free too. Swept up in the Supermodel’s wake, it took him a few days to realize that he was actually working for Keisha. It was quite a wake.
Pablo was the perfect foil for the temperamental trade winds of Keisha’s erratic personality, but he didn’t take any of it personally. Deep down, he knew how vulnerable she was, and to his surprise, sensitive. They swanned around town like two lovebirds. Keisha posted a selfie of the two of them smiling and crossing their pinky fingers with #BestFriendsForever written across it. It went viral. His Instagram account blew up with new followers. People began to recognize him on the street, even when he wasn’t with the Supermodel, which wasn’t often. Most of the nights during fashion week, they’d collapse in her loft, streaming Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney singing and dancing their way through the 1940s.
“Which one are you?” Keisha asked one night.
“Dunno. Which one are you?”