She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re absolutely right.” I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand and took a deep, cleansing breath. “That’s why I’m moving on now. Putting the past in the past.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Better late than never, right?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I’m cleaning out my apartment, I got a new job—”

  “Oh, did you?” Mari interrupted, a note of surprise in her tone. “That was fast. Congratulations! What’re you doing now?”

  “Well, I still have to complete the onboarding process, but I got approved for HandyMinion. In the long term, though, I’m hoping to work toward something bigger.”

  A few seconds of silence ensued, and when I didn’t elaborate on what that bigger something was, Mari said, “Like what?”

  I hesitated, embarrassed to admit the truth. Mari was a committed skeptic of even the most widely accepted customs and institutions—college, marriage, democracy—so I could only imagine how she’d react if I said the words vision board and manifesting. I’d probably be laughed right out of the car. “I don’t wanna tell you.”

  “You’re freaking me out here.” Her eyes went wide with panic. “Please don’t tell me you’re becoming a webcam girl. I know they make a lot of money, but it’s not worth it, Bree.”

  “Of course not!” Since the truth was far less scandalous than stripping for strangers on the internet, I decided to suck it up and confess. “I’m working through a self-help book right now. The Aspirational Action Plan by Demi DiPalma.”

  To my surprise, Mari nodded approvingly. “That’s great. Introspection is always a good thing.”

  “Yeah. I was dubious at first because the philosophy’s a little out there, but Natasha gave it to me and I trust her advice. She said this book changed her life, and honestly, I feel like it’s already starting to change mine. Between the HandyMinion gig and my date last night—”

  “Wait a minute, hold up. Why didn’t you tell me you were going on a date?”

  “It was kind of impromptu. Maybe it wasn’t actually a date. See, I got stung by a stingray and he—”

  “What?” Mari shrieked out a laugh. “This story is getting crazier by the second. Since when do you go in the ocean?”

  “I know. It was a failed experiment brought on by the self-help book. Anyway, he brought me to the lifeguard tower, then stayed with me while I soaked my foot. Afterward, he bought me a burrito and gave me a piggyback ride home.”

  “That sounds like a date. Who is this guy?”

  “My new next-door neighbor, Trey. He’s a pro surfer.”

  “He must have a superhot body, then.”

  “Super superhot.” An image flashed through my mind: his bare, brown chest covered in beads of sea water, glistening in the sun.

  “Well, good for you. No wonder you’re ready to banish Rob from your life.” Mari slowed the car to a crawl as we approached a bright orange warehouse. “Is this it?”

  I glanced up at the sign. StoreSmart, just like it said on the key ring. “This is it.”

  We parked by the entrance and carried everything into the lobby, Mari holding the Bankers Box while I finagled the garbage bag and papasan chair sideways through the front door. I flashed my orange key ring at the receptionist, and he waved us into the storage area. Then we meandered around the narrow gray hallways for a while, scanning the numbers painted above each steel roll-up door, until we finally found unit 252.

  Dropping the chair at my feet, I slid the key in the lock and popped the latch, then tugged on the door. It retracted easily into the ceiling, revealing a ten-by-ten room packed from wall to wall with stuff. In typical Rob fashion, he hadn’t properly boxed anything. It was all thrown in haphazardly. Designer clothes were strewn on top of stacks of video games and old comic books, surfboards jammed in at an angle amidst it all. It was like my junk drawer, except on a much larger scale, and with far more expensive contents.

  “I don’t think there’s room for anything else in here,” Mari said.

  “We’ll make room.”

  I refused to return home with this chair or this gorilla suit or this box full of old college memories. There was plenty of unused vertical space, so I started condensing things, piling them on top of each other. I’d cleared about two square feet of space before the bottom split on a Target shopping bag and a high-tech helicopter-looking contraption clattered to the concrete.

  Mari picked it up. “Holy shit, is this a drone?”

