Chapter One
Appa
“Hey, guys, it’s Appa!” I say to my phone mounted on a tripod. “Get ready with me to meet my friends in Malibu.” I smile and tuck my hands under my chin to look cute, but I cringe at the gesture.
Same ‘get-ready-with-me’ video, different day.
And it’s a lie. While I have friends I meet up with in different parts of Los Angeles, I’m not meeting anyone in Malibu today and am only recording this because I didn’t have a video to post for tomorrow.
I have to post a video every day, so that the algorithm keeps boosting me, which brings in more followers.
When I’m done filming, I’ll be washing my face right after, calling Mama, and starting a new show on Netflix that everyone’s been talking about online.
The circular ring light burns into my blue eyes as I walk future viewers through my usual makeup routine.
It’s an LED light, but I swear it makes the room so much hotter than it should be.
Today’s lineup is the usual: SPF, primer, foundation, concealer, and so on, but I’m trying to keep it lightweight and in the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic to fit the Malibu lie.
I’m also testing out some new products today, gifted through PR, so it’s a great double whammy.
Oh, shit!
I have a package of gifted summer looks to use in a ‘try-on haul’ video for a brand’s upcoming summer launch.
At least my makeup and hair are done, and I make a mental note to change my lip gloss to make it not so obvious I filmed back-to-back.
Still another bird, same stone. I need to get that try-on uploaded because my discount code is active, and those affiliate codes literally pay my mortgage.
Finishing my makeup in my dedicated glam room, I walk down the hall to my giant closet.
It’s a regular bedroom that I customized to have racks and built-ins, and it’s filled with gifted clothing, handbags, and shoes from brands.
Whenever my girlfriends come over, I let them ‘shop’ this room, and even though I’m shorter and more petite than them, they make the pieces work.
I try to pass along gifted products, too.
I always appreciate them coming over and raiding my house, so I have a lighter load.
My life has become filled with just stuff.
More stuff than any single person should ever have—including cardboard boxes.
I consistently fill my recycling bin with collapsed boxes, and fortunately, my neighbors are kind in letting me put the overflow in theirs.
You wanted this, Appa. All of it.
Ever since I was a little girl in Georgia, I knew I was destined to live in California and be a somebody someday.
It might sound silly. I couldn’t act or sing for anything but had to leave Savannah.
My elder brothers wed promptly following high school or college, choosing to stay close to home, but I started planning my move to California when I was still in high school.
I applied to universities all over the Golden State, keeping my fingers crossed for a school in Los Angeles to accept me, and the day I was notified via email that Cal-State in LA did, I was sold.
Moving to LA to start my freshman year couldn’t have come any faster.
Mama wasn’t happy to see me leave the nest in the middle of peach country and did everything in her power to keep me in Georgia.
She went as far as to set me up with our pastor’s son, who was my age, at my high school graduation party with hope I might fall in love with him and change my mind about LA.
But I was never one for dating. I went to Junior and Senior Proms with a friend group of like-minded girls who wanted to get the hell out of our tight-knit community.
I had to leave.
Thank God Dad respected that and thought separation would be good for both my mother and me. Of course, he only felt that way after touring the campus to make sure I’d be safe on my own. And my brothers? Those idiots? I doubt they even noticed I left.
Fast forward six years, I’m still in LA with millions of followers in total.
I had a video go viral my senior year, and it blew up my socials.
Then, the algorithm kicked in and boosted everything I posted afterwards.
I’ve been grateful for the opportunities, brand deals, trips, and the endless gifts but still felt unfulfilled.
The PR packages, trips, affiliate codes were getting out of hand, and I donated as much as I could to local women’s shelters.
But there were upsides I couldn’t take for granted.
Like affording a two-story home in Calabasas.
Daddy might have helped with the down payment, which displeased Mama, but I was the one making the mortgage on it.
I had a pretty Mercedes convertible in the garage, and many designer items in my closet.
Why’s it not enough? What’s missing?
After filming the try-on haul, my phone buzzes with a picture of Mama and me at my college graduation.
