Page 17 of Famous for a Living

“You just told me to get back inside,” I counter.

“Only when you are even worse in public. How much do you want to bet the wheels of IG’s algorithm are running manic right now over a picture of you staring at a bunch of newspapers in the rain, looking as guilty as Chevy coming home from spring break?”

Chevy was Serena’s long-term boyfriend who made the mistake of getting frisky with another freshman on spring break ten years ago. Chevy was also the unfortunate long-term boyfriend who wasn’t dumped by Serena but given a life sentence of frequent reminders of his grievances ten years ago.

“The thing is,” Serena continued, “you’re miserable in your apartment and—sweetie, I can’t emphasize this enough—a horrific example out. You can’t handle the judgment of other people—”

I start to interrupt.

“Not at this scale,” she rushes on. “No one can. And the cost of living isn’t doing you any favors while you’re”—she pauses, as though trying to find the right word for utterly rejected with frozen accounts and fired from everything—“on sabbatical. You need to get out of the city. For that matter, you need to go somewhere as remote as possible from people who have modern technology. And I can think of no place better than in the middle of absolutely Nowhere, Utah, with your uncle.”

“Kannery, Montana,” I correct with a frown.

“Right. Sure. So rent out the penthouse. Do that job he offered for spare change. And stay far, far away from social media and online retail therapy while you’re at it.”

I look over at the portable hot tub yet to be inflated in the corner, all the while aware in the back of my mind of the vintage Marilyn Monroe lipstick I’m currently bidding for on eBay.

“So go kick back with family, get a reset, and let Murphy handle the rest. Believe me, Cat, I hate to say it and you know I’ll miss you like crazy, but it really is what you need right now.” Just as she says this she gives a mighty pull and the second curtain opens. Pointing, she begins counting under her breath the lounge chairs on the balcony.

“Or you’re tired of me too.”

“Nonsense.” She waves a hand without looking at me. “I’m telling my only friend to move across the country. I’m miserable.”

“You have a thousand friends, Serena.”

“True. But none that I like.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. A curtain of hair falls over my eyes, and I push it back. “So let me get this straight. You want to ship me off to the woods until this case is over and I get my personality back.”

“I’d be lying if I said that part wasn’t a little bit true too.”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I count to twenty, taking in this news, trying to think.

Open them when it becomes clear that it’s not helping.

That nothing I can do in this apartment will help.

That nothing I can do in this city will help.

My fingers find the necklace Uncle Terry gave me, and I start tracing the embossed rose on the front. “Where would I place an ad for the apartment? It’s a bit last minute.”

At this Serena swivels on her heel and faces me, her smile as radiant as when she discovered Dolce & Gabbana wasn’t discontinuing their Blu Mediterraneo line after all. “Honey, I’m happy to do you the honor of babysitting your little place for a while.”

I blanch. “You. Doing me the honor.”

“Take over caring for the plants.”

“They’re cacti,” I say. “They take an ice cube every three months.”

“Collecting the mail.”

“The pizza coupons.”

“Just”—she inhales deeply while wafting her hands—“keeping the place socially happy.”

As though the penthouse is a dog that needs company.

“Now.” She gathers me up and leads me toward the closets. “I’ve already Venmoed you the first month’s rent.”