You can’t put a filter on reality.
Bree Bozeman isn’t exactly pursuing the life of her dreams. Then again, she isn’t too sure what those dreams are. After dropping out of college, she’s living a pretty chill life in the surf community of Pacific Beach, San Diego…if “chill” means delivering food as a GrubGetter, and if it means “uneventful.”
But when Bree starts a new Instagram account—@breebythesea—one of her posts gets a signal boost from none other than wildly popular self-help guru Demi DePalma, owner of a lifestyle brand empire. Suddenly, Bree just might be a rising star in the world of Instagram influencing. Is this the direction her life has been lacking? It’s not a career choice she’d ever seriously considered, but maybe it’s a sign from the universe. After all, Demi’s the real deal…right?
Everything is lining up for Bree: life goals, career and even a blossoming romance with the chiseled guy next door, surf star Trey Cantu. But things are about to go sideways fast, and even the perfect filter’s not gonna fix it. Instagram might be free, but when your life looks flawless on camera, what’s the cost?
Praise for the novels of Kristin Rockaway
“Smart, fun, fast-paced. Rockaway seamlessly blends the trials of modern dating with the challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated workplace.”
—Helen Hoang on How to Hack a Heartbreak
“For everyone who has been wronged in the world of online dating! Revenge is a dish best served digitally in Kristin Rockaway’s book capturing what it’s like to pursue ambition and love in New York City. Snappy pacing, a delightful group of best friends, women innovating in tech and a workplace love interest made this a book I really enjoyed.”
—Sally Thorne on How to Hack a Heartbreak
“Rockaway has masterfully painted the current dating landscape so many are navigating these days.”
—Renée Carlino on How to Hack a Heartbreak
“Will have readers laughing and celebrating… Perfect for fans of Doree Shafrir’s Startup and Hannah Orenstein’s Playing with Matches.”
—Booklist on How to Hack a Heartbreak
“A fun, sexy debut perfect for readers who love exotic settings and a great love story.”
—Karma Brown, bestselling author, on The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World
“Brilliantly navigates one woman’s quest to let go of what is practical to pursue her passion and surrender to her inner dreamer.”
—Kerry Lonsdale, bestselling author, on The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World
“Can a novel be smart and loads of fun? Kristin Rockaway’s debut is proof that it’s possible.”
—Camille Pagán, bestselling author, on The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World
Also by Kristin Rockaway
How to Hack a Heartbreak
The Wild Woman’s Guide to Traveling the World
She’s Faking It
Kristin Rockaway
Kristin Rockaway is a native New Yorker and recovering corporate software engineer. After working in the IT industry for far too many years, she finally traded the city for the surf and chased her dreams out to Southern California, where she spends her days happily writing stories instead of code. When she’s not working, she enjoys spending time with her husband and son, browsing the aisles of her neighborhood bookstores, and planning her next big vacation. Her previous novel is How to Hack a Heartbreak.
For my big sister, Christine
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
As I pressed my fingertip to the doorbell, I realized I’d made a huge mistake.
I forgot the chipotle ranch dressing.
I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal, but you had to understand the customers in this neighborhood. They were ruthless. When they ordered ten pieces of gourmet, organic, locally sourced fried chicken, they expected the artisanal dipping sauce to be included with their delivery. If not, they wouldn’t hesitate to give you a one-star rating. No excuses.
Though I did have a pretty valid excuse that night, because things were crazy hectic at The Chicken Coop. Between the short-tempered waitstaff and the long lines at the walk-up window, I could barely get Osvaldo’s attention when I went to pick up the order. I must’ve stood at the service entrance for at least five minutes, waving maniacally, before he finally thrust the bag of chicken in my hand, then raced back to the kitchen without so much as a hello.
The frenzy was contagious. So, instead of stopping at the condiment counter like I should have, I skipped past it and hurried to my car, eager to drop off this delivery as quickly as possible so I could come back and pick up another one. I figured if I was lucky and I hustled, I could make a decent amount of money this evening on fried chicken orders alone.
If only I’d remembered the chipotle ranch dressing.
The front door creaked open and a woman appeared at the threshold, wearing a T-shirt that read No Excuses, which wasn’t particularly promising. According to the GrubGetters driver app, her name was Andrea T. She looked exactly like someone I’d expect to live in a suburb like this: slender, stylish, stunning even in mesh panel leggings and a messy bun. Perfect from head to toe. Just like my sister.
“Hello.” She smiled at me, and for a split second, I thought maybe it was all gonna be okay. Maybe Andrea T. would have mercy on me. After all, from her point of view, I was just a ditzy delivery girl driving a dilapidated rust bucket around town, trying to scrape together some semblance of an income. Meanwhile, she was living the high life in this sprawling McMansion with two shiny SUVs in the driveway. Surely, she’d give me a five-star rating simply out of pity.
