“I’m sorry.” The words were forced, strained, but they had to be said. “The stuff is gone now, though. I can’t get it back. You can have all the money I made from it, but I don’t have anything else to give you. I lost my job, my car died, and my bank accounts are all frozen. So I’m not sure what your dad would accomplish in court. Unless you want to throw me in jail.”
I handed him the cash I’d accrued from the evening’s sales, wondering what kind of sentence my crime carried, what kind of prison I’d end up in. How could I ever tell Natasha what I’d done? What I’d made her an accomplice to, without her knowing?
Rob pocketed the cash, then dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, as if trying to scrub away everything he’d seen. “No,” he said, then dragged his palms upward over his forehead. “Of course I don’t want to throw you in jail.”
He moved toward the futon, then threw himself down, sending stacks of clutter tumbling toward the floor. On top of it all was a small padded envelope, the one my Kissy Face lip gloss had been delivered in. It was torn open and emptied out; I should’ve tossed it in the garbage last week, but like everything else in my life, I chose to throw it on top of an ever-growing mess and deal with it at some later, undetermined time.
Right now, Rob picked it up, turned it over in his hands. “Bree by the Sea,” he said. “What’s that?”
“It was a failed experiment.”
“Instagram?”
I didn’t answer. In retrospect, the whole thing was so stupid and embarrassing, I didn’t want to acknowledge it had happened.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
At first, I thought he was joking. One look at his face, though, and it was clear he was a hundred percent serious. “No.”
“Please?”
“Do you honestly think I’m going to have sex with you after everything that has happened? We didn’t even have sex when we were together.”
At least he had the courtesy to blush. “I’m not...that’s not what I meant. I just need a place to stay tonight, that’s all.”
“Go to a hotel.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? There are a dozen hotels within a half-mile radius. Pick one, walk up to the front desk, and hand over your father’s credit card.”
“I don’t have my father’s credit card anymore.” He started picking at his cuticles again. “My parents cut me off.”
This should’ve been a sweet moment of schadenfreude. But there was no pleasure in seeing Rob slouching on my futon, with messed-up hair and chewed-up nails, his forehead streaked with worry lines. All I could see was a failed Instagrammer, a college dropout, a guy without a passion or a plan.
Plus, if he really wanted to, he could still send me to jail.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m going to Palm Desert for the weekend, anyway. You can stay here while I’m away, but when I get back on Monday, you’d better be gone. Understood?”
He nodded, and I whipped out my phone to text Natasha: Think you could send that Lyft to me now instead of tomorrow morning?
Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s...” I glanced over at Rob, still holding that padded envelope in his hands, his expression vacant and altogether sad. “I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Hold on a second.” There was a minute of silence, then, “Shaun, white Mazda. He’ll be there in six minutes.”
She hung up before I could say thanks. I sprinted to my bed and threw my clothes in the duffel bag. As I headed for the bathroom to grab toothpaste and a razor, Rob said, “When are you leaving?”
“A car is coming for me now.” I tossed my toiletries in a Ziploc and chucked them on top of my clothes, then zipped it up and slipped on my flip-flops. All at once, I remembered I was still wearing this backward romper and mildewed hoodie, but I’d sort that all out once I got to Natasha’s.
I grabbed my purse from where I’d thrown it on the floor, and as an afterthought, tossed my copy of The Aspirational Action Plan inside. Maybe I’d find a way to put it to good use this weekend. Like selling it secondhand.
With my hand on the doorknob, Rob asked, “Before you go, do you know where my bong is?”
“The six-foot one?” When he nodded, I said, “It’s not here.”
He cried out, horrified, as if I’d committed an act of murder. “You sold that, too?”
“No. I tried to, but no one wanted it. Someone swiped it when I left it on the street.”
I slammed the door behind me, then made my way to the curb, where Shaun was already waiting in his white Mazda. As we drove away, I cast a longing glance at Trey’s blue bungalow. There was a light on in the living room—now I knew for sure it was the living room. Then I closed my eyes and imagined myself curled up on the couch beside him. A quick, beautiful daydream to sustain me through the weekend.
Chapter 22
“I can’t believe he had the balls to come back.”
If Natasha was using the word balls before noon, it was a sure sign she was furious. She’d been ranting about Rob’s balls, nerve, gall, and audacity almost nonstop since I showed up on her doorstep the night before. At first, I appreciated the solidarity. But now we were more than halfway through our journey to Palm Desert, and I was officially sick of rehashing it.
Eager to change the subject, I asked, “Did you ever figure out what the UltraLuxe tent upgrade is all about?”
She shook her head, eyes fixed firmly on the road. “I haven’t had time. Why don’t you check it out now? There’s probably a description on the website.”
I whipped out my phone, happy to finally see a full set of bars; cell service had been spotty on this trip. Before we entered another dead zone, I pulled up demidipalma.com and navigated to the Synergy Summit section. Under “Accommodations,” there was a photo of the UltraLuxe tent. And it looked ultraluxurious.
“Wow, this tent is gorgeous,” I said, zooming in to get a closer look. With hardwood floors and an en suite bathroom, it only vaguely resembled a tent.
