“Sure,” I lie. “How are you?”
“Good. I mean, yeah. Good.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You sound…off.”
“No, I’m good. It’s a good day at the shop. Things are good with Peter. You know, good.”
Just how many times can she say good and still think I don’t know something’s up?
“How about Tess? Is she good?” I swallow.
No response for a minute. Then, “She’s a mess, Skye. She’d kick my butt if she knew I told you, but she’s still a mess.”
“About Garrett?”
“About Garrett, yeah. And about you.”
I’m a mess too. I can’t do this without her. I can’t do this without Braden. Without Penny. Without you, Betsy. Without all of you. I’m a fraud, through and through. I don’t even know my own mind.
Those words never make it past my lips, of course. To say them would hurt too much.
“I’m sorry,” is all I say.
“You should call her.”
“I… I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve hit rock bottom, Betsy. Below rock bottom.”
Another pause. Then, “You just said you were okay.”
“I lied. I fucking lied.”
“Wow. I’m so sorry. What happened?”
I can’t tell her Braden called it quits. If I say it, it becomes real.
But it is real, and I can’t hide from reality. I simply can’t.
“I’m a mess. I’m such a damned mess that I bet Tessa looks amazing next to me.” I resist the urge to break into tears again. Barely.
“Skye, I’ve got some customers…”
“Yeah. I get it. Sorry.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Thanks. Bye, Betsy.” I end the call, and within seconds, my phone buzzes again, a number I don’t recognize. “Hello, this is Skye.”
“Skye, hi. It’s Kathy Harmon.”
Kathy Harmon. Bobby Black’s girlfriend. “Hi, Kathy.”
“I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”
Dinner? Not while I’m at rock bottom.
For a hot minute I consider asking her to take Betsy’s place in my post but decide against it. I need to figure this out for myself. I like Kathy, but I’m not fit to hang with anyone at the moment.
“I can’t tonight, Kathy. But I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“That’d be great. Can’t wait to see you again.”
“Same. Talk to you soon.” Again, I end the call.
I heave an exasperated sigh. Now what? No Braden. No Tessa. No Penny. And no Betsy and no Kathy, by my own doing.
I have to come up with a new idea for a post. Today. Fucking today.
Not only that, I also need to post other stuff. If I’m going to be an influencer, my posts can’t be just about sponsorships. They have to be about life. About my life.
Will anyone care about my life if it doesn’t involve Braden?
You have to make them care.
The words land in my mind so quickly that I’m unaware of where they came from.
I have to make them care. I do.
And they’ll care if they relate to me.
Today I’m sad. I’m so, so sad. I’ve lost everything that matters, but I still have this contract. It still matters.
I still matter.
Even if I don’t paste on a happy face.
What’s wrong with posting that I’m having a bad day? Who the hell can’t relate to that? It’s not done a lot, of course. Most profiles are constantly touting how good everything is. That’s great, but what does it inspire?
Sure, some people will feel good to know an influencer is feeling good, to know an influencer is on top of the world, to know an influencer like Addie was born into money.
But others? To others, posts like that only inspire envy.
I don’t want to inspire envy. Really, there’s nothing to envy about me, especially now that Braden’s gone.
I’m just a regular woman.
And I still fucking matter. Even if I don’t feel that way at the moment. My feelings aren’t important right now. The feelings I invoke in my audience are.
I walk back into my bathroom and gaze at my reflection. Oddly, I look a little better. My eyes are still slightly bloodshot and slightly swollen, and my nose is still red around the edges as well. I’m no longer sniffling, and the tears have dried up.
I brush my hair out and let it flounce over my shoulders. The color is basic brown, not much luster to it, but it’s a nice and even color and it’s thick. My eyes are brown as well, nothing special. But you know what? They’re still my eyes, and they’re a lot less red than they were only an hour ago.
I wash my face quickly with cold water, getting rid of the last traces of mascara from last night.
That makes all the difference.
Then I sift through the pile of Susie cosmetics once more, looking for something that stands out to me.
The mood lip plumper? Maybe. If it indeed will show mood, but right now, my lips don’t need any extra plumping. They’re still swollen from my sobbing fit.
Blush? God, no. I’m already redder than I want to be.