“Hi.” I held the chicken bag aloft and forced a smile. “Andrea?”
She nodded and took it out of my hands. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
This was my cue to skedaddle, but a pang of uncertainty glued me in place. Should I tell her I forgot the dressing? She was gonna find out sooner or later, and fessing up now could save me from a one-star rating. It would show I was a woman who was ready to own up to my mistakes. A ditzy delivery girl with integrity.
“Is there something else you need?” Andrea’s friendly smile was fading fast.
“It’s just...” I stammered, knowing it was irrational to worry over something so inconsequential. It was a two-ounce container of ranch dressing, for crying out loud. Andrea probably had a Costco-sized tub of it in her fridge.
What really worried me, though, was that this was so unlike me. I never, ever made mistakes on my orders. And even though I knew there was no prestige in being a GrubGetter, I still took pride in my work. Showing up on time, double-checking orders, maintaining a positive attitude even when suburbanites were chewing me out on their d
oorsteps. This attention to detail was why I had a perfect five-star average rating. It was what made me a Top Grubber with first dibs on the best shifts in the busiest areas of San Diego.
So it wasn’t just a forgotten condiment. It was a blemish on my otherwise flawless delivery record. And since driving for GrubGetter was the only thing I’d ever not failed at, my flawless delivery record meant a lot to me.
“Everything okay?” A man’s voice boomed from inside the house. It sounded vaguely familiar, probably because he was a repeat customer. I didn’t remember ever coming to this address before, but that didn’t mean anything. All the homes in these subdivisions looked the same.
When he popped his head around the doorframe, though, I understood exactly why his voice was so familiar. I’d heard it twice a week for twelve weeks, droning on in a cavernous lecture hall for two hours at a time. I hadn’t heard it since I was twenty-one, and I had hoped I’d never hear it again.
The voice belonged to Eddie Trammel, my old physics professor. The guy who’d inspired me to drop out of college.
He looked a little different, slightly older, with a new paunch and some hints of gray around the temples. But he had the same scowl, always glaring like my very existence annoyed him. To see him standing on the threshold of this starter castle with a silk floral wreath hanging on the door was jarring, in more ways than one. I’d always pictured him living alone in some sad, windowless apartment, eating cold beans directly from a can. Not living it up in Encinitas with a hot, yoga-toned wife.
“Hi,” I said, because what else was there to say? The last time we’d seen each other, he’d told me I didn’t have what it took to succeed in the premed program, and that I’d never get into medical school. He’d called me coddled and entitled and acutely mediocre. I’d left his office in tears, then marched off campus and never returned.
At the time, I told myself I just needed to take a semester off to regroup and refocus, to give myself some space so I could find my true passion and pick a new major. I’d planned to return to school in a matter of months, ready to finish my degree with purpose and vigor.
Of course, that never happened. Instead, I holed up in bed and played about two hundred hours of Trivia Crack in the hopes of winning big, and when that didn’t pan out, I signed up to be a GrubGetter.
It wasn’t supposed to be a full-time, long-term gig. But here I was, four years later, still delivering fried chicken for a living. College had now become this distant, fuzzy memory. Something I’d tried to conquer and failed to finish. I didn’t really like to think about it very often. Or at all.
In the moment, however, I couldn’t simply brush aside those unwelcome thoughts and pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. Because Professor Trammel was right there in front of me, probably wondering how I ended up on his doorstep wearing a stained GrubGetters polo shirt.
Without thinking, I blurted out, “I’m sorry.” Not that I owed him an apology—if anything, he owed me one—but the way he was looking at me right now made me feel guilty for merely taking up space.
The line between his brows deepened and he barked, “Is there something you need? I’m starving and this food is getting cold.”
“Uh...” I stammered, searching his face. And then I realized he had no idea who I was.
Which made sense, really. He’d probably taught hundreds, if not thousands, of students. In his eyes, I was just another aimless, untalented undergrad. Nobody special. Nobody worth remembering.
A half-dozen sprinkler heads suddenly spurted to life, spraying water all over the lawn and dripping down onto the pavement by my feet. Droplets hit my face like spittle and I was suddenly desperate to flee the suburbs.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I forgot your chipotle ranch dressing.”
Eddie’s scowl remained, but Andrea sighed, as if relieved I wasn’t going to try to recruit them into some obscure religion or solicit funds for a questionable charity.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We never use that stuff, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” Eddie mumbled, then gave me one last glare before closing the door in my face.
Well, then.
This evening had quickly turned into a parade of my failures, from my unfinished degree to my inability to remember a damn condiment. Moments like these made me wish I had a personal development coach, or a spiritual guru. Someone—anyone—who could just tell me how to live my life.