The photo was taken before she found out I wasn’t moving back to Georgia, and the photo always makes me smirk to myself.
The immediate disdain of my refusal to come home made her frown despite her Botox.
“Hi, Mama. I was actually about to call you,” I answer.
“How’s my Apple Pie today?” Her sweet, too-Southern voice asks through the phone.
Apple Pie.
That damn nickname makes my stomach churn with nausea and makes me want to bang my head against a wall, but I still chose @AppaPie as my username on everything.
My mother named me after a damn fruit.
She might as well have called me Peach to go with the great state of mosquitoes and hurricanes—I mean, Georgia.
Being the fourth and last child of the bunch, Dad didn’t care what she named me.
He cared only that she finally had the daughter she desperately wanted after three rowdy and unhinged sons.
I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “I’m great. How are you?” I ask. I set my phone on the bathroom counter and retrieve my makeup remover towel, lightly moistening it under the faucet with cool water.
“Been busy with baby shower planning. I swear, when I was having babies, we only got one shower, and that was it. Do I look like I have free time? I mean, between my volunteering at the church, hosting book club…” She rambles on about her privileged white woman lifestyle as I vigorously wipe the layers of makeup off my face, and yes, I sense the irony in my resentment.
I live it, too. “Anyway, you’re my favorite daughter for a reason, Apple. ”
Oops. I completely tuned her out.
“Your three daughters-in-law are perfectly fine, you know,” I say.
My oldest brother is on his second wife following a divorce with wife number one.
But when you’re an alcoholic asshole, you can’t blame your wife for leaving you for your best friend and taking the kids.
Now, Mama is planning a baby shower for his new wife, who does not know what she’s in for.
That’s the fun thing about being family by marriage; you can leave.
She laughs through the phone. “Please, I didn’t raise those girls. Oh, I can’t wait to plan your baby shower someday.”
Ew.
“I’m only twenty-four. I’ll get there when I get there.”
“Two of your brothers were fathers your age, and I had three kids by twenty-four. Have you met any cute fellows yet? And none of those earring-wearing types.”
Because Daddy knocked you up when you were nineteen and married you because he had to.
She was a farm girl; he came from a long line of wealth in the South. Granny told me my mother was never right for my dad, but they were a conservative Christian family. When she got pregnant, they had no choice but to welcome her with open arms, and I know my mom forgets where she came from.
I roll my eyes then, wishing I could strangle her through the damn phone. “Nope, still single.”
“You really should come back to Georgia. I worry and pray for your safety in that big city,” she says. Just when I thought she’d let me live for once, she cracks the whip. I pump out my moisturizer into my hand and massage it into my face with a heavier hand than normal.
“I’m fine, okay? I have security and live in a good part of town.”
“Mm-hmm? Better security than your father and your big brothers?”
“Yes, because they’re drunk by four in the afternoon every day, Mama.” My normally suppressed Southern twang slips out thicker than I intend, and my cheeks flush and burn at the slip.
“I knew you didn’t lose your accent. Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have famous-person things to do. Stop showing so much of your stomach in those clothing videos, by the way.”
“Bye, Mama.” My manicured nail clicks against the phone screen as I frantically press the red button to hang up, leaving a couple of oily fingerprints on the glass phone screen.
I turn to the walk-in closet attached to my primary bedroom, where I keep my day-to-day wardrobe and closet staples.
I change into a matching sports bra and biker shorts made of a cool, buttery-soft material and post a quick mirror selfie, captioned: ‘Home workout time,’ to my story.
Instead of working out, I end up lying on my plush couch with a big bag of air-fried potato chips while the newest drama plays on my TV.
Licking the salt from my fingers is my favorite part.
But I dissociate as I scroll through stories of other influencers, check my DMs, and finally tap into DM requests.
There’s a lot of thirst from the looks of it, per usual, a few nice story replies, but mostly trash.
My finger hovers over the small arrow next to my username to switch to my burner account.
No, not yet—it’s too early.