  “Yep. Rob used it exactly once. It got stuck in a palm tree and we had to ask the gardener to help us get it down.”

  “I’m taking it.”

  “No, you’re not.” I grabbed it from her hands. “We’re not stealing.”

  “Who said anything about stealing? I’m borrowing it. It’s not like he needs it right now. I’ve had this great idea for an aerial video for my channel, but I haven’t been able to get my hands on a drone. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.” Smirking, she mimed crossing her heart. “Promise.”

  I couldn’t think of a convincing reason to tell her no. Especially after seeing the state in which he kept his supposedly prized possessions. That drone must’ve cost at least $750, and he stored it in a ripped plastic bag on the floor, next to a precariously balanced bicycle that looked like it could topple over at any moment.

  Hmm. I’d forgotten about that bicycle.

  Handing the drone back to Mari, I said, “Here, take it. I might borrow something, too.”

  I had to pry the back wheel out from between a guitar case (he only ever learned to play two chords) and a taxidermy mount of a deer head (don’t ask) before I could roll the bike into the hallway to take a closer look. It appeared to be in good condition. Both tires were still mostly full of air, and the brakes were springy. This seemed like the perfect way to help me get around the neighborhood. There was even a U-lock dangling from the frame, which was odd, because it’s not like Rob had ever ridden this anywhere.

  By now, there was enough space in the unit to fit the box, the bag, and the papasan chair, so we shoved it all in and took one last look around. This room held a mishmash of stupid choices and abandoned goals, which was really the perfect metaphor for my relationship with Rob. What we had wasn’t love. It was inertia. An excuse to never move forward. In a way, I couldn’t blame him for following the Divine Mother Shakti into the Amazon. At least he was making a change.

  But that was the past. And I was riding this bicycle into the future.

  I lowered the gate and slammed the lock shut, closing the door on this messy chapter of my life forever.

  Chapter 10

  Natasha always told me she got a physical rush from tidying up. Every trash bag she tied off and tossed in the dumpster made her heart pound and her breath deepen. After an intense decluttering session, she said she felt giddy, often collapsing in a fit of giggles.

  To me, this sounded completely bananas—who gets high off reorganizing a closet?—but when I returned home from the storage unit, it suddenly all made sense. Without Rob’s crap everywhere, my apartment looked a whole lot...neater wasn’t the right word, because it was still a mess. But the mess finally seemed somewhat manageable, and it actually did make me feel sort of giddy—and raring to clean this place up.

  The first item of business would be to deal with my busted junk drawer, the contents of which still lay scattered all over the floor. After giving it all a cursory glance, I realized I didn’t need most of this stuff, so I grabbed the trash can and began the process of purging.

  Natasha had this saying she used whenever she coached a client to dispose of their clutter: get rid of anything that BUGS you. BUGS was an acronym—professional organizers loved acronyms—to help you remember to throw away things that were broken, unused, garbage, or sentimental.

  The first three were no-brainers
. Those crumpled papers and mystery chargers had been sitting in that drawer untouched for months, if not years. The stress ball had a rip in it, and the glue sticks had dried out a long time ago. I picked them all up and tossed them in the bin without a second thought.

  The electrical tape could come in handy, so I set it aside, then kept on sorting through the junk. A nonfunctioning flashlight, a single playing card, an expired packet of Emergen-C. All of it, into the trash. By the time I’d gone through everything, all I had left was the electrical tape and the beer koozie.

  I didn’t need this beer koozie. I rarely drank beer—or anything out of a bottle or can, really—and when I did, I was out with friends, never home alone. I’d only kept it because it reminded me of a special time I’d had with Mari.

  It was right after Rob left, when I’d been having trouble completing whole sentences without bursting into tears. Early one Saturday morning, Mari had come over, forced me out of bed, and took me to Belmont Park, an amusement park on the water in Mission Beach. We spent the whole day riding the rickety roller coaster, going crazy in the bumper cars, and eating deep-fried everything. It was the first time I’d laughed since the breakup, the first time I’d spent several consecutive hours without Rob’s face popping into my thoughts.

