Chapter 4 Strategic Connections #2
Something that still isn’t enough because it isn’t viable, because she might be a one-hit wonder, because …
Because years ago, when she was young and dreaming and let it slip to her dad that she wanted to be a writer, she was met with a caustic laugh as he glanced at her and Noah in the rearview.
You’re going to be providing for your sister, Noah.
Even now, after the whirlwind year she’s had, she hears it in the back of her mind like a warning bell.
She can journal, she can meditate, she can pull out the tools from the therapist she hasn’t seen in over two years, but those thoughts still lodge themselves into the looping record player that is her brain, creating a chorus of doubts and fears that she’s intent on proving wrong.
The incident with Theo has only turned up the volume on the latest album of Not Enoughness. Maybe, if it weren’t for everything else, she’d be able to take it and funnel it into motivation. Or at the very least, mask it so it isn’t obvious it hurts so damn much.
But after tonight’s meeting with Jaylen, the bruise is that much fresher, and she just … can’t.
“I feel like an imposter enough,” Sage finally confesses to Anna, her voice quiet but steady. “I know I’m not really one,” she presses on, holding up a hand to stop all three of them from interrupting, “but it’s … it’s a fear regardless.”
She presses her lips together as she tries to sort through her thoughts.
It feels so silly to be so obstinate about something like this.
To not want to latch on to an opportunity and wring it dry, squeezing out every bit of benefit she can.
To feel so fragile when she should be focusing on how incredible it is to see a dream realized.
“Using Theo … it’s wrong. And it only plays into exactly what everyone is already saying.”
“Everyone?” Anna presses, but there’s no teasing lilt to her voice now. Instead, there’s quiet understanding beneath firm resolve that says she understands, but she won’t stand for Sage settling.
“Not everyone,” she concedes. “But enough.”
Anna holds her gaze for a long moment. “I understand that. But people are going to talk, Sage, no matter what you do.”
She knows that—she does. It’s not the first time she and Anna have had this conversation, and that only makes her feel worse. She’s trying to adapt to this part of her new reality, but … she’s struggling with it.
Too dramatic, too sensitive, too—
“What if we nix the post?” Emerson says from beside her.
“The party is a good idea, but let’s … let’s skip the post.” Em’s hand is cupped around her champagne flute, her face focused in what Sage lovingly calls mediation mode.
She feels a rush of gratitude for her friend for knowing exactly when to step in.
Taylor looks like she wants to argue, but Anna speaks before she can. “Oh, yes, you’re going to the party no matter what. But if you’re that against asking him for a shout-out, fine. Don’t. But it can’t hurt to make strategic connections, Sage.”
Strategic connections. She wonders what Theo would make of that. What he’d make of all of this. Is this his life? People coming in and out and figuring out how he’s most beneficial to them?
She doesn’t want to feel bad for him, not with the mess she’s entangled in, thanks to him. She does anyway.
Sage tilts her head back and inhales deeply through her nose. She’s not winning this argument. “I’ll go to the party,” she finally mutters.
There’s a long pause, and then:
“I can work with that,” Taylor reluctantly concedes.
Emerson grins. “You want to come with us, Tay?”
Taylor lets out a long-suffering sigh. “For the hundredth time, it’s Taylor, and no.
I wasn’t invited, and a publicist tends to make celebrities clam up at events like this.
” She points a perfectly manicured finger at Emerson.
“But if you fucking embarrass her in any way, so help me god, I will find a lawyer that can prevail against even your annoying ass, and I will sue you within an inch of your life.”
Emerson rolls her eyes. “Tay, stop flirting with me, we’re in public.”
Taylor scoffs, already turning to Anna to talk some sort of strategy, and Sage takes the opportunity to lean in toward her friend.
“One of these days, she’s going to have you killed,” Sage murmurs.
“Nonsense,” Emerson retorts quietly. “She’s falling in love with me. Just you wait. One day you’ll find us doing the dirty in an alcove at one of your events. It’s all part of my plan.”
Sage wrinkles her nose. “I’d really rather not see Taylor naked.”
“Your loss.”
Mom
Oct 11 5:28 PM
The signing at the bookstore was sold out!
OCT 12 9:15 PM
Mom
How did the meeting with the producer go?
OCT 12 11:07 PM
They passed. Pretty bummed—it came out of nowhere.
But excited for the signing at the con tomorrow!
The problem with not being allowed to get appropriately drunk at the celebration-turned-pity-party-turned-goddamn-pile-on is that Sage is wide awake even though it’s 3 AM and she has her Comic Con signing later that day.
Her buzz has faded, and in its place is a frenetic sort of energy that she knows spells destruction. It’s the type that, when she was younger, had her needling her brother until he snapped at her.
God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?
There was some sort of sadistic satisfaction in knowing her inner monologue wasn’t wrong. Sage has always vacillated between the fear of being too much and not enough, like an AC that can’t get the temperature right.
Too dramatic. Too mercurial. Too sensitive. Not calm enough. Not steady enough. Not normal enough.
Now, she doomscrolls, and she doesn’t even have the alcohol to blame for disregarding every grounding exercise and regulation tactic she’s learned.
It’s a strange thing to have to justify the reluctance she showed at drinks earlier to her own mind, especially with the tang of it still heavy on her tongue.
But she does it. She revisits the worst of the comments and DMs, each one pelting her with a strange mixture of pain and that same grim satisfaction she got when Noah would finally reach the point of having enough.
