Chapter 5
FIVE
Twila
I got so caught up in filming BingBangs this morning, I lost track of time. It’s after two now, and my stomach growls in protest because I skipped lunch. Setting my phone on the kitchen table, I decide to put off editing the videos until after I’ve had something to eat.
Opening the fridge, I peruse my options.
There’s leftover salsa and guac from last night, but the mere thought of it makes me taste tequila in the back of my throat, so I grab the lettuce, some cherry tomatoes, and some pre-packaged grilled chicken to make myself a salad.
Sure, I’ll douse it in ranch dressing, but it’s still healthier than chips and dip, right?
Once I have my salad assembled, I pour myself a glass of sweet tea. I know it’s full of sugar, but Joey’s boyfriend Dallas got her hooked on it, and she, in turn, got me just as hooked. I only fill the glass halfway as some sort of compromise with my guilty conscience.
Sitting at the table, I take a bite of my salad before grabbing my phone to scroll through BingBang while I eat.
Notifications were flowing in while I was filming earlier, but I ignored them, attempting to stay on task.
My eyebrows lift when I see the number of notifications telling me I was tagged in a comment.
It’s far higher than usual, and I click on the top one to see what’s going on.
My fork slips through my fingers and clatters into my salad bowl as I stare wide-eyed at the screen. It’s Emerson. He’s wearing a tuxedo. His hair is styled like I’ve never seen it. And he’s smoldering. He’s biting his lip. Winking.
Holy shit. This is a thirst trap.
And ohmygod, is that a margarita in his hand?
I watch it three times through before I can tear my eyes away from him. The caption simply says, “For her.” My eyes dart back up just in time to catch him winking over the top of that damn frozen cocktail, and my face feels like it’s on fire.
Her is me. I am her .
Is he mocking me? Of course, he’s mocking me. This is Emerson we’re talking about.
Dragging my eyes away from his stupid face once more, I scroll the comments. There are a fucking lot of them. Hundreds. I check the time stamp, and it says he posted it two hours ago. Two. It already has over forty-thousand views and all those comments. Mostly women, of course.
Women guessing who he’s toasting. Women tagging me. Tagging a dozen other creators Emerson’s tacked or duoed in his videos. Women offering themselves up as tribute. Making almost abrasively honest comments about what they want Emerson to do to them…in great detail.
I remain perfectly still, not eating my salad, and watch Emerson.
I lose track of how many times the video has played as I sit here, stupefied.
The tux, the smile, the wink at the end.
I don’t think Emerson has ever made a thirst trap video, but damn, his audience is obviously parched for it.
The likes and comments jump in numbers as I watch, people making more guesses, people accepting his “marriage proposal.”
I try to watch it again through the eyes of someone who isn’t terminally annoyed by him, and I have to admit, he’s hot.
Really hot. With that pitch black hair and those crystal blue eyes…
he’s classically beautiful . Like a movie star or an animated prince.
Shit, he looks just like the prince from “The Little Mermaid.”
My first crush.
I literally shake off the thought like a stranger just walked over my grave. What is wrong with me? This is Emerson. The bane of my existence.
Maybe this is what he means by his handle…The Emerson Effect.
“Ugh, stop it, Twila,” I breathe.
I close the app, determined to focus on my lunch. But that damn video won’t stop replaying in my head. I just wish I knew the motivation behind the whole thing.
What does it mean? Is he mocking me for drunk-messaging him? Should I be angry? Or should I take it as a joke and laugh with him?
I know one thing. I should be happy he’s making his own original content, for once. But how do I feel about it going viral? And so quickly? Particularly because it’s a video that is quite possibly mocking me?
I need a second opinion.
I reopen the app and pull up the video, which apparently just hit fifty thousand views––thirty-six of them being mine, I’m sure. I send it to Joey in a direct message, then close the app and text her to go watch it.
A minute later, she texts me back a gif of someone fanning themselves.
Joey: That’s hot.
Me: It’s for me.
Joey: What? What do you mean, it’s for you?
Me: Apparently, I drunk messaged him last night. He messaged me back and promised not to call me out publicly if I’d admit what I was drinking when I came up with the bright idea to message him.
Joey: Margaritas! Oh, shit. Hahaha
Me: It’s not funny, Josette!
Joey: It really is.
Joey: What, exactly, did you send to him?
Me: I told him I was glad my video made him wet. And I might’ve called him a douchebag, too.
Joey: Classic. *high five*
Me: No, this is bad, Jo.
Joey: Why is it bad? He didn’t name you in the video. He didn’t screenshot your conversation. And while he might be mocking you the tiniest bit, it comes across as flattering. This is a good thing, T.
Me: How so?
Joey: The video is going viral. People are tagging you, which will send fresh traffic to your page. It’s a win-win.
Me: I guess…
Joey: I know you’re pissed because, well, it’s Emerson. And you kind of hate him. I get it. But just ignore it and reap the rewards girl. I just looked at your page, and it looks like you’ve gained some new followers.
I open BingBang and check my notifications again, my eyes going wide. She’s right. I have dozens of new followers already. And it’s only been two hours since Emerson posted the video. I toggle back to my texting app.
Me: You’re right. I hate it when you’re right.
Joey: Love you, too, hussy. Don’t stress over the why. It doesn’t matter.
Me: Once again, you’re right.
Joey: Of course, I am.
Me: Love you.
Joey: Ditto.
I smile at the Ghost reference. That’s Joey’s thing, using movie quotes as often as possible in regular conversation. It’s her love language, and it sometimes gets disgusting when she and Dallas are together, quoting romantic lines in an attempt to best each other.
I sigh and take a bite of my salad, not really tasting it. Joey is right, of course. I should just let it go and enjoy the benefits of being tagged so many times. But there’s a niggling in the back of my head that just won’t let go.
I need to know why Emerson was holding that margarita and toasting me in a thirst trap. Was it a marketing ploy? A jab at me and my drunken mistake?
Or was it something else, entirely?