  We stayed until well after sundown, and just before we left, we spun prize wheels to try to win return tickets. Mari came up empty, but I scored the koozie. Though I knew I’d never use it, I squealed with joy when the attendant handed it over. Winning a prize, no matter how small, was the perfect way to end that perfect day.

  As I knelt on the floor with the koozie in my hand, I heard Natasha’s voice in my head, They’re just things, Bree. Natasha would’ve told me this was sentimental clutter and should therefore be disposed of at once. So I chucked it in the trash.

  And then I panicked and picked it back out.

  Look, I respected my sister’s opinions. She was extremely talented and hardworking, with a long list of satisfied customers whose lives she’d successfully organized from top to bottom. However, I disagreed with her hard-line stance on sentimental clutter.

  Filling entire rooms with nostalgic bric-a-brac? That was a problem. But what was wrong with keeping a few key items as reminders of experiences you enjoyed or moments you cherished or people you missed? As far as I could see, nothing. Natasha would disagree.

  That’s why her one attempt to get my apartment in order ended in tears. When she’d showed up on my doorstep holding the garbage bags and the Swiffer, I was initially glad to see her. With her organizing expertise and knack for making the best use of small spaces, I figured she could do wonders for my cluttered little studio.

  As soon as we got down to business, though, I started having second thoughts. First, she set up a system to tackle the apartment in quadrants, scouring every nook and cranny for clutter. Then she told me all about BUGS, explaining how sentimental items were always the hardest to get rid of—but they’re just things, Bree. Suddenly, I had a vision of her finding the box under my bed and forcing me to toss the whole thing in the trash. That’s when I flipped out and told her to leave.

  I was not willing to part with that box.

  My sister didn’t know the box existed. If she did, she’d have been horrified. Because it was filled with things she thought we’d disposed of a long time ago.

  When our mom died, Natasha had been adamant about clearing out her stuff as soon as possible. They’re just things, Bree, she’d said, after tossing out what seemed like the hundredth garbage bag full of Mom’s belongings. The sooner we get this process over with, the sooner our healing can begin.

  I trusted Natasha implicitly. Plus, she was my new caretaker now that Mom was gone, so I had no choice but to follow her orders.

  She was right, though. We didn’t need these things anymore.

  But these things had touched our mom’s skin. They still held traces of her fingerprints. I couldn’t haul them to the dump, when it was all I had left of her to hold.

  So when Natasha took a bathroom break, I snuck a few things out of one of the garbage bags. Nothing special, just a few random items to remind me of her. A dog-eared copy of her favorite Danielle Steel novel. The flour-stained cookbook with the recipe for those delicious cupcakes she always baked on our birthdays. A ratty red T-shirt that smelled of soap and food and sweat, the toil of unconditional love that was now gone forever.

  I crammed it all into a bag and hid it under my bed, way in the back toward the wall. When I moved out of the apartment, I took it with me and transferred the items to one of those flat plastic bins.

  I didn’t need these things. I never used them, barely even looked at them anymore. But I wanted them all the same.

  Secure in my decision to keep selective sentimental clutter, I placed the now-empty junk drawer back onto its track, put the electrical tape and koozie inside, and pushed it closed. It slid forward easily, effortlessly.

  Energized, I practically dove into the cabinet under the sink, reorganizing cleaning products and purging old rags. When that was done, I went to the shelving above it, filling my trash can with stale crackers and that empty canister of Folgers and a bag full of skunky weed Rob had shoved in a sugar bowl.

  I unearthed a long-forgotten bottle of Fantastik, and sprayed down each surface, wiping them until they shined. I arranged my favorite pink mug artfully next to my single-cup coffee maker. I watered the withering aloe plant on my windowsill. Then I stepped back and took in the scene.

  It looked positively Instagram-worthy.

