Chapter 34
Pronounced Rural Alaska
Andrew
I meet Cynthia at our usual coffee spot for our third business meeting.
Well, it's her favorite coffee spot. I don't care. I never drink anything more than drip coffee, always black, and it all tastes the same to me.
According to Cynthia, Daily Buzz Cafe in Santa Monica has the best cappuccino. She lives a few blocks away and likes to walk over, so it's convenient for her. That's all that matters.
Cynthia has been incredibly helpful. Not only in connecting me with the real estate company for the open studio in Malibu, but also in guiding me through the business world.
I've officially dubbed her my career mentor, which she knows, and my third closest friend after Vince and Gary, which she probably doesn't know.
I've also been talking to Aubrey on the phone here and there.
He still hasn't rejoined the group chat or taken anyone else's calls.
Gary says this is typical for him... something about immature dramatics, but last night Gary admitted it's the longest Aubrey has ever ghosted the group. That worries the both of us.
"I already ordered you a black coffee," Cynthia says as she slides into the booth across from me.
I smile. "And your cappuccino?"
"Coming right up," she replies, glancing down at her phone. "Let's talk while we wait."
I notice her eye makeup—bold streaks of yellow, pink, and blue against her glowing brown skin.
It's striking. Different. This is why I trust her advice about making social media accounts for my yoga business.
Not because of her style, which is impeccable, but because of the way she carries herself with unshakable confidence.
I hate taking pictures of myself.
Growing up in rural Alaska, social media wasn't even on my radar. I avoid it, even after moving to Fairbanks. The closest I've come is using dating apps.
But Cynthia has insisted, and I believe in her.
She helped me set up an AParkerLAYoga handle across every platform. I spent a day driving from Long Beach to Malibu, taking photos of myself. At first, it feels ridiculous, but by the end, I actually start to enjoy it—timing the camera, striking the poses just right. It's almost like a sport.
Aubrey had joked during our campout that people would come to my classes just to watch me do yoga. I discover quickly, he isn't entirely wrong. Within a week, my accounts have followers. A lot of followers.
"Okay, here it is," Cynthia says, pulling up my Instagram. "Wow. Decent, Andrew. Decent."
"Is it? I have no idea what I'm looking at. I still don't know how to tag someone."
She raises an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. "The ‘at’ symbol, Andrew. Come on."
My brow furrows. "Just show me later."
"We need to talk reels and short clips next time we meet for longer than an hour," she says, swiping through my posts. "If your studio deal goes through, we'll need a big enough audience to advertise a grand opening. Speaking of which, have you thought about class offerings and payment plans?"
"I've got some notes on my phone, but I didn't think we'd go over that today."
Cynthia isn't playing around. When she says she'll help me, she isn't kidding. I have no idea how lost I'd be without her.
"We won't," she says, standing to grab our drinks. "But I'm asking for those later."
When she returns, she hands me my coffee and sits down.
"Cynthia," I begin, taking a sip, "why are you helping me?"
She looks startled. "Look, I'm just looking out for one of my own. We lift each other up. You'll pay it forward one day, too. We're going to get you on your feet in no time."
"I want to pay you."
"No."
I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a stern finger, cutting me off. It reminds me of Samantha, and guilt washes over me.
I'd stolen her man.
I told her what happened between me and Vince a week ago, and she took it surprisingly well—no hard feelings, apparently she'd already moved on to someone else.
The whole conversation left me confused, my thoughts spinning.
Could I trust her, or was she just putting on a good act to cover for trashing my apartment?
"Andrew," Cynthia says, still scrolling through my account, "you've got a good number of followers, but you're not following anyone. What gives?"
"Where?"
"Instagram. Actually, all your accounts. You're going to look like an AI bot if you keep this up. You need to engage."
A groan escapes me. "I hate all this, you know."
"Don't care," she says matter-of-factly. "Keep listening to me, and you'll be able to pay someone else to do it for you. Now, give me your phone."
Smiling in thanks, I slide it across the table. She fiddles with it while I finish my coffee.
