She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

What a nightmare.

  I chucked the bike under the stairs, defeated. Arguably, it would’ve been less embarrassing to have let Trey see me in all my swollen, hive-ridden shame. Now he just thought I was a weirdo who liked to ride around the neighborhood at dusk with a towel for a scarf.

  To make matters worse, once I got inside, he texted me.

  You sure you ok?

  Yeah. Thanks. All good!

  Cool.

  Um...not to pry or anything,

  but what was up with the towel?

  I have a thing.

  On my face.

  After a moment of uncomfortable text silence, I clarified.

  It’s fine, though.

  No biggie.

  Ok.

  See you tomorrow.

  How was I going to face him tomorrow? I’d made a fool of myself before we even got in the water.

  A big part of me wanted to cancel this whole endeavor. But a bigger, more rational part of me knew I’d regret it.

  The only reason I wanted to quit was because I was afraid. Afraid of failure, afraid of judgment, afraid of rejection. I was just going to have to pretend those fears didn’t exist.

  But I needed some reinforcements. So I pulled out my copy of The Aspirational Action Plan and flipped to the appendix in search of some appropriate positive affirmations. When I found some, I spoke them out loud.

  “I am fierce.”

  “I am fearless.”

  “I am a warrior.”

  They sounded totally wrong coming out of my mouth, but I spent the rest of the night periodically repeating them, anyway. Because if I said them again and again, until they were burned into the skin of my eardrums and fused to the folds of my brain, I might actually believe them to be true.

  Chapter 12

  Swollen face aside, the Kissy Face collab was a hit, with hundreds of likes and dozens of comments. Plus, thanks to a repost from the official Kissy Face account, I surpassed the hundred-follower mark on Instagram. By the next morning, I was well on my way to two hundred followers. Things were looking up.

  I also got a request for another collaboration, this time from a luxury footwear brand called FRANGELICO. The name seemed totally made-up, but a quick scan of the website confirmed that the shoes were indeed very real—and very cute.

  And very free!

  Sure, my first foray into nano-influencing was a bit of a debacle, but everyone hit a few bumps along the path to happy. Besides, the odds of having an allergic reaction to a shoe were extremely small. I DM’d FRANGELICO my address and hoped that by the time they arrived in my mailbox, my face would be back to normal.

  Because right now, things were looking iffy. The pills and the ointment provided great relief, but my skin was still pink and angry from the residual irritation.

  A little redness wasn’t going to stop me from diving into my first oceanic adventure with Trey Cantu, though. After all, I was a fierce, fearless warrior! So I piled an ungodly amount of powder on my chin, then strapped on my bikini and maxidress before heading out the door. I was ready to conquer the waves!

  But first, coffee.

  Since the morning rush was already over, I decided to drop by The Bean House to grab some good luck vibes from Mari, and also to congratulate her on her latest video: a comedy short in which drones replaced human GrubGetters with hilarious results. She’d only released it the day before, so there hadn’t been too many views yet. I knew they were coming, though. Mari was too talented not to succeed.

  The Bean House was mostly empty, with one patron sitting in the far corner, typing away on his laptop, while Logan mopped the floors. Mari was fiddling with an espresso machine when I approached the register and said, “Hey!”

  “Hey!” She turned around and immediately recoiled. “What happened to your face?”

  “Oh.” I touched my chin, my lips, my cheeks, making sure everything was intact. “Does it still look gnarly?”

  “Um...” Mari moved closer, inspecting the damage. “It’s pink. Really pink.”

  “Shit.” Apparently, the powder hadn’t done much.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I had an allergic reaction to this new lip gloss.”

  “Geez. Did you contact the manufacturer?”

  “Yeah.” If by “contact” she meant tagging them in an effusive Instagram advertisement.

  Mari grabbed two coffees and led us to our usual seat on the patio. “How’s the new HandyMinion gig going?”

  “Great. I’m at level six now with a five-star average rating.”

  “I would expect no less from you.”

  “How are things on your end? I saw the video you posted yesterday, it was amazing.”

  She shrugged one shoulder and rolled her eyes. “It’s all right.”

  Oh, no. When Mari got all defeatist about her work, that could only mean one thing. “The trolls aren’t back, are they?”

  A heavy sigh was all the answer I needed.

  “Look,” I said, “it’s easier to criticize than it is—”

  “—to create,” she said, finishing the sentence I always repeated whenever some anonymous asshole left a nasty comment on her video. “I know, I know. But I’ve been at this for a while now, and I haven’t gained any traction. My YouTube views are in the toilet, my subscribers are stagnant. I’m starting to wonder if it makes sense to keep going or if I should give up this whole endeavor and get an office job somewhere. Something reliable with good health insurance benefits.”

  “You would be miserable.” Though, frankly, that sounded pretty good to me. “What happened to all that ‘thrive, don’t survive’ stuff you were talking about last week? This is your dream, you can’t give up on it.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I grabbed both of her hands in mine. “Marisol Vega, you are a fierce, fearless warrior. You can make your dream into a reality. You’ve just got to believe that you deserve it.”

