Chapter 3
Three
The secondhand embarrassment is real. Did you see this video of Callie Carter at lunch? #puke #soembarrassing
“Why? Why why why?”
My sweet squishy pug whines at my feet, sensing that something is wrong. I finally set down the cotton swab and recap the nail polish remover. I put my head in my hands and just breathe.
Butter lets out another whine, so I lean over and heave her up onto my lap.
I already changed out of my salmon outfit into comfy sweats and a BTS t-shirt so I don’t need to worry about her short doggy hairs getting everywhere.
“Sheesh, girl, you need to lose some weight,” I say, but then I immediately feel horrible.
“I’m just kidding. You’re perfect.” I scratch her velvet ears, and her tongue lolls out of her mouth.
Her brown eyes close in pure bliss. I press a kiss to her soft head and then squeeze her to my chest until she yips. I ease off on the pressure.
Noah dumped me. It still doesn’t feel real. It had to be for her, too. And then I PUKED in front of the whole school. It’s like something out of a nightmare.
“It’s going to be okay, right girl?” I pet Butter’s head. “People will forget.” They won’t.
I glance at my spotless pale pink comforter on the bed and notice that the dog hair that was there this morning is gone. Mom must’ve come in and vacuumed it off.
Butter lays her head on my lap and closes her eyes. Despite my reservations, I open Instagram. I’m assaulted with videos and pictures of myself, people laughing over my barf on the floor and discussing at length how I’m handling the breakup.
I close my eyes for a second.
Time to fix it. I open my eyes and whip out a post of my own—a pic of me, Suzy, and Dana smiling in front of the school.
I give a quick life update in the caption.
Well, as much of a life update as I can give without actually letting people see the real me.
No one wants that. They want the perfect Callie—the gorgeous, popular, daughter of a movie star.
Loved by all, immaculately dressed. The Callie they know never gets home, changes into sweats, and stress eats chocolate chip cookie dough while binge-watching The Great British Baking Show. Never.
The picture won’t stop people gossiping, but it’s better than not posting anything at all. Let them see that despite my breakup, I’m smiling and having fun.
The stress of everything balls up in my stomach.
I set down my phone and glance at a framed picture on my desk of Noah and me.
His arm is around my shoulders, and he’s kissing my cheek.
I’m smiling in genuine happiness, and you can see my dimples, the ones I’ve always hated but Noah loved.
Tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.
I grab the picture and chuck it, frame and all, in the trash can.
My phone buzzes with a FaceTime call from Dad.
I hurry to brush my eyes and answer the phone. “Hey, Dad.” I paste on a smile. “How’s LA? How’s the audition going?”
Dad’s tanned face distorts into a frown. “They wouldn’t even let me try out, Cal. The movie directors told me that the role has already been filled by Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“What? No way. They didn’t even give you a chance? You are way better than him, Dad. Loads better.”
Behind my dad, palm tree fronds ruffle in a sea breeze, and the phone bounces in his hands. He must be going for his nightly power-walk/jog. His shoulder-length, wavy dark blond hair is in a low ponytail. Dad’s pale blue eyes are always a little squinty, like he’s gearing up for a laugh.
“It’s because of your ponytail, isn’t it, Dad?” I say. “I keep telling you to chop it.”
Dad puts on a mock-offended face, and he pauses at a traffic light. He looks right at the phone and winks. “Gotcha. The audition is tomorrow. And they’re going to love my ponytail.”
“Dad!” I roll my eyes. “How do you always get me?”
“Have I told you lately that the word ‘gullible’ is written on your ceiling?” Dad starts up his run again, and the image of him resumes bouncing.
I shake my head and groan. I pointedly do not look up.
“Seriously, though,” Dad says. “I’m nervous for tomorrow. A lot of great actors are trying out for this role.”
“You’ll get it. As long as Leo isn’t one of your competitors.”
Dad laughs. “What’s going on with you, Callie Berry? How did the first day of school go?”
A sigh wants to escape my lips, but I hold it in. “Fine.” Butter snores from my lap.
“Details, yo.”
I roll my eyes. “Dad.”
His breathing picks up along with his pace. “Please. I want to hear everything.”
“School is . . . okay.” I pick up the bottle of rose perfume that so epically failed me today.
My hand hovers over the trash can. “Cheer practice was good. I’ve been posting on social media, trying to grow my follower count.
I’m worrying about my grades already. You know, the usual.
” I bite my lower lip, wondering if I’ve let the stress bleed too much into my voice.
