Chapter Three
Appa
My friends have been badgering me to go out, acting like I’m a hermit, but I saw them last week…
or was it the week before? In our group text, they decide on drinks and dinner in Santa Monica at a beachside restaurant.
I always love going to the pier and feeling the ocean breeze contrasting with the warmth of the sun.
It’s only half an hour, depending on traffic, and I Uber to avoid driving in case I drink.
My friends are influencers, too. We met at an event three years ago when our pages were skyrocketing to viral success.
One of them is known for her ab-boosting and waist-minimizing workouts.
She wants to train me and give me a specific meal plan.
I don’t want to be rude to her, but it’s not my thing.
I’m a petite size two and like ice cream too much to give it up.
Another is a beauty influencer obsessed with all things Botox, hair, and makeup.
She’s closest in size to me, so we often trade gifted clothes and borrow things from each other if one of us has a particular event.
She’s the most easygoing in the group. Last year, we coordinated outfits for Coachella.
We’re both skipping it this year to avoid the drama that always ensues between influencers one-upping each other, and Lord knows Mama was beside herself when she saw the outlandish, barely there skirts and crop tops we wore that hot, wild weekend in the desert. I don’t need the sunburn, anyway.
My closest friend, though, is a cooking and baking content creator.
She comes up with the best two to three ingredient recipes from whole-food ingredients to eliminate processed foods, and I always save her videos to replicate later.
But never do. I think she’s embraced the fact that I’m a takeout girly, but I like what she comes up with and love supporting her.
I support all my friends as much as I can, but it can get overwhelming to keep up with constant posts and videos—not just theirs but lots of other influencers all over the world.
As for me? My niche is aesthetic lifestyle. I went viral for my very particular organization system in my college apartment, making minimal space maximized and affordable. Lots of college students, high school seniors, and adults of all ages connected with it.
Now, I have a picture-perfect home, post ‘day-in-the-life’ videos, along with ‘get-ready-with-me’ videos, but my highest viewed are organizational videos and restocks.
People eat those up, and they’re satisfying to make.
I love being organized and don’t know how many thousands I’ve spent on acrylic organizers, but I still love the thrill of fresh plastic.
I’m also the only single girl in our group.
I despise it when they want to go on group dates and insist I come along as the only singleton, and I couldn’t tell you how many guys they’ve tried setting me up with.
One cycles through guys monthly, and the other two are locked into long-term relationships and nearly are flashing engagement rings already.
While I’ll be happy for her when that day comes, I hope she doesn’t ask me to be a bridesmaid.
I’ve ditched bridesmaid duty for all of my brothers’ weddings, and I’m not about to start now.
I’m not cynical about marriage, but going to weddings single isn’t my ideal way to spend a Saturday.
Sitting by myself, drowning in cheap champagne.
That and my irrational fear of a groomsman trying to take me back to his hotel room afterward.
I shudder as a cool shock runs through my core.
It might be my anxiety, but that scenario was too much like my last date a year ago.
But none of their significant others, new or old, are him.
Not that they know I closely follow Rook and similar accounts from the private comfort of my burner account.
I’m not sure what they’d say if they knew I followed Rook, or what kind of silent judgment they’d feel.
Since when is it a crime to be attracted to a guy with nipple piercings and abs?
Honestly. It’s better than the generic trust fund baby that’s going to pop the question any day. Rook had danger, edge, sex appeal…
I smile to myself. I can’t imagine him wearing a polo shirt and khakis while talking to me about growing my money through investing.
He’d be in those sexy, distressed jeans, bending me over a surface, whatever’s closest, and taking advantage of me.
I can almost hear the metallic clink of his belt as he undoes the buckle.
Whoa, Appa, you’re in an Uber with a stranger.
Last summer, these same girls set me up with the older brother of one of their boyfriends.
He was tall and muscular, tanned from surfing, with bright blue eyes.
But he wasn’t right. I wanted to be polite to my friends who endorsed him and set us up, but my mind had been closed off before we even met.
If Rook was still posting, no one would ever feel right.
I didn’t know it, but it was a mistake to let him pick me up for our first date since it meant he’d drive me home, too.
His cologne was so intense in the proximity of his truck’s cab that I nearly got a headache.
In retrospect, it was very intentional on his part, and I was too na?ve to know it.
Something felt off, and I should have canceled.
After the date, when he asked if he could come in, I shrugged, thinking it was fine.
Wrong. I was so damn wrong.