  She scowled and shook her head. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I believe I deserve it. But I can’t invent subscribers out of thin air and I can’t force a video to go viral. I can only bust my ass to do my best work and then put it out there. If I’m not seeing any progress, though, how much longer am I supposed to keep it up?”

  “What if you tried a different approach?”

  “You think I haven’t already read every single YouTube marketing strategy article that’s out there?”

  “I’m not talking about marketing. I’m talking about mindset.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” She extracted her hands from my grip and took a sip of coffee.

  “Remember that self-help book I was telling you about the other day, The Aspirational Action Plan by Demi DiPalma? It lays out this four-step process to help you shape your future and achieve whatever you want to achieve, and so much of it has to do with your thoughts and your attitude.”

  The way Mari glared at me, I hoped she wasn’t hiding a knife in her apron. “So, you’re telling me I’m not a successful YouTube star because I don’t have the right attitude?”

  “No. Not exactly. The thing I’m learning is that energy follows thought, and if you envision the success that you want in your life, then success will come to you.”

  “You sound completely insane, you know that, right?”

  “I know. But what if I told you that by following this process, I was able to launch a career as an Instagram influencer in under a week?”

  “I’d say you sounded completely insane. Also, the Instagram economy is a scam.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Although, it kind of was. I mean, I’d just posted a heavily filtered photo talking about how much I loved an ugly lip gloss that gave me a rash. Coming from Mari, though, the word scam was beginning to lose all meaning. She wouldn’t even sign up for an Instagram account, which was frankly ridicul
ous for someone who was trying to make it as a YouTube star. “It’s not any more dishonest than any other form of advertising.”

  Mari sat forward in her chair, elbows on the table. “Wait, I thought you were joking. Are you seriously an Instagram influencer now?”

  “Kind of. I’m a nano-influencer.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “According to The New York Times, nanos are the most powerful of all the influencer groups. They don’t have a ton of followers, but they work with Instagram brands by posting ads in their feeds in exchange for free products.”

  “So, you haven’t actually made any money off of this?”

  “No.” She grunted, smug, and I quickly added, “But I get paid in free stuff.”

  “What brands are you advertising for?”

  “A luxury shoe designer just contacted me this morning. And I already did a campaign for a cosmetics company.”

  “You mean the lip gloss that made you break out in hives?”

  I didn’t have to answer that.

  “I’m just saying, this process works. I was skeptical at first, too, but it’s worth giving it a shot. Especially if you’re considering giving up. You’re so talented, Mari, and the world needs your videos.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  Her smile didn’t last long because there was suddenly an angry customer at the register, screaming at Logan.

  “What do you mean you can’t break a hundred-dollar bill?” he bellowed. “What kind of coffee shop doesn’t stock small bills in their register?”

  “Goddammit,” Mari whispered under her breath. “These fucking people. You know, if I worked in an office, I would be the one making the coffee orders, not the one taking them.”

  “I’m sure you’d treat the baristas with the utmost respect.”

  “And I’d always leave a dollar in the tip jar.”

  “Where is your manager?” The man was in full disgruntled consumer mode. “I’d like to speak to whomever’s in charge here.”

  “That’s you,” I said, with a smirk.

  We stood up and exchanged a quick hug. “Keep your phone handy, I might need someone to bail me out if I lose it on this guy.”

  “I’m actually headed to the beach right now to go swimming with Trey, so if you get arrested just text me the deets.”

  “Swimming? Who are you and what have you done with Bree Bozeman?”

  I tapped my temple. “I told you, I’m shifting my mindset.”

  “Well, good luck,” she said. “And don’t step on any stingrays this time.”

  While Mari went inside to pacify the man with the hundred-dollar bill, I walked around the patio and down the path to Cass Street, then made my way a few blocks west to the beach. It was the perfect day for a dip in the water, with warm, gentle breezes and not a cloud in the sky. But as the ocean came into view, the waves rolling forward and crashing against the sand with echoing cracks, my nerves started to fire on all cylinders.

  Maybe this was a mistake. Not everyone was meant to be a water dweller, and I’d already proven myself to be clumsy in the surf. Besides, there were too many potential dangers. Last time, the stingray got me in the foot, but next time it could be my heart.

  Worse, I could have a close encounter with a shark, which wasn’t as far-fetched an idea as you might think. Two years ago, a little boy was bitten by a great white while diving for lobsters in Encinitas. By some miracle, he survived, but knowing me, I wouldn’t be so lucky.

  I was so close now, though, I couldn’t turn around and leave. Odds were, I’d be fine. This was merely my fear talking. To make progress, I had to push those fears aside, stop making excuses, and start moving forward.

  With every step I took toward the lifeguard tower, I muttered an affirmation under my breath.

  “I am fierce.”

  “I am fearless.”

  “I am a warrior.”

  And then I saw Trey standing where the sand met the sidewalk, wearing nothing but patterned, blue board shorts. He stared off into the ocean with this intense, brooding look, probably reading the waves or communing with the water or whatever it was he did.

