Page 24 of Famous for a Living

The road is covered in white but it’s manageable, thanks in small part to the tracks of Zaiah’s F250 with the words US Park Ranger across the sides.

The snow is coming down heavily, but not so much the wipers can’t keep up.

I sink into the white leather, relief starting to set in.

The screen lights up on my phone in the dark car and I glance down, seeing the social media notification.

Ignore it, Cat.

Leave it.

My chest tightens, though, just a tiny bit. Just enough to make my anxiety rise without me quite knowing why. Just enough to make my eyes dart from the road to the phone, to the speedometer, then back to the phone and its glow.

The come-hither glow.

No. Just last week I saw one of those really awful commercials about texting and driving. I will not yield.

I purse my lips and look back at the road. As we move through another stop sign, I congratulate myself.

I mean, honestly, here I am in the middle of nowhere following the law, when just a few months ago I was in a plane with a friend (well, now deserted friend) who couldn’t stop looking at his phone. And he was the one flying. At one point he was literally watching a TikTok of a girl flying a plane, while there we were actually flying a plane.

He couldn’t even control himself over unimportant things, while here I am, dealing with the biggest crisis of my life regarding career, reputation, and millions of dollars hanging in the balance. And what am I doing? I’m obeying the law during those first critical minutes after posting. Those first critical minutes when feedback makes or breaks a post. And in this case, not just a post, but my life.

The stakes are high.

What if people are attacking the post from the angle of too many suitcases? It only takes one person to start a thread, to steer or skew the post to its will.

I should be on there, supporting the kind commenters with an overflow of gratitude that spurs them on.

My stomach churns, fingers gripping the wheel as we inch along.

My eyes flicker down to the speedometer.

Fifteen miles an hour.

Fifteen.

I could practically be running alongside the vehicle at this point.

I yank a glove off one hand with my teeth and with surgical-level precision and gamer-level speed I swipe and tap on the buttons as half a dozen screens pass by.

My eyes pinpoint the place on the screen where I see the number of likes from the previous posts. The little heart and the number below it that tells me how I’m performing.

Not well.

Not well enough when I’m calculating the time that’s lapsed against the numbers.

I tap on the bubble for comments and begin to scroll.

A number of words catch my eye: trying too hard.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Expensive.

Phony.

Façade.