Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Nicole
“Hey, guys!” I say to my phone’s camera, attempting my best influencer smile, squinting into the sun as a strand of my blonde hair sticks to the gloss on my lips. “It’s Nicole with your Friday dose of sunshine and—Cocoa, no!”
My dog launches into the frame, all four paws off the ground, a tornado of fur aimed directly at the seagull that’s just landed on the beach a few feet away from us.
“Ugh! No!” I lunge, half-catch him, knees buckling as I lose my balance, and watch as my ring light collapses with the world’s saddest little splat into the sand.
This was not on the storyboard.
“Why am I still trying to sell this stuff?” I let out a sigh as Cocoa licks my face and then sniffs at the bottle of Glow Girl moisturizer. “No one even wants to buy it.” My eyes flicker to the label of my skincare line.
My failed skincare line.
The one everyone assumes is just a hobby because my last name comes with commas.
I set Cocoa back down and then take a deep, diaphragmatic breath. I brush off the sand, pick up the tripod, smooth out my hair, and plaster on another smile.
I can do this.
I just need to break out of the red for once. And social media is supposed to be the best for ads. Never mind that I hate everything about it.
I glance around to see if anyone has noticed me, and I sigh. The backdrop is literal perfection. There are palm trees at golden hour, ocean waves, and LA looks abuzz with the stuff dreams are made of.
Let’s try this again.
I clear my throat and use my little hidden remote to start recording again. “Hey, Sunshines!” My cheeks start to hurt. “It’s Nicole. I wanted to show you how I get a full-body glow with my—”
Cocoa’s gone again, but this time, his leash catches my ankle, causing me to plop down in the sand with a thud that rattles my brain.
I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a frustrated groan.
Cocoa turns back to look at me, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Whatever got his attention has since left the vicinity.
My shoulders slump in defeat. “Why can’t we make the perfect Instagram reel?”
Cocoa tilts his head at me, tail thumping like he’s proud of himself.
“I know,” I mutter. “You didn’t exactly sign up to be an influencer dog.”
When I moved to Los Angeles six months ago, I told myself I didn’t need any distractions. Just me, my apartment, and Glow Girl finally taking off.
That lasted about three weeks.
Somewhere between declining sales and unanswered emails, I saw Cocoa’s face on the Fur-Ever Homes USA Facebook page and brought him home a few days later, right when LA started to feel unbearably lonely.
He’s sweet, loyal, and occasionally wakes up choosing chaos—which is why I usually end up on the Fur-Ever Homes Forum when things go sideways. It’s part advice board, part group therapy.
Apparently, today counts.
“Don’t give me that look. You already used the bathroom on Dominic Neelson’s shoes,” I say, running my hands over my face. I’m certain I just smeared my mascara, but at this point…
It doesn’t even matter.
My phone beeps from the stand, and I squint at the screen from where I’m sitting.
Low Storage Warning.
“Of course.” I untangle the leash from where it’s tied to my ankle and stand. The back of my leggings are covered in sand, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I can do to save this video shoot.
Some people are born with a gift for this kind of thing—being watched, being liked, being effortless. But I was raised to build things, not perform them.
The only reason I keep showing up on Instagram is because my social media manager insisted I be the face of the brand. But considering my product launch was a complete disaster, I’m pretty sure my face has become synonymous with failure.
“Let’s just call it a day.” I start to clean up, breaking down my tripod and putting it away in my beach bag. I grab my iced matcha and take a desperate gulp before leading Cocoa to the nearby trash can. After tossing the drink, I dig my phone out of my bag.
I squint at my reflection staring back at me on my darkened phone screen. There’s a streak of mascara halfway down my left cheek. My tank top—white, ribbed, theoretically sweat-proof—is transparent with nervous sweat.
I’m a mess. A hot, freaking mess.
“I don’t know how people make influencing seem so effortless,” I say to Cocoa, who’s more concerned about sniffing around the bottom of the trash can.
Just once, I want to look like one of the girls on the explore page on social media.
All dewy and glowing in the sunset with a dog that smiles on cue. Instead, I get a blooper reel at best.
Just as I’m about to head toward the sidewalk to make my way back to my apartment, I hear a small voice.
“Doggie!”
I turn to see a little boy, no older than three, running toward us, his eyes wide with wonder. I brace for my dog’s reaction, but…
Cocoa suddenly sits obediently and lets the child bury his face in his fur. The kid squeals with happiness, and I can’t help but smile, crouching lower so I’m eye-level with him.
“He’s a good boy,” I tell the little kid as his mom comes running.
“Yes!” He pats Cocoa’s head, a grin across his face. “I love him.”
“Me, too.” I giggle, just as the toddler darts back to his mom, who offers me an apologetic look.
I give her a small wave and watch the two of them head back to their spot on the crowded beach.
Maybe this day isn’t totally lost.
But still, I’m going home.
I lead Cocoa toward the sidewalk, tugging my sandy leggings straight and pushing my hair into a messy knot that won’t stay put. My phone vibrates in my hand, causing my dog and me to jump scare simultaneously. My eyes drop to the device, and my heart skips a beat as I answer.
“Hey, Mom.” I yank Cocoa’s leash as he tries to drag us toward a hot dog cart parked just off the boardwalk. For such a small dog, he has the strength of a lion.
“Sweetheart!” Mom greets me, stretching out the word. “Did I catch you at a bad time? You sound a little out of breath. Are you exercising?”
