“Fine,” Camille said quickly, and I knew I could have requested the next four weekends and she would have agreed. She glanced past me at the basket of mushrooms. “Ooh, morels,” she said. Morels were her favorite. I certainly had enough to spare, but there was no way in hell I was going to leave her with some.
“Let me get my stuff and I’ll be out your way,” I said. I went over and picked up the basket of mushrooms she’d been eyeing. “And I’m taking these with me.”
***
I drove back to the city. I still lived in the little two-bedroom house in Noe Valley that I’d grown up in, before the neighborhood had undergone its transformation into a hip, expensive place for well-off families. I stayed because my father refused to leave, and we shared the house, though I knew we could sell for a ridiculous amount. Dad refused, though; he said that after he was dead he’d leave me the house and I could do with it what I wanted, but until then, there was no way in hell he was going anywhere.
I made some noise with the key when I opened the door, to give Dad a little warning that I was home unexpectedly early. Not that I expected he’d be doing anything that he wouldn’t want me to see—in fact I knew exactly where he would be, and that was in his recliner, either reading a book or watching daytime television, depending on his mood. My father had been a prominent psychologist for many years, until my senior year of high school when a drunk driver had swerved into his lane as he’d been driving to my high school graduation. So that was how I spent my high school graduation, and part of the summer before my freshman year of college—sitting in a hospital room at SF General, wondering whether or not my dad would wake up from the coma he was in, and, if he did, whether his brain would still work.
He did wake up halfway through the third week of his coma, and though he recognized me, and Mom, and knew his name, it was clear after a few days that he wasn’t quite himself. The doctors told us that it might simply take time, or not; he might be permanently changed. Brain injuries were funny that way, I could clearly remember one of the doctors saying, which had enraged me at the time because there was nothing funny about it.
And there still wasn’t. I couldn’t help but feel guilty—if it hadn’t been for my graduation, then Dad wouldn’t have been there at that moment, and the whole thing never would have happened. I knew the futility in thinking like that, yet I couldn’t help it, because I knew it was true.
“It’s just me,” I said as I pushed the door open. I could hear the TV in the living room.
“Thought you weren’t coming back till Sunday.”
I walked into the kitchen and put the basket of morels on the table, then went into the living room, where, sure enough, Dad was sat, stretched out in his recliner. His gray hair was unruly, badly in need of a cut. He wore his usual uniform of a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants, which I still found disconcerting; before his accident he’d been clean-cut, shaved every day, wore a suit, or, if not a suit, pressed pants and a button-down. He’d always taken pride in his appearance; now, he couldn’t care less.
“That’s what I thought, too,” I said, taking a seat on the couch. The living room felt stuffy, too hot. It was late September; we were in the middle of San Francisco’s summer. I got up and opened the windows. “Let’s get some air in here.”
“So why are you back, then?”
“Camille showed up.”
Dad snorted. “And you let her run you out?”
“She was with some guy.”
Wrong answer.
“And you just tolerated that. Tucked tail and ran.”
I sighed. Before the brain injury, Dad would have never said something like that. Before the accident, he’d been refined, well-spoken, carefully considered every side of a situation. The old dad knew that things were never black and white, that there was always more than one side to any given story. But that part of him had vanished once he’d woken up from his coma, and the dad I was left with was brusque, judgmental, and sometimes talked like he was originally from some tiny, backwoods Contra Costa County town. “What was I supposed to do? Pull out my pistol and challenge him to a gun fight?”
“Shouldn’t have backed down. Really, you shouldn’t have that place with her at all; it just doesn’t make sense. Unless the two of you got back together and there’s something you’re not telling me. But if that was the case, then she probably wouldn’t be showing up there with some other guy.”
“No, Dad, we didn’t get back together; you’d be the first to know.”
“Well, it’s not like something I’m waiting with bated breath on. Still shouldn’t have done that. She’ll never respect you now. Why don’t you just sell the place?”
It was a good question, one that Camille and I had both considered, but we’d ultimately decided that neither of us wanted to sell. We’d both put a lot of time and energy into the place, and though we could easily sell it for well over what we’d paid, it wasn’t something either of us felt we could do. And at the moment, neither could afford to buy the other out. So long as the schedule could be adhered to, it shouldn’t be that difficult for both of us to keep the place—it’d be kind of like a timeshare, of sorts—but this wasn’t the first time that Camille had infringed on my weekend, and I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be the last.
I thought of her now, up there—when it should have been me up there—probably bitching to her new boyfriend about the fact I didn’t leave them any morels.
“That’s just not something either of us want to do right now, Dad.”
“Then maybe you should go up there next time that you know she’s gonna be there. Bring a girl of your own with you.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Did I say girlfriend? Get a prostitute if you have to. Camille won’t like that one bit.”
“I’m not getting a prostitute.”
“Why the hell not? You’d be making a point. See how she likes it.”