“I think they said it was more of a yurt.”
“Whatever it is, it’s nicer than my apartment.” There were two queen beds piled high with stacks of fluffy pillows. I could already envision myself curling up under that downy duvet, closing my eyes, and drifting off to the soundtrack of the desert. “We’re gonna get such a good night’s sleep.”
“We’re gonna have the best time.” Natasha reached across the console and squeezed my hand. In profile, she was beaming. Happy to get away, to pursue her dreams, to spend time with me. I squeezed back, grateful for this opportunity.
My other hand buzzed. There was a notification on my phone, a DM from @kombucha_king, the brand of kombucha I’d posed with at Law Street Beach before deciding to trash this whole influencer idea.
Hi Bree by the Sea,
We hope you’re enjoying your complimentary bottle of Krazy Adrenal Detox Kombucha! We’re writing to remind you that, as per the influencer agreement you electronically signed on May 12, you are required to publish a sponsored Instagram post featuring a photo of the Krazy Adrenal Detox Kombucha, with the hashtags #kombuchaking, #kombuchadetox, and #peacelovekombucha, within seven days of receipt.
If you choose not to partake in our collaboration, please return the kombucha at your own expense as soon as possible. Failure to comply with our agreement may result in legal action.
Peace, love, and kombucha!
The Kombucha King Team
Legal action over a five-dollar bottle of kombucha? Peace and love, my ass.
“Goddammit.”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken the word out loud until Natasha asked me, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just forgot to post something to Instagram.”
“An ad for one of your collab partners?”
“Yeah.” Though it was a pretty toxic partnership, since they were already threatening to sue me. A shiver went through me at the thought of another court order. And if Kombucha King was coming after me, then eventually the other brands would, too. The ugly shoes and the hand lotion and the phone case. I’d given all of it away to that couple on the beach, so I couldn’t return them. @breebythesea couldn’t die until I’d fulfilled my influencer obligations.
These past couple of days, I’d been ignoring my Instagram notifications, indifferent to the likes and comments that I’d once found so validating. Now I wondered if maybe I’d missed some other threatening message.
With a flick of my thumb, I scrolled through them, scanning for mentions of lawsuits or contracts. Among the hundreds of meaningless notes from my loyal bot followers was a comment from @vitalvineyards, that wine brand I’d tipsily tagged in a fake #collab post last week.
Under my beautiful photo of a Riesling and a hot tub, they posted a comment.
Thank you for the tag, and we’re glad you’re enjoying our wine! But we must make it clear: this post is not an official collaboration with Vital Vineyards, and this account is not an approved Instagram Partner.
Ugh. So much for faking it.
Eager to get my obligations over with as soon as possible, I returned to my home screen, ready to upload the first of several photos. An error message appeared: couldn’t refresh feed. The bars on my phone were gone, replaced with a sad letter X.
“Shit,” I said. “We drove back into a dead zone.”
“Use the scheduler I installed. You can pick your photos and set filters and captions and tags and all that. As soon as you get service again, they’ll post automatically.”
I scrolled through my home screen, looking for the apps she’d installed last weekend, when we were sitting in the hot tub. Naturally, they were all neatly organized in a subfolder titled Instagram Helpers. I’d never actually gotten around to using any of them.
“InstaScheduler,” I said, tapping the bright purple icon with an IS in the center. “You’re a genius.”
“Not really. It was featured in that Instagram boot camp I told you about. You should really take it, Bree. I can give you my log-in information.”
“Maybe.” I flashed back to what Mari told me about Demi DiPalma’s so-called boot camps. She said they were overpriced scams with no original information, but Natasha had clearly learned a whole lot from hers.
That being said, I had no intention of taking it. Because as soon as I scheduled these collab posts, I was done with Instagram for good.
As I swiped through my photos, searching for a halfway decent shot of the Krazy Adrenal Detox Kombucha bottle, Natasha asked the question I’d been hoping to avoid. “So, how’s the whole influencer thing going, anyway?”
Suddenly, my phone slipped from my grip, tumbling onto the rubber mat at my feet. “Oops!” I bent over to pick it up, taking my time down there, trying to figure out the best way to answer. This wasn’t the time to admit I was giving up on the influencer game. I’d tell her eventually, of course, but not now, before our extra-special sisterly bonding weekend.
For now, I’d keep my answers short. The less I said, the better.
“Good.”
I popped back up, phone in hand, and resumed my swiping. But Natasha wasn’t done with the questions. “Has the increased follower count helped you at all? Have you been able to grow any real followers organically?”
No. “It’s been slow going.”
“What about your metrics? Have you seen any improvement with your engagement?”
I have no idea what you’re talking about. “I don’t think so.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re taking this very seriously, Bree.”
“It’s not that I’m not serious. But the whole Instagram business model seems sort of arbitrary, doesn’t it? You can spend lots of time researching hashtags and choosing your aesthetic and everything, but success is completely out of your control. You just have to hope the right person sees you at the right time. It all boils down to luck.”