“Um … kind of,” I say, glancing at Cocoa and giving him a please slow down look.
He picks up on it.
Thank goodness.
“Well, listen,” Mom says, her voice going soft. “Dad and I were just talking about you…”
“Uh huh…” I mirror her tone. “This can’t be good…”
She pauses for a beat. “Well… You know, we’re so proud you moved out and got your own place.
And we love that you’re really embracing the entrepreneur thing.
Your father says LA is the land of reinvention!
” There’s an airy lightness to her tone, like this is a phase.
Like I’ve taken up pottery rather than built a business.
“Yeah, for sure… The content scene here is … fun.” I brighten my voice. “It’s so opposite of New York City.”
“Good, good!” Mom replies. I can almost see her on the other end, pinching the phone between her ear and shoulder while arranging a cheeseboard with the other hand. “But… I wanted to ask about Glow Girl. We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. It’s just that the last time Dad looked at the books…”
My smile tightens. I steer Cocoa onto a quieter side path, away from the main crowd of people. “It’s…” I can’t bring myself to sugarcoat it. “I’m failing. It’s failing. I just… I don’t know what I did wrong…”
“Oh, Nic.” She sighs, her voice full of sympathy. “Your father will be in LA in a few days for a business meeting, but if you need me, I can be on a plane tonight.”
“No, totally not necessary. I’m figuring it out.”
There’s a long silence.
“Okay… But… It’s just…” She lets out a pained breath. “Your father is a little—”
“I’ve been trying to work on my sales,” I cut her off, while doing my best not to come across as too defensive. There’s no reason to be. “Social media advertising can be really lucrative, and I know it’s costing money in the short term, but…”
“It’s not about the money,” Mom says, stopping me. “It’s just that, well, sometimes it’s better to cut our losses and move on rather than trying to hold onto something that’s not working…”
“But I’m not ready to give up on Glow Girl,” I say, exasperated, then immediately cringe at my volume.
“Sorry. I just… Mom, I promise, I’ll figure it out…
You know how long it took for Dad to sell his first company.
Back when he was still coding out of our dining room instead of running half the fintech rooms in Manhattan. ”
Mom’s quiet for another stretch. “It took him two years. But, sweetie, you’re already on year three… And I’ve seen the reviews…”
I bite down so hard on my lip that I taste sunscreen. “I’m close,” I say. “I have followers. Real ones. I get invited to sponsored events now. I was able to handle the whole bad smell thing.”
“That’s wonderful.” Mom pauses, letting out a strange humming noise. “Just … don’t let the pressure get to you. Your trust fund has more than enough money to—”
“I want to make it on my own,” I interject.
“I want to build something for myself, Mom. Something that doesn’t come pre-approved because of my last name.
It’s the entire reason I moved to Los Angeles.
In New York, I’d never know if what I built was truly mine or just another thing quietly handed to me. ”
“I know, honey. You’re your father’s daughter, that’s for sure. And I admire your grit and ambition. But just know that you don’t have to be the next Nikko Farrarah. Or even the first Nicole Farrarah. You can just be our girl. Nic. We love you how you are. And we just want you to be happy.”
Cocoa flops down on my sneakers, ears pinned back, sensing the shifting mood. I ruffle his head, finding comfort from him.
“I know, Mom,” I say, forcing a smile she can’t see.
“We love you,” she says. “Are you eating enough? Getting plenty of vitamin D?”
I giggle. “I’ll eat extra vegetables just for you and stay outside fifteen minutes longer.”
“Deal. Make sure to load up on broccoli with extra cheese just like I like it.”
“Okay,” I snort, and for a second, I forget she doesn’t believe in Glow Girl the way I do.
“What else is new?” Mom asks as our laughter subsides.
“Dominic Neelson moved in across the hall from me.”
“Is that the guy from the Alabama Jets?”
“That’s the one. He just got traded to the Comets.”
“Your father was excited about that trade—he likes players who work their way up instead of coasting on hype. And I’ve heard he’s a real Southern gentleman.”
I pin my brows together, guilt funneling into my chest. “I don’t think we’re off to the best start… Things have been a little tense.”
Never mind the fact that Cocoa ruined his basketball shoes.
“Hmm,” Mom hums. “Maybe it’s because he thinks you’re cute. I think that’s how that works, yeah?”
I glance down at the real culprit, who seems completely unbothered. “Um… I don’t think that’s the problem this time… It’s just… He left his gym bag outside his door…”
“It’s the dog, isn’t it?” My mother’s voice flattens, and I can’t decide if she’s about to lecture me or laugh. “I know that rescue dog of yours is a handful.”
“He’s really not, though.”
“He’s a boy named Cocoa.”
“Hey, now.” I pout. “It’s a cute name. I think it suits him… Good evening, Sir Cocoa.” I say the words in a deeper voice, and pointedly, my mom laughs.
“You’re something else, you know that?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. Unfortunately, I do.
She pauses, giving me a moment just long enough to wonder if our call dropped. However, then she speaks, low and sweet. “Focus on you and enjoy life. You don’t have to stress over making a name for yourself.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say. “Love you.”
“Love you more.”
I let the call end, and for a minute, I just sit, staring at the tangle of leash in my hand, feeling the words settle like sand in a bottle. They always say they don’t care if I win or lose. That they love me either way. And I believe them.
So why does it still feel like winning is the only way I know how to matter?
Cocoa looks up at me, tongue lolling, already expecting the next adventure.
And I do what I do best. I smile, get up, and try again.