by Nicole Deese
“Gaining the edge is never easy.”
I raised my questioning gaze to his confident one. “But that’s . . .” On principle, I didn’t say the word impossible, but gosh, if there ever was a time for that word, it was right now. “That’s almost four hundred thousand subscribers in just three months.”
“Yes, it is. And I have a strategy for how to get us there.”
“Does it include praying for a miracle?” My joke fell flat with a quick shake of Ethan’s head.
“You know I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in hard work, dedication, and plenty of grit. All things you have in spades. And all things that make us such great partners.” He grabbed another document from his briefcase and laid it out flat. Pie graphs and algorithm reports I didn’t have the first clue how to read stared back at me. “Between your campaign photo shoot next week with Hollywood Nights Cosmetics and the endorsement quotes Fashion Emporium is adding to their stores, I estimate your boost will be around twelve to thirteen percent.” He traced a line with his finger, indicating the growth he’d already mapped out. “But that leaves a large gap to fill while I work on getting you some more widespread campaigns. We also need to find the right celebrity collaboration, someone who will take your hand and pull you up to their level—I have a few ideas already in the works. But there’s something else as well.” When he looked up at me, I got that strange woozy feeling I had whenever I glanced down in a glass elevator.
“What?”
“We need to show a different side of you to the public eye, work to expand the reach of the woman behind Makeup Matters with Molly. Which is why item two is so important.”
I slid my focus down the page as his second point assaulted me in an entirely new way.
Partner with a human-interest cause
A burning sensation flared in my lower gut, a premonition I knew all too well. “What kind of human-interest cause?”
“It actually needs to be something quite specific.” Ethan leaned in, as if the discovery he was about to share was too confidential for my living room. “After calling in a lot of favors and piecing together several off-the-record conversations, I was able to figure out the producer’s hook for the show you’d be in the running to host.” He held his breath for a full three seconds. “It’s called Project New You, highlighting America’s underprivileged youth. It will be a more holistic approach to the usual makeover show—not only focused on the physical side of things. The older teens who are featured will be chosen by a nomination system—teachers, mentors, foster parents, etc. The kind of show that leaves you reaching for a tissue and a tub of ice cream by the end of it.”
The buoy keeping my hopes afloat sank inch by inch.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but then closed it tight again. So many thoughts spun inside my head at once, pinging against memories better left undisturbed. Though I “helped and supported” women on the other side of a digital screen several times a week via makeup tutorials and comparables and as-honest-as-I’m-allowed-to-be product reviews, helping people in the outside world was a different beast entirely. A much scarier, much more exposing beast. One I was quite familiar with, considering both my parents and my brother had given their souls to serve in full-time ministry.
Sometimes I wondered just how many prayer teams around the nation—perhaps the world, even—were committed to praying for the McKenzies’ prodigal daughter, the girl who made a living profiting from one of the seven deadly sins: vanity.
Seeing as Ethan and I didn’t share much about our pasts, he didn’t take my silence for the fear that it was, the fear that stepping too close to the humanitarian line would only end in failure and disappointment for everybody involved. There was only one person in my life who would have believed otherwise, but Mimi had died nearly four years ago. Before I’d even hit five thousand subscribers on the channel she’d encouraged me to start. Had she known this day would come? Had she envisioned me hosting an on-demand show? I could almost feel her fingers rake through my hair as she said, “Share your spark with the world, Molly. Stop trying to hide what God created to be seen.” Was this the big break she’d been hoping I’d find?
“The producers are going to need to see more of your empathetic side. More heart. More compassion. More generosity and selflessness. They’re impressed by your charm and wit, and no one would ever question your natural charisma on screen, but for this to move forward, we need to see the host of Makeup Matters with Molly get her hands a bit dirtier in the muck of real life. Because as it is right now, you’re just a pretty face with an addictive personality.”
The sting of his words throbbed in the back of my throat, and I swallowed against the ache. I’d never cried in front of Ethan, and I wasn’t planning to start now. “I’m more than that.”
He glanced up from the paperwork, brows crimped in confusion. “What?”
“I’m more than a pretty face.”
“Oh, babe. I know that. Of course I know that.” He touched my knee, squeezed, smiled. “But it’s my job to assess how you might be perceived by the public eye, even though I know you have the potential to be so much more.”
Only, his use of potential didn’t quite pluck out the insult dart he’d thrown.
“You don’t need to look so worried. I’ve got all this covered for you. It’s not like I’m suggesting you go live in a homeless shelter for a month and serve rice and beans with the kitchen staff.” He chuckled. “We’ll find a good match for you somewhere. Something with older kids that you can pop in to see once a week. Hear some hard stories you can retell, take some heart-jerker pics, and then be done with it. Simple.”
He paused, and I could almost feel the way he redirected the energy buzzing around us. “My assistant is already compiling a list of local charities and nonprofits for us to go through. The closest we can get to the premise of the show, the better. Plus, we’ll need to steer clear from what other influencers in your space have going on right now. Felicity is—”
“Felicity?” Just the sound of her name made my hackles rise. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Have you seen her latest numbers?” he asked, as if I’d missed a presidential election.