She’s a ticking time bomb just waiting to implode, but knowing the signs has never been enough to stop her from pursuing the path to self-sabotage.
It’s like her brain shuts down, and that rushing in her veins takes over, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t think twice as she opens her text thread with Theo.
Theo S.
Oct 13 3:11 AM
Any update on the convos with your manager?
She’s surprised when he responds, especially given the late hour.
He’s holding firm, but I’m working on it.
A long pause, and then:
Everything ok?
Just like that, Theo has unknowingly grabbed a saltshaker and dumped the entire contents onto her gaping wound. Because, no. Everything is not okay, and blaming Theo is easy, but she knows—she knows she’s only made it worse for herself by scrolling on her phone.
Besides, Anna was right, as she so often is: Sage may not follow pop culture, but even she knows it’s incredibly unlikely that his team will do anything about this.
That’s no fault of Theo’s. And Sage … Sage knew better than to even open that damn app, and now she’s had hours to hyper-fixate on strangers who loathe her for no reason, hours that she could have been doing something productive while she couldn’t sleep, but it’s just that …
Well, it’s just that Sage will press a bruise over and over until it hurts so badly that she can’t think of anything else.
God, Sage, don’t you ever stop?
No. She doesn’t.
Her thumbs fly across her phone’s keyboard, her eyes burning as the taunts play over and over in her mind.
I know it probably sounds foolish to someone like you, but …
Your Theologians are quite clear about what a bloodsucking leech I am and honestly, it’s getting exhausting.
I don’t have someone manage my social.
Somewhere, in the logical, less exhausted part of her mind, there’s a voice screaming at Sage to abort, abort, abort.
This is a part she hardly shares with those closest to her, and only once she’s sure they won’t be put off by how deeply she feels.
She thought she had tucked it away after drinks tonight, but it’s still there, and to show it to Theo Sharpe of all people is a level of stupidity that Sage cannot even fathom herself.
Those three little dots that indicate Theo is typing appear and disappear at least four times before his response finally comes through.
Forgive me for being blunt, but you don’t seem like the type to get bothered by what arseholes on the internet say …
Which, for what it’s worth, is a dilemma I uniquely understand, social media manager or not.
You do recall it was me who messaged you on Instagram, yes?
You hardly know me.
How would you know if it bothers me or not?
It does, by the way. I’m not a robot.
Call it a hunch.
A feeling, if you will.
Kidding.
I have been on the receiving end of your propensity to not give a fuck.
I can extrapolate from there.
Sage is surprised at the laugh that rasps out of her. Emerson shifts beside her but doesn’t rouse from her champagne-induced coma.
I hate you for making me laugh right now.
Lying is generally frowned upon, Sage.
Sage shakes her head, a weak grin fighting for dominance against the pursed look that’s been fixed to her face since they left dinner.
She stares at the ceiling for a few long moments, thoughts whirring.
She needs to sleep. So she reaches over to grab her charger on the bedside table, readying to force her eyes shut and try to find something that resembles sleep, but another message from Theo comes in before she can.
Her heart does a weird thud-ump when she sees it’s a voice note.
Some emotion climbs up her throat that she can’t name, because right now she’s too consumed with how personal this feels, like she’s intruding on something she shouldn’t be, because they don’t know each other like this.
Sage cuts a glance over her shoulder, taking in Emerson’s snoring figure, before she grabs her headphones, just in case, and pops them in before taking a breath and hitting Play.
Theo’s aristocratic drawl is rough around the edges at this hour, his voice low with the sort of late-night gravel that hints at sleep just beyond a few breaths.
Erm, look, all jokes aside … I promise I’m pushing my manager on this.
He’s … well, what he is doesn’t really matter, but the point is …
I know people online can be cruel. I’m not going to spout the usual reassurances about your talent, because I’m sure you know all that already, and frankly, I don’t ever find it helpful to be reminded I’m talented when people are, quite literally, telling me I’m the worst actor they’ve ever seen.
But … well, it probably doesn’t hold much weight when I say this to you on account of the fact I’ve just met you, but I just wanted to remind you that they don’t know anything about you.
And they never will. The parts of you that matter, you get to save for the people that matter.
At least that’s what I try to remind myself when I get stuck in this sort of thing.
They don’t know me. My mates from university, however …
they know too much. Way too much. Like I pray to god none of them ever decides to release videos of me downing shots and dancing at a club. Wow, anyway, NOT the point.
The point is, it’s helpful for me to remember that there are people who know … Theo. Not Theo Sharpe. The people online don’t know me. So what they say doesn’t hold weight.
There’s a pause, and Sage can sense there’s more that he wants to say but isn’t. Like maybe he’s reminding himself of this very fact too.
Right. I hope this helps. If not, feel free to delete it immediately and we can both forget I tried my hand at motivational speaking at such a ghastly hour of the night. Morning. Whichever. Right. I’m going to bed now. Sleep well, Collins.
Sage swallows. There’s a warm feeling starting in the middle of her chest, and she drags her lower lip between her teeth as she stares at the ceiling.
It’s genuine, the message.
Understanding.
Because of course Theo knows this feeling—of course he hurts, just like anyone else. Suddenly his previous messages are rearranging themselves in her mind.
Maybe it was never flippancy.
Maybe it was … someone trying to be a friend.
Thank you. Truly x
She totally doesn’t listen to the message again.
Except … she does.
Sleep well, Collins.
Sleep well, Collins.
Sleep well, Collins.
She does.