  As I approached, he turned toward me with his perfect smile, his eyes all crinkly. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Man, he was hot.

  His smile faded to a concerned frown. “I see what you mean about your face. Are you okay?”

  Goddammit.

  “I had an allergic reaction. I’m fine now, it’s just...residual.”

  “Oh, good.” The smile returned. “You ready?”

  “Ready!” I said, with possibly a little too much enthusiasm. Because I wasn’t feeling ready; I was feeling terrified, and now that I was mere steps from the shoreline, I regretted this stupid decision. When I’d said yes, I’d been thinking with my loins instead of my brains, imagining how nice it would be to get up close and personal with Trey, pressing our bodies together in the salty swell of the Pacific as his strong arms supported me and my legs wrapped around his hips and...

  Okay, this was a good idea, after all.

  “You can leave your bag and stuff in here.” He pointed through the glass doors into the lifeguard station. “They know me, it’s okay.”

  “Great.” I pulled my dress over my head and stuffed it in my bag, then set it inside on the floor next to my flip-flops. “Let’s do this.”

  He met my eyes, beaming. “Let’s do this.” Then he grabbed me by the hand and led me toward the water.

  When his fingers threaded through mine, every last iota of doubt and fear dissolved into nothing. Whatever happened out there, he was my spotter. If I got scared, I could simply cling to him in a completely platonic and not-at-all amorous way.

  We paused at the water’s edge, where I took a deep, centering breath. The briny air was sharp and cool.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Surprisingly good.” And I meant it. Sure, there was that low-level fear lingering in the background, but mostly, I was excited to tackle this new challenge. To be the girl who swims fearlessly in the ocean.

  “Before we go in,” he said, “I want you to know that you can tell me to stop at any time. We can go at your pace, however fast or slow you want, okay? It’s important to me that you’re comfortable.”

  I couldn’t help but smirk. “Exactly what are we getting into here?”

  His cheeks flushed when he realized the unintentional double entendre. “I just mean, I don’t want you to get into another situation where you’re panicking. This should be a positive experience, without any fear.”

  The fear must’ve been written all over my face, because Trey squeezed my hand. “The ocean is powerful, but there’s no need to fear it. You just need to respect it. To understand it.”

  A light ripple washed over my toes as he gave a brief overview of how to read the ocean. He said the direction of the wind could shift the currents, turning them from relatively safe to potentially dangerous within seconds. Then he taught me how to identify a riptide by looking for gaps between the waves and told me that if I got knocked off my feet, the best way to deal with it wasn’t to fight it, but to curl up in a ball and go with the flow.

  I couldn’t imagine being able to calmly surrender to a wave that was pulling me under. But when Trey asked me if I felt prepared, I nodded confidently because there was no way I was going to let on that I was still afraid.

  He squeezed my hand again. “You take the lead.”

  Okay, this was happening.

  One foot in front of the other, one step at a time, we walked into the water. “Remember to shuffle your feet,” he said, and I became hyperaware of the movement between my toes, the sand shifting beneath me. When something cold and slimy grazed my ankle, I screeched.

  “I think it’s a stingray!”

  Trey cro
uched down and pulled a green clump of leaves from the water. “It’s kelp.” He held it aloft, watching it drip, before throwing it aside with a splash.

  “Oh. I guess I’m a little jumpy.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? We can go back anytime you want.”

  I shook my head, determined to overcome this irrational fear. “No, I want to do this.”

  We kept walking, shuffling our feet, until we were knee-deep, thigh-deep, waist-deep. When the waves rolled in, we braced ourselves for impact.

  Keep moving forward.

  The water was at my breasts, then my shoulders. Waves continued coming, only now they lifted us up and set us down before crashing behind us on shore.

  Keep moving forward.

  My toes barely touched the ground. And then suddenly, there was no ground anymore.

  Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my body reflexively slipped into old patterns of panic. My legs kicked of their own volition, and Trey slipped his arm around my midsection, whispering so close I could feel his breath in my ear, “You’re totally safe. The water’s calm.”

  His touch took the edge off my anxiety. The longer I stayed here, treading water, eye level with the horizon, the less anxious I felt. The bob and sway of the water was suddenly soothing, the cool prickle comforting against my skin. Though anything could be lurking down there by my feet—a shark, a stingray, a massive wad of kelp—I stopped thinking about all of that.

  I was floating in the unknown, and I loved it.

  “This is amazing,” I practically screamed. Then I turned to face Trey, grasping his biceps, high on sea water. “Why did I wait so long to do this?”

  He looked as happy as I felt. “I told you, there’s no reason to be afraid.”

  “I want to do this every day.”

  “Good thing you live so close to the beach, then.”

  Maybe it was the motion of the ocean, or the firmness of his biceps, or the feel of his fingertips caressing the small of my back. Or it could’ve been the exhilaration of overcoming one of my most fundamental fears. Whatever it was, in that moment, looking at Trey’s beautiful face, his pillowy lips and deep-set eyes and buttery skin, all I could think was that I wanted him more than I’d wanted anyone in my entire life.