"There," she says after a few minutes. "You're now following me and a few other yoga studios. Your homework is to actually use social media, Andrew, engage with people. Check out what other studios are doing, and come back to me with your observations."
"Does Vince have an account?"
Cynthia laughs, wiping cappuccino foam from her lip. "Are you serious?"
I stare blankly.
"Oh. You're serious," she says, her eyes widening. "Baby, yes... Have you spent your entire life under a rock?"
"It's pronounced rural Alaska," I deadpan. "I don't do TV either. My family didn't have a lot of money, so... I spent my time doing other things."
"Like yoga?" she teases.
I laugh. "Yeah. And hockey. And running on a treadmill. And lifting weights. And reading—a lot of reading."
"Do you watch that show you were in, with Vince? What was it called?"
I laugh, fiddling with my coffee cup. "Relay. It hasn't aired yet... it's still in post-production."
I'm really looking forward to it coming out. It's been so long since we filmed, and so much has happened between Vince and me since then.
I just hope they don't edit me into a complete idiot, especially now that my yoga business is starting to take off.
"Here," Cynthia says, tapping something on my phone before pausing, her finger hovering over the screen.
"I added him for you—"
She freezes, holding the phone away when I reach for it. "Hey, Andrew. Please don't freak out."
"Why?"
She hesitates before handing the phone back.
Oh.
Vince doesn't just have an Instagram account... he's verified with eleven million followers and a feed full of professional photos that are going to haunt my daydreams for the rest of my life.
I instinctively put a hand on my chest as I scroll through his profile.
There are red carpet photos, rare candid shots, promos for his movie, old pictures of him and Sam looking like a million bucks at press events, and professional modeling shots that are honestly too much to handle.
"I'm definitely not freaking out that my boyfriend has eleven million followers and didn't tell me," I say, mostly to myself.
"Sure," Cynthia replies, smirking as she glances at her own phone.
I stare at her blankly. "Why the hell did he tell me he wasn't all that famous?"
She laughs. "He probably doesn't think he is. Fame has levels, right? He's not Brad Pitt, he can still walk down the street without being mobbed. But in the industry? Everyone knows him. You're in LA, Andrew. There are a lot of well-known people with money here."
I groan and sip my coffee, feeling self-conscious as Cynthia tries to stifle her amusement. She finishes her cappuccino and says goodbye, leaving me to sip my second cup alone and process the shock.
How have I worked with Vince for months and never bothered to Google him?
I have been living under a rock.
Honestly, I've been in survival mode since arriving. Busy sticking to routines, trying to pay bills, and getting my business off the ground…
Is it oblivious of me? Definitely. Is it stubborn? Probably. But I didn’t care who anyone was when I first moved here. I wasn't trying to impress anyone, I just needed to survive.
It suddenly makes sense why Vince is so careful about his image and why Kaitlynn had been so insecure about other women around him after they moved here.
How many eyes are on him?
I suddenly realize my ignorance is a blessing in disguise.
If I had known about his fame back then, I wouldn't have been able to talk to him. I wouldn’t have asked him out to lunch.
I wouldn’t have flirted with him at the concession stand.
I wouldn’t have pinned him down into the mattress my first night at his place.
Running buds wouldn’t be a thing. I already thought he was out of my league. .. this would've sealed it.
After a deep breath, I follow a few more people on my new social media accounts: the guys from the queer campers group, Malia and Tina, and even a few of my siblings.
Malia DMs me almost immediately, her excitement practically leaping off the screen. I can't help but grin.
Scrolling through her feed, I see what I suspected after meeting her.
She's a pro. Her modeling shots are stunning, all clean lines and effortless cool.
A few thousand followers track her page, but her posts aren't overly personal.
Most are professional photos, with a few quirky exceptions: a fisheye lens shot of her eating a donut, a picture of a potato with a fork stuck in it.
It fits her. Private, but with this playful, confident edge I love.
Both Malia and Tina have completely captured my heart. They are everything Vince worries he isn't raising them to be: driven, smart, hilarious, and self-assured.
They are exactly like their father, even if he can't see it yet.