The Dirty Truth

Everyone has a blue period.

It happens to the best of us and often without warning.

I’ve consulted the best of the best in both Eastern and Western medicine and swallowed overpriced supplements I couldn’t begin to pronounce, but my blue period has only intensified, growing from a dusky cerulean to a dark midnight Atlantic.

But everything in this world is temporary.

Nothing ever lasts.

Of that much, I’m certain.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ELLE

“Ugh. That movie was horrid,” Scarlett’s friend Piper groans Monday afternoon as we leave the Sabrina Carpenter matinee. “Like, I cringed the entire time.”

It wasn’t that bad.

Maybe if she’d looked up from her phone screen once in a while, she could’ve gotten into it . . .

Scarlett was entranced every minute of it, mindlessly snapping off bits of Twizzlers as her eyes fixated on the teen-targeted storyline unfolding on the big screen.

“Yeah, it sucked,” Scarlett says, though I don’t believe her for a second.

Biting my tongue, I keep my commentary to myself and stay a couple of strides behind them. Two hours ago, I met Scarlett at Highland Prep after school, only I didn’t expect her to have a chatty, red-haired pal in tow. At first, I was tickled that Scarlett had made a friend, and I was maybe a little too enthusiastic about inviting her along to the show, but a block into our walk to the theater, I’d heard her new buddy name-drop three celebrities (her father is a talent manager), make fun of their chemistry teacher’s “jiggly Buddha belly,” and wax on about how much she hates her ex–best friend for posting an unflattering picture of her on Instagram without permission.

I’d wager this girl was ousted by her friend group for being woefully unlikable and has now latched on to Scarlett because the new kid is always the lowest-hanging fruit.

Still, I keep quiet, noting the extra bounce in Scarlett’s step as she chats with her new friend—and the fact that she hasn’t stopped smiling in hours.

Piper may not be the ideal insta-friend, but Scarlett needs this.

“Hey, you should come over to my place for a little bit.” Piper taps out a text on her gigantic purple iPhone. “My mom said it’s cool.”

Whipping around, Scarlett lifts her brows. “I’m going to Piper’s.”

My jaw slackens as I search for the appropriate words to say. I’m not her keeper, so I can’t exactly tell her no. But if I tell her yes, I’ll have West’s wrath to deal with.

“You should ask your uncle first,” I say, advising her the way a good mentor should. “He’s the boss . . .”

Pulling out her phone, Scarlett dials West and puts the call on speaker before thinking better of it. Thirty seconds later, she hangs up.

“He didn’t answer,” she sighs. “I’ll just text him and let him know where I am.”

“Wait,” I say. “Let me try him.”

Scarlett squints, wordlessly questioning my involvement in this. And I don’t blame her. It’s weird. And it’s confusing. And these dynamics are new to all of us. There’s no manual, no precedent to follow.

“You know how he is,” I say with a casual wave of my hand. Pulling up his contact, I press the green call button—only to get his voice mail after a few rings. It’s a Monday, so he’s likely swamped.

“Come on. Let’s just go,” Piper says before turning to me. “Thanks for the movie, Ellie.”

“Elle,” I correct her.

“Same thing,” Piper giggles before linking her arm into Scarlett’s. They’re halfway down Lexington Avenue before I realize I don’t even know Piper’s last name.

Still, I remind myself I’m not her nanny.

With quivering fingertips I fire off a text to West, letting him know we left the movie and Scarlett’s going to her friend Piper’s house for a little bit. Exhaling, I wait until the message shows as delivered before heading home. And I’m halfway there when my phone buzzes in my pocket, sending a shock-like startle through my center.

But the number flashing on the screen doesn’t belong to West.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Hi, is this Elle Napier?” a woman’s voice responds. “This is Connie Marsden with Winlock Media Group. We received your application over the weekend for the social media content coordinator position, and I’d love to set up a time for an interview at your convenience.”

That was fast . . .

I was browsing jobs online yesterday when that position popped up under gigs for writers. The description said it’d be supervising a team of content creators contracted to manage the social media pages of high-profile clientele, which would include not only coordinating posts and schedules but developing creative content—the social media equivalent of editors and writers in the print world.

It certainly didn’t sound like a life-altering gig that would flood my existence with purpose and meaning, but it mentioned a flexible schedule, and Winlock is notoriously philanthropic with generous opportunities to give back to the community, so I thought it might be a good lily pad to occupy while I figure things out.