“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” Ah. Time for some aphorisms.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Arm yourself with all the information you possibly can, come up with a solid strategy, and when the opportunity for success arises, it’s yours for the taking.”
“That seems awfully idealistic.”
A serene, self-satisfied smile spread across her face, like she had all the answers and I was being needlessly combative. “Bree, I’ll just say this—whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right.”
She was probably right, but I’d heard enough pearls of wisdom for one morning. With an irritated sigh, I turned back to my phone and set upon the tedious task of scheduling these Instagram posts. Meanwhile, Natasha put on a podcast about tackling digital clutter. Forty minutes later, we pulled into a dirt parking lot for the Palm Desert Polo Club, where a large banner demanding we CHOOSE HAPPY pointed us in the direction of Demi DiPalma’s Synergy Summit.
Any lingering tension dissipated the moment we stepped out of the car, swept away on the soft desert breeze. We pulled our bags from the trunk—Natasha had replaced my janky duffel with a LeSportsac tote the moment I’d arrived at her house—and headed toward the crowded registration table. After swiping Natasha’s credit card (“for incidentals”), a chipper young woman named Saffron handed us thick welcome packets and gave us directions to our temporary home in tent #12. “Make a left at the saguaro. You’re the third yurt on the right.”
As we walked the path toward our tent or yurt or whatever it was, my chest felt all light and fluttery. I recalled the photo from the website, how luxurious it was, and felt the excitement grow inside me like a rising ocean swell. When we reached #12 and flung back the curtain that served as a door, though, all the excitement drained away with the force of a rip current.
The tent was tiny. And there was only one bed.
“This can’t be it.” Natasha backed out onto the path and waved at a woman holding a clipboard and a button that said Official DiPalma Tribe Member. “Excuse me, I think we were assigned the wrong yurt. We were supposed to be upgraded to the UltraLuxe.”
The woman gave my sister a withering look. “I don’t work here.”
“Oh, sorry.” She pointed to the button affixed to her shirt. “I just saw that and assumed you were a staff member.”
“They’re giving these out to everyone. They’re in the welcome packets.” She glanced over our shoulders and into the tent. “That’s gotta be the UltraLuxe, though. I’m in a standard and it’s probably a third of the size.”
The woman was right. After dragging our bags back to the registration desk, we were told that yes, tent #12 is indeed an UltraLuxe, and no, they did not have any availabilities with two separate beds. “The website clearly states that the photos are merely examples and actual furnishings may vary,” Saffron said, in a decidedly less chipper tone.
Natasha’s shoulders slumped slightly on the walk back to our tent-yurt, so I tried to cheer her up, giving her a playful nudge with my elbow. “We’ll just have to cuddle extra close tonight.”
She looked at me, eyes wide, a sad smile on her face. “Like we used to do.”
It hadn’t occurred to me before, but as soon as she said the words, I knew exactly what she meant. Memories rushed in like a flash flood: Natasha and I, snuggled together in my tiny twin bed, my damp face buried in the crook of her neck. We slept that way every night for about six weeks after our mom died. I’d been too afraid to sleep alone.
“At least this time, it’s a queen-size bed,” I said.
We pulled back the tent flap and surveyed the room again. “Actually, that looks more like a full.”
The rest of the room was fine, if not exactly what I’d classify as
“ultraluxurious.” The floor consisted of some raw wooden planks covered in a threadbare Persian rug. The bed was not covered in fluffy pillows, as advertised. There was a distinct odor of sewage wafting in from the en suite bathroom, which looked suspiciously like a double-wide porta-potty.
There was a dresser, though, and a luggage rack, so while Natasha set to work unpacking, refolding, and organizing her clothes, I stretched out on the bed and reviewed the contents of the welcome packet: an Official DiPalma Tribe Member button, a PopSocket with the words “No Excuses” stamped in gold foil, an Official Synergy Summit Program, and about two dozen flyers advertising small businesses run by members of the “Tribe.” In other words, every woman at this retreat.
Including Natasha.
“These are cute.” I held up the Declutter with DeAngelis postcard, printed with a photo of Natasha above her Instagram handle and her “Choose Happy” catchphrase, which I now knew she’d borrowed from Demi DiPalma. On the other side, she’d written a short biography, in which she proclaimed herself, “Author of the upcoming book Work Your Wall Space!” But there was one sentence that threw me off balance.
“It says here you’re a UCLA graduate.”
She flinched ever so slightly, then resumed folding her underwear into careful thirds. When she spoke, her voice was low. “I did go there.”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” This was certainly not an issue I wanted to push, but Natasha was on the defensive.
“Like I said before, luck is where opportunity meets preparation.” She placed her clothes inside the top drawer of the distressed wooden dresser and closed it with a little too much force. “Landing a book deal is extremely competitive. You have to be able to stand out in a crowd.”
“Definitely.” I regretted ever mentioning it. So what if Natasha told a little white lie? It’s not like this was some official résumé. Besides, the “DiPalma Tribe” was all about faking it till you make it. Lying about having a college degree was the ultimate fake out.
She's Faking It Page 21