“I’m not doing that.”
He gave me a disgusted look. “Always such a good boy. You were always a good kid, growing up. But how’s that worked out for you? You get some whore who wants to—”
“Okay,” I said, putting up a hand. “That’s enough of that.” Camille had caused me considerable pain and anguish toward the end of our relationship, but that still didn’t mean I wanted to hear my dad talk shit about her.
His look of disgust changed to one of chagrined resignation. “See? Always the gentleman, even when she doesn’t deserve it. Well, if you don’t want to get a prostitute, maybe just get yourself a new girlfriend. That’s respectable enough for you—right? Sounds like Camille has moved on. But I bet she wouldn’t be too happy to find out that you had moved on, too.”
“I have.”
He looked at me, eyebrow raised. “Have you really?”
There were moments when I would feel like the old dad was back, and this was one of them. Like maybe he was really in there still, trapped, unable to break free except at the most random of times. It was something in his tone, a look in his eyes. I knew it was something that I could just be imagining, of course. Wishful thinking. But it did feel like that now, like it was Dad before the brain injury, honestly inquiring as to whether or not I really thought that I had gotten over being broken up with by the person I assumed I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
“I have,” I repeated. “But that doesn’t mean that I want to be friends with her.”
“I never said that. Staying on friendly terms with the ex rarely ever works. But that’s one of the reasons you should figure out what you’re going to do about that place of yours you have with her. No need for the two of you to keep it. Why don’t you just sell it?”
“We’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Then you should be able to sell it for a profit. And, hell, when I croak, you’ll be able to sell this place for about seven times what your mother and I paid for it. Maybe even more, the way things are going. You can take all that money and go do whatever t
he hell you want.”
“I don’t really want to be talking about that, Dad. You’ve still got a lot of years ahead of you.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me.”
I opened my mouth, but then I shut it. I just didn’t have it in me to wax poetic about how life really was worth living. I mean, of course it was, but sometimes it was also frustrating as hell and really seemed kind of pointless. But really, that was only because dealing with other people could be absolutely, completely maddening.
Chapter 2
Teagan
My favorite thing about the Internet was probably the fact that you could be whoever you wanted.
I wasn’t quite sure what that said about me. Probably nothing good. As a kid, one of my favorite ways to pass the time had been to play dress-up. My younger sister would be out, riding her bike, swimming in the pond, climbing trees—activities I would occasionally join, but only because I knew if I played with her, she would have to come inside, eventually, and raid our mother’s closet for ill-fitting high heels and long dresses that we could wear while we were pretending we were other people.
I was just putting a tray of scones into the oven when my phone rang. Elliott.
“Hey, Tea,” he said. “Just wanted to check in and see how everything was going.”
Elliott was a long-time friend, and technically an ex-boyfriend, though I really didn’t think of him like that. He was a friend, first. The romance side of things had maybe been inevitable, but if we’d really taken a step back to think about it first, we probably would have realized that we were way better off as friends, and it would have saved us considerable heartache. I mean, that was sort of what I always imagined it would be like—the love of your life would also be a great friend. And sometimes it can be hard to differentiate the platonic feelings you have toward a friend with romantic feelings because that friend also happens to be good-looking and someone you admire.
“Things are good,” I said. “I’m going to make some coffee and then go out and do a little thrift-store shopping. What are you up to?”
“Nothing much. Just working on some design ideas.”
Elliott and I both shared a love for interior design, which was how we met, in the stacks of the San Francisco Public Library, looking at interior-architecture books. This was before I’d become an Instagram celebrity, when my followers had consisted of a few hundred “friends” and family, all people whom I had interacted with at some point in my life, either in person or online. Now, my account had over one hundred thousand followers, and while I did my best to keep it personable, most of these people I had never met and would never have a direct conversation with. Which was probably a good thing, because I knew who I was in real life would probably be disappointing compared to the person whose life I had cultivated on the Internet.
Which was not to say I presented blatant lies about myself, because I didn’t. But I knew that people saw me, through my posts, as a quietly assured person, someone who had enough confidence in herself and her abilities that she felt she could be in the position to encourage others to do the same. I liked that people saw me this way, because it was the way I hoped I might come across, despite knowing that I wasn’t really like that in real life. In real life, I was anxious, and if it wasn’t related in some way to design, I didn’t have any confidence in my ability whatsoever. I still did read every comment and try to respond when I could, but it would be impossible to respond to every question, every DM, and still have time to do things like eating and sleeping.
I had never planned on being an Instagram influencer, though maybe none of us ever really did. It was one of those things that just sort of happened, and when businesses began contacting me about featuring their products in some of my posts, I saw it as an opportunity to be able to do what I loved full-time: create beautiful interior designs that would inspire people to do the same in their own spaces.