“I may have glanced at them once or twice in the last few weeks.”
“Well, since she added the no-kill shelters as a cause she supports, her numbers have skyrocketed. And it’s no wonder why. People care more about successful people who pay it forward. Partnering with a cause will grow your influence, and it will give you a giant leg up in your audition submission.”
I huffed a sigh. “I have a hard time believing that any self-respecting animal would choose to be in the same room as Felicity. She’s basically the platinum blond version of Cruella de Vil.”
“While that may be true,” Ethan said, all managerial-like, “the numbers speak for themselves. She’s grown nearly eighteen percent across all her platforms in the last four months.”
“Eighteen percent?” I slumped back in my chair. “Wow.”
“Yep. And,” he said, tapping my knee, “I have no doubt you can do even better. You have more personality and charisma in your left earlobe than Felicity Fakes It.”
“Felicity Fashion Fix,” I corrected on a chuckle, my mood slowly on the rise again.
He curled a long piece of my hair around his finger and tugged gently. “I don’t really care what her brand name is because she’s not my client anymore, you are.” He edged closer to me, taking my hands in his and rubbing his thumb over the inside of my wrists. “You’ve proven you know how to hook your viewers’ loyalty, Molly. Now you need to hook them in the heart. If you can do that, then I can get you a makeover show in front of millions that will make everything you’ve done to build your brand to this point seem trivial in comparison.”
I tried the phrase on for size—hook them in the heart—imagining how my twin brother would respond to such a statement.
“Oh!” I sat up straight and flattened my feet
to the floor. “I’ve got it.”
“What? A nonprofit we can contact?”
I shook my head. “Not exactly, but I do know the person who can lead me to one. Miles. My brother has a connection to every nonprofit organization within a hundred-mile radius of here.” And beyond.
“Ah, yes. The preacher,” Ethan said, finally reaching for his glass of wine and reclining back on the sofa. “Weren’t the two of you supposed to do an interview together for your channels? I thought I suggested that a few months back—show your viewers the whole twin bonding thing you two have going. Did Val forget to put that on the schedule?”
I tried to ignore the raw way his tone rubbed against me whenever he spoke of my brother. Though he and Miles had only interacted twice, it was abundantly clear that neither of them was going to take up calling each other bro any time soon. Truth was, I often felt like a goalie between them, blocking any potential insult and negative jab.
I stood up, slipped between him and the chair, and made my way back to the kitchen. “He’s not interested in doing an interview for Makeup Matters, and I’m totally okay with that. It’s not his thing.”
Ethan laughed. “Why not? Are preachers banned from social media? Is that one of the twelve commandments?”
“Ten.”
“Ten what?”
“There are only ten commandments, not twelve.”
He pulled out his phone and tapped on the screen, either not hearing me or not caring to respond. “You should really change his mind on that. It’s a missed opportunity.”
It probably was, and yet I knew my brother. The same way I knew my parents. Though at least Miles understood some of the benefits to social media and what my career as an influencer actually entailed. My parents, however, shared one flip phone between the two of them with no fancy apps or internet service—all in the name of frugality and stewardship.
As I pulled our plates down from the cupboard, I said nothing more on the topic of my family to Ethan. It was one of the clear boundary lines I’d drawn when we started dating. He hadn’t known me as a child or as a lonely teenager searching for her place in a household she’d never quite measured up to. And I liked it that way. The two of us had come from two totally different lifestyles, two totally different histories, two totally different worlds, and perhaps that was what I enjoyed most about being with him. Our pasts didn’t have to matter, because all we focused on was the future dreams we chased together. And in that aspect, we were very much the same. Ethan and I were a goal-making, goal-crushing machine. And signing on with his agency had been one of the best decisions I’d ever made.
He believed in me. And perhaps that was the only encouragement I needed to push toward my next goal.
“Hey.” He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders while I reached for a spatula. “What do you think about skipping the chicken tonight and going out to eat instead? I’m craving that little Italian place downtown, the one with the breaded artichokes and fresh caprese salad.” He brushed my hair off my back and planted a kiss to my neck. “We can continue this conversation over a nice plate of veal parmesan. And, bonus, there’ll be no dishes needing to be washed.”
I glanced down at the chicken I’d been marinating all day, based on a recipe I’d chosen a week ago when he told me he’d be flying into town tonight. “I do love that place, but I’ve been looking forward to trying this chicken out all week, and—”
He spun me around and touched my chin. “Babe, once this deal goes through, the only meals you’ll ever want to try will be cooked by professional chefs. Come on, let me treat you tonight. I’m proud of you.” He went to the door and shrugged on his jacket before removing my blush cardigan from the rustic wall hook and holding it open. “After all, it’s not every day I get to celebrate the accomplishments of my best client, who also happens to be my beautiful girlfriend.”
2
Molly
“I need a cause.” The words reverberated off the gymnasium walls as if I’d spoken them through a megaphone.