He forced himself on me the instant we got through my front door, his hands too rough on my hips. I actually believed he just wanted to hang out and watch a movie. He was nearly thirty—seven years older than me at the time, yet his actions felt like the dirtbags I went to college with.
Fortunately, I had pepper spray in the handbag on my arm, and I sprayed him and got myself, too, in the over-spray. But I threw him out and locked the door behind him. Avoiding being date-raped was worth the hours of the chemical sting in my throat and trying to air out my house.
I ran upstairs after locking him out, ugly crying and trying to catch my breath.
I quietly shut my bedroom door behind me, as if any loud noise would bring him back, but I had turned the dial on the doorknob to be safe.
I slid down the back of my bedroom door and watched the live feed from the garage camera on my phone as he stumbled to his truck and eventually drove away.
But then, I turned to the comfort of Rook, whose virtual page always welcomed me back with safe, open arms.
He’d never force himself on me. He wouldn’t have to.
My eyes adjust as the driver says we’ve arrived at the restaurant.
I thank him, grabbing my phone and wristlet from the backseat.
The girls requested a table outside on the back patio, which backs up against the beach.
Sand has migrated its way onto the driftwood flooring, and it tracks into my sandals, settling between my toes.
The girls are buzzing about their brand deals, trips, and boyfriends, but I stay quiet, sipping my salty margarita on the rocks.
I’ve never enjoyed drinking much. An alcoholic dad and brothers will do that to a girl who grew up scared whenever Daddy drank too hard after work.
It only doubled and tripled as my brothers got into high school and adulthood, but I wasn’t a bummer to hang out with.
I’d order a couple of drinks but then not touch alcohol again for weeks.
My fidgety fingers hover over my phone resting on the table.
It’s five on a weekday Rook usually posts on.
I know in my gut he’s posted something new that’s probably to die for, and I’m missing it.
I can almost feel my phone vibrating to alert me.
The late spring sun glows over the horizon where it meets the deep blue ocean.
I should be grateful for where I am, that I live the life I live, but my mind repeatedly reminds me of what I’m missing like a mosquito bite that just won’t stop itching.
Thank God these girls are so set in their own routines, which involve early bedtimes for most of them, so by the time I’m home, I’m only two hours late for his newest video. I toss my handbag onto the kitchen island, in its designated spot, and skip up the stairs.
The first thing I do is release my feet from their strappy cages and fling the sandals into my walk-in closet.
I strip out of my carefully curated outfit I wore to our girls’ dinner and toss the clothes into my hamper.
I don’t bother changing into pajamas. I settle right into bed, phone in hand.
I throw the top sheet and duvet over my body with one hand and switch to my burner account with my other.
His newest video is at the top of my feed as usual, patiently waiting for my eyes.
My thumb, too eager as always, clicks on the video, making it full screen.
The screen glows in my eyes in the dark bedroom.
Oh, my God, he’s in his gray sweatpants!
But what is he holding?
My eyes squint at the screen. Rook, facing the camera, face unilluminated as always, stretches the waistband of his sweatpants away from his body.
He leaves himself covered but uses the modern Polaroid camera to take a photo, with flash, of what’s under his gray sweatpants with a loud click.
Judging by the bulge accentuated by the light-colored fabric, I can make an educated guess of what he took a picture of.
He lets the waistband snap back into place as the little machine makes a crank sound against the faint music and spits out a black photo.
Rook pulls it from the machine, shakes it between his fingers, but never shows the image.
I realize that I’ve stopped breathing and inhale sharply.
He knows his viewers would die to see the picture, and that’s the schtick.
Fucking engagement rate genius.
He slides the photo into the pocket in his sweatpants and walks off camera as the video goes black.
That’s it. But it’s enough to leave me breathless, flustered, and tangled up in my sheets.
I run my fingers through my curls and open the comments.
My phone is slick from my sweaty palm as I read the top ones with the most likes.
I’d sell my soul and five of my ancestors for you to flip that photo over.
You and me both, sister. I have three brothers I’d sell.
He really said IYKYK and had the AUDACITY to leave.
Sir, this is a Wendy’s.
I cackle, the noise bouncing off my bedroom walls.
That Polaroid should be in the MoMA.
How do we nominate it, though?
I’ve never wanted to be a pair of joggers more.
I laugh again.
Girl, same.
I’m suing for emotional damages and loss of productivity.
Productivity? Please. I knew the moment I walked through my front door I’d be watching his newest video on loop until I passed out from exhaustion. Can anyone blame me?