I was self-taught, which I think helped in terms of garnering a following. People seem drawn to those who haven’t had the formal schooling, who they can look at and say, Gee, if someone like Teagan can do it, then why can’t I? And that was really one of the most important things to me—that I was able to inspire people, even if I never had a face-to-face conversation with them. The Internet brought with it many drawbacks, yes, but there were still certainly plenty of things that were amazing about it, too.
But there had been some disturbing incidents lately: the death of two different Instagram stars, one from the Bay Area and one in Seattle. Both had been shot, and despite neither knowing the other, the public was of the opinion that this killer was targeting Instagram celebrities. At first, I had thought that it seemed like a stretch, that the media was just looking for its next big headline, but then, of course, my anxiety started to kick in and it seemed more likely that that’s exactly what was happening.
“I’m calling,” Elliott said, “because I’m worried about you. I just saw online that someone else has been killed. You haven’t heard about it?”
“What?” I said. I had been filling up the tea kettle to boil water, but I turned the tap off so I could hear Elliott better. “Like another—”
“Yes,” he interrupted. He paused. “And you know her.”
I gulped. “I do? Who?”
“Cecily Barrett.”
“Oh, my God.”
The muscles in my throat constricted. Cecily was not someone I’d ever met in person, but she was someone I had corresponded with on many occasions online, and we’d been talking about finally meeting in real life one day. Her Instagram account was full of gorgeous pictures of her house down in Carmel-by-the-Sea, and she had cultivated the urban-farmhouse brand immaculately. She also had three kids, which made the whole thing even more amazing. There was no way I could do this if I had kids—I knew that for a fact.
“She was killed?” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” Elliott said. “Like I said, I’m a little surprised that you hadn’t heard.”
I ignored the mildly chastising tone in his voice. Elliott could be pretty self-righteous when he wanted to be.
“I just... I’ve been trying to not pay attention to the news lately. Everything’s been so depressing.” And when I felt depressed, it was hard to conjure up any energy or ideas for my posts, and though my Instagram account was indeed a lot of work at times, it was like my special sanctuary where things could be exactly as I wanted them. I didn’t want anyone or anything to mess with that. Because if that happened—what did I have left?
“Sticking your head in the sand is not going to make this go away,” Elliott said. “Did you ever think that maybe someone had this same conversation with Cecily? And maybe she said something differently and she ends up getting shot right as she’s about to get back into her Volvo?”
“Subaru,” I said, sniffing. I wiped at the tears that were threatening to spill down my face. It had been a little bit of a running joke, Cecily’s love for her Subaru Forester, which she had dubbed Mrs. Doubtfire. “She drives a Subaru.” Drove a Subaru.
“It doesn’t matter what kind of granola-crunchy, overpriced car she drove,” he said. “She isn’t driving one now—probably because she wasn’t taking things seriously at all. And I just don’t want to see the same thing happen to you.”
I tried to take a deep breath, but my throat still felt constricted, like I’d swallowed a too-big bite of food without chewing it well enough. It was still hard for me to think of myself as a celebrity, as a sort of person who might be recognized if I went out somewhere.
“I think,” Elliott continued, “that it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you thought about getting some sort of security.”
“Security? Like a bodyguard?” That seemed so over the top that I was certain I wasn’t understanding him correctly.
“Yes,” he said. “Not all the time or anything—though I’m sure you could afford that—but when you’re going out. You
’re usually alone, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” And that was how I preferred it. At least, that’s what I told myself. I’d always been something of a loner, and while I knew there were some people out there who were like that because they wanted to be, I had always felt as though I was more like that because that’s just how I was—it didn’t matter how I personally felt about it. To be honest, I really wanted to be the Teagan that people saw on social media. Most of the time, though, that felt impossible, being able to translate the girl on Instagram into real life. For me, anyway. Elliott was a different story; we’d started our accounts at the same time—sitting across from each other at Café Blue—and though he was holding steady at about five hundred followers, the person he presented in his account was exactly the person he was in real life.
“Then I don’t think it would be a bad idea to at least look into.”
“But it’s not like I’m really doing anything when I go out. You know, it’s like I go to my favorite shops, the flea market, a café or something. I’m not out at the club or doing anything crazy.” I nodded as I heard myself speak; there was no reason for someone who did as little as I really did, to need a security guard.
“I hear what you’re saying,” Elliott said, “but that’s probably exactly what Cecily was thinking, too. But we’ll never know, because it’s not like you could go ask her.”
I closed my eyes. It felt weird to be mourning a person I’d never met, but then again, people did this sort of thing all the time, didn’t they? Some people could be very affected by the death of a celebrity, or a favorite author, or a musician whom they’d never had an actual conversation with before. And the thing was, Cecily and I did have a relationship. We knew details about each other’s lives—beyond the stuff we posted on our accounts that anyone could glean.
“Tell me you’ll at least think about it,” Elliott said. “I know we’re not together anymore, Tea, but I do worry about you. I do.”
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