Of course, coaches and gurus were luxuries I couldn’t afford. Not on my meager GrubGetter income, and certainly not if I kept standing here, blinking back tears on Professor Trammel’s doorstep. So I took a deep, shaky breath and headed back down the puddle-strewn walkway toward my car. Which looked so out of place on this pristine cul-de-sac.
For over a decade, I’d been driving a little Honda Civic. It was painted an awful shade of teal, except for the passenger-side door, which was black, for some reason. The clear coat was peeling and there was a spiderweb crack in the windshield that had been there ever since my senior year of high school, when I’d bought it off some shady dude on Craigslist with money I’d saved up by tutoring neighborhood kids. It was far from glamorous, but it ran just fine, and it’s not like I was in a position to be picky.
Despite my spotty maintenance record, this car had served me well. But as I slipped into the driver’s seat, a sudden thought filled me with shame. Maybe if I’d stuck it out in college, I’d be driving something better by now.
Whatever. No sense dwelling on the woulda, coulda, shoulda. Natasha always said, Don’t look back, because that’s not where you’re going. Or something. She was always spouting off these aphorisms, I couldn’t keep them straight. They were annoying. And, usually, annoyingly accurate.
I pulled up the GrubGetter app and tapped the “Available for Pickup” button to find my next assignment. You might think delivering food is a rather brainless endeavor, but believe it or not, there’s a strategy involved. Like hanging out in busy areas with lots of restaurants nearby, working peak mealtimes, and choosing the most expensive restaurants to increase the likelihood of bigger tips. That’s why I loved working The Chicken Coop. Those forty-dollar ten pieces of fried chicken often yielded nice profits at the end of my shift.
Fortunately, there was a fried chicken order awaiting delivery. Before I could claim it, though, my phone buzzed in my hand and the screen flashed with an incoming call from Natasha. My sister was the only person in my contacts list—possibly, the only person in the entire world—who still made unsolicited phone calls. She probably wanted to talk about her latest professional organizing project, which would undoubtedly lead into some passive-aggressive remark about the cluttered state of my own apartment.
No thanks.
With one swipe, I declined the call. If it was really important, she’d text me, like normal people did.
By the time I returned to the GrubGetter screen, my coveted Chicken Coop job had been claimed by another driver. Dammit. Competition was fierce in this neighborhood during dinnertime. I settled for a delivery from the less desirable Burger Bar, because a job was a job, and the more time I spent parked in Professor Trammel’s driveway, the less money I had in my pocket.
After tapping the “Claim” button, I slid my key into the ignition and turned, expecting to hear the satisfying and slightly humiliating rumble of my ancient engine. But there was only a hollow click, followed by a sad staccato whine. And then, nothing.
No.
I cranked it again. Still no juice.
No, no, no, no, no.
Panic swelled beneath my ribs. This could not be happening. Driving for GrubGetter was my only source of income; obviously, I needed a functioning car to get the job done. I turned the key again and again, pumping the gas, then the brake, as if that would make any difference.
It didn’t, of course. My car was dead.
The wo
rst part was, I knew this was coming. The check engine light blinked on two weeks ago and never went off. I should’ve driven it to the mechanic immediately for an inspection, but that would’ve required cash, which was in eternal short supply. So, I told myself it probably wasn’t that serious and proceeded to ignore those two angry yellow words screaming at me from the dashboard.
Now I was stuck blocking Professor Trammel’s driveway, with the seconds ticking down on a Burger Bar pickup that I was going to have to cancel. I had never canceled a pickup before. My immaculate GrubGetter record was being tarnished in all sorts of new and horrible ways today.
As I considered the ramifications of abandoning my car on this cul-de-sac, my phone buzzed with another call from Natasha. Two calls in five minutes was unheard of, even for her. Maybe there was an actual emergency.
With a racing heart, I answered. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Can you babysit Izzy next Friday?”
“Oh.” I exhaled, partly relieved, partly annoyed. “Maybe, I’m not sure.”
“Well, I need to know now. If you can’t, I have to book a sitter. The last one just canceled on me.”
Normally, I’d have jumped at the chance to hang out with my six-year-old niece, but then I glanced down at the keys dangling uselessly from my ignition. “I don’t know. You’d have to come pick me up or something. My car just died.” My voice caught on the last word, but I swallowed the sob.
Natasha clucked her tongue. “You never started that car maintenance log, did you?”
I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“I have no idea. It literally just died right this second. I’m stalled out in the driveway of some house...” I trailed off, not wanting her to know where I was.
“Have you called AAA?”
As if I could spare the funds for a AAA membership. “I don’t have it.”
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