I don’t want to worry my dad. He’s living his dream.
“That’s a lot of pressure, sweetie.” Dad’s expression turns pitying. “You know you don’t have to be the social media queen on top of everything else you do, right? Just because you’re my daughter—”
I can’t bring myself to throw the perfume away.
It was a birthday gift from Suzy. I set the bottle back into its place in my collection, but I doubt I’ll be wearing it anytime soon.
“I know, Dad. I know.” I shouldn’t complain about the attention I get from being Ben Carter’s daughter, even though the constant posting, interacting, and updating is a ton of work.
And the comparison factor totally sucks.
Dad slows to a walk. “Hang on a sec.” He flips the phone camera around, and I get a view of the ocean at dusk. The waves crash and spray on a smooth expanse of sand. I wish I could be there with him and forget everything.
“Cal, just be sure you don’t take on too much. It’s easy to get lost in what other people think about you instead of prioritizing what you think about yourself.”
I frown. Who is Dad, climbing to the top of the acting ladder, to tell me about worrying about what other people think? “Sure, Dad. Thanks.”
“I love you, Callie.”
“Love you.” I hang up, and my stomach feels even more knotted than it did before. “Gahhhh!” I let out a growl of frustration, and Butter jumps awake.
I ease her off my lap, and she flops onto the floor. If I can’t solve my problems, I’ll bake.
The cookie dough plops onto the pan with a satisfying thud.
The dough is my favorite browned butter chocolate chip, and I can’t help but sneak a spoonful.
I close my eyes and savor the bite. Browning the butter takes extra effort, but it makes the cookies taste like caramel and brings out all the salty-sweet notes that make a chocolate chip cookie amazing.
Luckily, Miss Browned Butter Squishy Face Carter the pug moved her nap to my bed. If she was here, she would be begging me for a spoonful of dough (minus the chocolate, of course). I can never resist her big brown eyes and droopy cheeks.
I add more Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips to the bowl. We wouldn’t have the ingredients for real, sugary, buttery cookies if I didn’t go out of my way to buy them. Most of what fills the pantry are protein powders, quinoa, and dried goji berries.
The kitchen is cool and spacious, and a light Seattle rain patters on the windowpanes.
My parents have outfitted the room with every modern cooking convenience—stand mixers, a double oven, and a gas stove.
There’s even a pasta maker taking up space on the back corner of the counter that I don’t think anyone has ever used.
A vase of yellow daffodils sits next to the sink, a gift from my dad to my mom before he left on his audition trip.
I spoon another dough ball onto the baking sheet, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I suck chocolate off of my fingers and answer the call.
“Callie!”
“Hey, Suze.” I scoop up another ball of cookie dough and barely restrain myself from eating it.
“What are you doing?” She gets right to the point in a clipped tone, but it’s just her way.
I preheat the oven to convection 325 degrees F before I go back to scooping dough. I don’t know why I always make a dozen cookies. It’s not like either of my parents are going to eat them—Dad’s often gone and Mom’s too much of a health nut.
“Baking cookies.”
“I’m so there.” Suzy hangs up.
Suzy won’t care if I’m in my sweats and ratty BTS t-shirt, so I don’t bother to change.
She arrives just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Suzy doesn’t even knock, she just opens the front door and barges into the kitchen.
“What have you done?” Suzy sits down on a barstool. I note with no small amount of joy that she is also wearing sweats—neon yellow—and her BTS t-shirt that matches mine. Her hair is still tied up in a long ponytail with dark blue ribbon she wore to school.
“Browned butter chocolate chip,” I say.
“Marry me.”
I manage a weak smile. “They have to cool, so hang on. Alexa, set a timer for eight minutes.”
The AI complies.
Suzy follows me across the dining room to the living room couches, gray and white with red accent throw pillows. Big bay windows look out over a wide expanse of green lawn. I stare out the windows at the drizzling rain.
“Girl, are you okay? Today was horrible.” Suzy plops on the couch and grips a pillow to her stomach.
I sit down beside her and tuck my legs up underneath me. Suzy’s kindness makes tears sting my eyes again. “It was . . . so awful. Everyone stared and whispered about me for the rest of the day. And how could Noah do that?” I also grab a pillow and clutch it to my chest.
Suzy throws her pillow aside and wraps her arms around me. My fat pillow sits awkwardly between us. “Noah is a total jerkwad. The jerkiest of jerkwads. I never want to see him again.”