Page 74 of Famous for a Living

“Know something may be going on that I’m not prepared to discuss? Yep.”

Mina clicks her tongue. “Okey-dokey, roomie. Then I say we get going.”

As I’m taking a step to follow her, I turn toward the mirror and carefully sweep a few loose curls to the side of my face. Pick up the lipstick tube with the gilded number 007 across the side.

And hesitate.

I slide it across my lips one more time. Nude. Just a touch of pink. The perfect choice for trying without looking like you’re trying. A master of deceit, aptly named.

Why?

Why am I doing this?

Of course I’m not really doing this to impress him. At this point I’m pretty sure that if I wanted to even get on Zaiah’s radar—really be on his radar—I’d have to throw away my phone, makeup, and 99 percent of my clothing; take up making deer jerky and canning on the weekends; and start going on long walks while reciting Thoreau.

Basically, I’d have to just not be me.

Mina’s words, however, play over in my mind. “I think he just didn’t want you to feel bad about being scared.”

As does the feeling of hovering over the black water’s edge, aware of everyone’s eyes on me, feeling the pressure to jump from everyone around and yet paralyzed with fear at the inky water crashing against the frozen corners of the hole in the ice.

And the relief—the total, all-consuming relief—at Zaiah’s sudden presence. The way he took hold of the moment. The press of his strong fingers still wet from his previous jump wrapping around mine. Steadying me with his firm, unwavering grip. Looking me in the eyes and telling me that it was time to go. That he was right there with me.

The only one in the crowd to see me, the real me, the quaking little girl on the inside, and come to my aid.

Lying about it, even.

For my sake?

For my sake.

I look in the mirror and rake my fingers once more through the curls of my hair. My liner is almost indistinguishable as it melts into my lash lines. No falsies today, but instead three meticulous rounds of mascara. Bronzer just barely around the cheekbones. Blush light as rose petals spotlighting the few freckles on my cheeks.

My green eyes sparkle against the swoop of my auburn hair above one brow. Ever-so-slight curls twirl down to my shoulders. I wear a simple light-pink sweatshirt and jeans above dark boots.

One cheek shows a little pinker than the other, and I raise the heel of my palm and rub until it’s buffed to match the other side.

I look ready.

I look . . . I hope, lovely.

With one hand on the knob and the other on my phone, I slip over the password and reflexively check my socials once more before I open the door. News floods in through a quick scroll. In the span of a minute, I take in the fact that an acquaintance from high school had her baby, a tsunami hit off the coast of Japan, my doorman’s mother passed away, a light acquaintance adopted a shelter cat, a girl I don’t remember had a miscarriage, and war is on the horizon on the other side of the world. A thousand bits of news and emotions and pieces of people’s lives all taken in, ingested, in the span of a minute. A thousand emotional peaks and valleys with very little time to process one before experiencing the next.

My chest tightens ever so slightly as I bounce from one to another, a small part of me wondering, Are we meant to know every thought, deed, traumatic event, and triumph of every person in this world?

I tap over to my home feed, then to my most recent post. The likes aren’t as high as they should be. The comments, on a quick skim, are weak. Internet-troll comments small but mighty.

Hmm.

I smile and snap a selfie of myself in the mirror, then a second and a third.

I hear Mina’s footsteps coming toward the bathroom and quicken, feeling the sense of urgency as my fingers slide madly over the screen. Cropping. Editing. Typing a thoughtful caption. My brain stretches to think of something witty and cheery and short and on-trend all without looking like I’m trying too hard.

Something that’ll cause people to comment back and engage, thereby pushing the post out to others, without sounding desperate for that exact thing.

I feel the hunger, the desperation to get it out into the world, to redeem myself, all the while knowing my window for the night is closing. Knowing that if I don’t get it out now, I’ll have to do it later.

And when exactly will that be?