  Inspired to make the rest of my apartment look just as fabulous as this tiny corner, I searched the #organize hashtag for some ideas of how to spruce things up. Most of the results didn’t apply to a space as small as mine, though they did provide some highly satisfying eye candy. Pantries, walk-in closets, laundry rooms, all of them monochromatic and neat as a pin.

  Then there was a sponsored post, another one from Demi DiPalma. Considering my bio contained the #aspirationalactionplan hashtag, I wasn’t surprised. It was a photo of wildflowers in a valley surrounded by brown mountains and blue sky. Black text in the foreground read SYNERGIZE.

  If you’re looking to get more out of your Aspirational Action Plan—more #DRIVE, more #HAPPY, more #PASSION—sign up to attend my next Semiannual Synergy Summit in Palm Desert.

  Featuring some of the greatest thought leaders and wellness experts of our time, the Summit is an intense inspirational experience that will help you #SYNERGIZE your dreams, #ORGANIZE your purpose, and #REALIZE your deepest desires.

  During this immersive, restorative, and educational three-day gathering, you’ll exchange positive vibrations with other members of the DiPalma Tribe, release negative energies into our ceremonial firepit, and make crucial connections that will elevate your mind, body, and spirit.

  Space is extremely limited and tickets are selling out fast. To dwell in possibility with me and the rest of your Tribe, follow the link and sign up now!

  #choosehappy

  #synergysummit

  #aspirationalactionplan

  The targeted ad worked, because I followed the link to check out the details. Apparently, these Synergy Summits took place twice a year, not far from where the Coachella Music Festival was usually held. The agenda seemed interesting, albeit slightly unfocused, with a variety of interactive chat sessions, wellness workshops, product demonstrations, and chanting circles.

  Accommodations were provided on-site in the form of glamping tents, replete with beds and carpets and places to plug in your phone. Every morning there were sunrise yoga classes, and every evening there were farm-to-table dinners. It sounded kind of wonderful.

  Unfortunately, the cheapest ticket was twenty-five hundred dollars, so it also sounded totally out of my reach.

  I scrolled on, through the endless feed of organization porn, until I reached a photo of a tidy litt
le kitchen. It wasn’t much bigger than my own, but everything in it looked so clean and chic. Chrome drawer pulls, color-coordinated dinnerware. There was even a huge vase of round, pink peonies on the windowsill. It put my single-cup coffee maker and half-dead aloe plant to shame.

  So I reposted it to my vision board. Even if my kitchen wasn’t currently Instagram-worthy, maybe one day it would be.

  The original photo belonged to @nomessnostress, one of those official Instagram accounts with the coveted blue checkmark next to their name. The profile read,

  Ellie B. | Certified Professional Organizer®

  Helping you reach your #organizing #goals.

  Preorder my book, NO-STRESS DECLUTTERING, today!

  For collaborations, email EllieB@nomessnostress.com.

  Her photos reminded me of the kinds of projects Natasha told me she took on, organizing playrooms and cleaning out closets. But Ellie B. had over ninety-one thousand followers, and a quick scan of her feed showed numerous partnerships with furniture stores and cleaning products. On top of that, she had a book coming out.

  I texted Natasha: You need to get an Instagram account.

  Not ten seconds later, my phone rang.

  “I already have an Instagram account,” she said. “But I haven’t used it since Izzy turned five and asked me to stop putting her pictures online. What kind of paranoid kindergarten teacher warns their students about the dangers of a digital footprint?”

  “Well, you should be worried about your digital footprint. Or your lack thereof. Have you ever heard of Ellie B.?”

  “Yeah, I love that song she does with Adam Levine. Why?”

  Suppressing a giggle, I said, “Not Cardi B. I’m talking about the professional organizer, Ellie B.”

  “Oh. I have no idea who that is.”

  “A professional organizer with over ninety-one thousand Instagram followers. Why don’t you have an Instagram for your business?”