Page 16 of Famous for a Living

Overnight, I became everything those in my business feared.

Canceled.

It came as no surprise, then, when Jacquie apologized as she told me she just wasn’t “the best fit for navigating me through these troubled times” and that it was truly “in my best interest to work with an expert.” Telling me she didn’t have the “stretch to secure the brand deals I deserved given the current circumstance” but that “she wished me nothing but the best.”

Her words sweetened with icing but bitter at the core.

All of a sudden I had no one.

No one but Serena.

“How exactly am I going to change my lifestyle more than I already have?” I ask weakly.

My whole body feels tired. An anchor attached to my feet, dragging me down as Serena sets a plate of brioche bread with berries and vegan crème anglaise before me.

“I have nothing,” I continue, ignoring it. “Everyone thinks I intentionally sold their data. This isn’t just some influencer losing it and driving through a grocery store in a golf cart naked.”

Serena sighs nostalgically. We all remember Gary. He was a barrel of laughs up until the end.

“This isn’t just another amusing bit of news they watch from a distance while eating popcorn. It’s a personal hit,” I say. “To everyone. Everyone feels violated. My reputation is gone forever—”

“Just because people don’t believe you yet.” Serena picks up my plate and, using it like a cattle prod, pushes me out of the kitchen. She sets it on the coffee table in the living room and moves toward the two-story windows and closed curtains. “It’s temporary—”

“Nobody,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chin on the couch, “bounces back.”

“People do it all the time,” she says flippantly as if we’re talking about switching hot yoga bars. “We just need to have a plan. And step one of that plan is getting you to a place where you can save money and reshape your image. Cat, I’ve given this some thought.”

I wince. This is the kind of tone that’s landed me in Salvadorian taxis flying through stop signs with no heed to oncoming traffic all because Serena saw a video of black baby turtles from El Salvador hatching online, thought they were “cute,” and decided we “absolutely must” visit.

“I think you need to rent out your apartment.”

A shaft of light flows into the living room as she yanks one curtain back. I can’t help noticing her little intake of breath and the way her hands clasp together as she looks over the skyline.

“My apartment . . . ,” I repeat.

Had she said this a year ago, six months ago, even, perhaps, last month, I would’ve crumbled. I would’ve laughed at the audacity of such an idea. I would’ve told her she was crazy.

But now?

I scan the perfectly plumped pillows of the fifteen-foot-long sectionals meant for weekly entertainment. The sterile white walls of the expansive living room that echo the TV keeping me company late at night.

Feeling nothing toward it. Nothing at all.

From the white couches, to the perfectly laid dining table set for twelve, to the kitchen beyond. All new in planning for this purchase. So much research and mood boarding and color and product coordinating. So much excitement yielding such disappointing results.

No history or memories attached.

Just glass, marble, and walls.

What would it take to move? A few luggage bags of clothes and shoes. A few books and pictures.

“And,” Serena continues, “you need to take up your uncle’s offer.”

This, at last, draws out some feeling. Like a needle jabbing you in the ribs out of nowhere.

“What?” I give a nervous little laugh. “Serena, you can’t be serious.” I pause, leveling my gaze. “Seriously. You can’t.”

She throws her hands in the air. “Now, I know it isn’t ideal—I don’t want you leaving the city any more than you do—but I’ve watched you the past few months. You’re depressed. You spend hours every day on your phone torturing yourself, reading every post and comment about you out there. You stay inside all the time—”