My brother wiped the sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt—why are guys so gross?—and twisted to find me blazing a trail on the polished floor in my taupe booties. Though Miles worked to school his surprise at seeing me here, of all places, I could have spotted the humored twitch of his upper lip from across the Pacific Ocean. He was a terrible actor—truly the worst. He once got cut from our fifth-grade Christmas pageant only three days before curtain call because he couldn’t stop his nervous chuckle every time Mary’s donkey lumbered on stage, heaving a pillow-stuffed virgin mother. His debut theater career ended abruptly after a fed-up Mrs. Martin told him to bite the inside of his cheeks because there was no such thing as a laughing wise man. To which Miles had smartly replied, “There was no such thing as a wise man at the nativity scene, either. They came later.”
“Morning, sis. It’s nice to see you, too. My trip to Guatemala was great, by the way. Thanks for asking.” He chucked the ball at the wall, retrieving it on the bounce back. “You come to play doubles with me?” At this he cracked a full smile. Prior to Miles taking up wall ball on Tuesday mornings at his church gymnasium, I truly believed wall ball was a pretend sport, like the kind playground teachers made up for the athletically challenged to pass recess. Like hopscotch. Or tetherball. But nope, for some unknown reason, my twenty-seven-year-old brother was all about it.
I enunciated my words a second time. “I. Need. A. Cause.”
He bounced the red rubber ball twice at his feet. “I heard you the first time, and yet I still have no clue what you’re talking about.”
After lying awake half the night, strategizing and typing out nonsensical notes for my assistant Val to find in her inbox this morning, I’d convinced myself that Miles was my best hope for finding the right connection to a cause that would offer both experience—for the Netflix producers—and minimal commitment in light of my sixty-hour workweek. The thing was, Miles couldn’t know about the possibility of a makeover show. Or even the possibility of an audition for one. Because Miles was . . . well, Miles was a saint among humans. If I was gonna ask for help in his area of expertise, then he’d expect my motives to be pure. Which they were. Sort of.
As he looked to me for an explanation, I worked to recall the heartfelt speech I’d written in my head on the way over regarding the importance of serving others. I hoped my stall seemed genuine enough, and not like I was trying to call up empathy from the depths of my being. “It’s come to my attention that I have the platform I have for a reason. Not just to grow a profitable business in the beauty industry but also for a greater vision and purpose.”
His expression bordered on intrigue and suspicion, a look I’d seen a few dozen times in our lives, and one I could mimic perfectly. Though we were fraternal twins by birth, our faces were identically expressive. Growing up, I’d envied Miles’s unique eye color—a bottomless amber with ribbons of ivy swirling throughout his iris. But his hair color he could keep. It registered three shades darker than my chemically engineered blond highlights, placing him firmly in the same brownish-blond category I was happy to escape by my eighteenth birthday. “What kind of greater vision?”
“To better serve my local community.” I paused the adequate amount of time for self-reflection. “Specifically, I’m feeling drawn to the area of hurting, underprivileged young adults.” I stopped myself from adding that if those young adults could live within a fifteen-mile driving radius and were available on a time frame of once a week, that would be best.
He blinked, as if not quite sure how to interpret this strange turn of events during his sacred wall ball hour. “And what brought about this realization, do you think? Because I specifically remember calling you two weekends ago when I was down three volunteers at our annual job fair for adults in transition. That would have been a great opportunity for you to serve your local community.”
“I was in the middle of shooting a two-part series on flat irons, Miles. Val was waiting on me t
o send her the raw footage so she could edit.”
He blinked. “Right.”
“Just because I work from home doesn’t mean I don’t have daily responsibilities to tend to or people waiting on me. Plus, isn’t that one of the charities I donate to each month?”
He sighed. “Yes, it is. But as I’ve said before, we don’t call them charities anymore. This isn’t 1945. We call them ministries.”
“Sure, but still—it’s not like you can say I don’t help you or your ministries.”
“You’re right, Molly,” he said in that slow, pastorly way of his. “Your generosity has been a huge blessing to the church over the last couple years. Thank you.”
I had the distinct feeling that he had more to say on that topic. “But?”
“I’m still trying to understand where this is coming from—especially in regards to serving underprivileged young adults, as you called them.”
“Those are formative years, Miles. I’ve always cared for that age group.”
“Oh? Like when you wrote that check for the van repairs last spring break so that I didn’t have to cancel the youth group’s mission trip to Mexico . . .” He quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, exactly. See?” Huge points to me. I’d forgotten all about that van repair bill. “I’ve been concerned about the safety and welfare of our teenagers for a long time.”
“Molly, you wouldn’t hand me the check until I promised never to ask you to chaperone for such a trip. You said your lifetime quota for stinky armpits and bad road trip sing-alongs had been filled by age fifteen.”
“Don’t even act like that’s not true. You know how we suffered at the hand of Dad’s off-key Gaither hymns in the back seat of that old Corolla. Plus, you greatly lacked in the area of deodorant until you were a legal adult.” I stared him down. “Shouldn’t you be more encouraging about this? Aren’t pastors supposed to help people . . . help people?”
“I’m not your pastor; I’m your brother.”
