Chapter Twelve #2
Rolling his eyes, Erik shook his head before regaining his composure. “Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. It’s nothing. You ready?”
“Uh, sure. Let’s do it.”
The flight taking everyone back to NYC was at noon the next day, so Cierra was glad to get started on clean-up early.
And later, after she showered and the only sounds making their way through the villa’s corridors were those of light murmurs, Cierra comfortably snuggled into bed.
She kept going over what had happened that day, including the moment she had with Erik before the event, and Nadine’s outburst. A knot formed in her stomach, thinking about the way Nadine had glanced from Cierra to Erik before storming off.
But they had done nothing wrong. Nadine was mistaken.
So why did she still feel the faint flicker of guilt?
Swiping through her social media feed to get her mind off it, her heart sank when a colorful photo of Harry and Melanie on some southern European coastline intruded on her mindless scrolling time (they still followed each other, because, you know, she was mature like that).
Reluctantly zooming in on the location with two precise fingers, Cierra scowled. It couldn’t be.
Positano, Italy.
Her stomach dropped as if the bed beneath her had opened like a trapdoor to a new level of hell in Dante’s Inferno: Breakup Edition.
With a look of amazement and disgust, a bitter laugh escaped her.
This was cruel. Two years ago, Cierra had told him it was her dream vacation.
He’d started saving a year before he dumped her.
That was supposed to be me.
She shouldn’t read the caption. She knew she shouldn’t. Or check to see which of their mutual friends liked the post. Definitely not that. People were free to like whatever they wanted. It was a pleasant picture. Not a big deal.
Anyway, she was seeing someone new, too.
Yeah, but I’m not smearing them over social media like a sadistic dog owner parading a new poodle in front of the mutt they dropped at the shelter. This isn’t fair.
Cierra tossed her phone on the bed and wiped salty, angry tears from her eyes; she’d thought this part would’ve been over by now.
Close your eyes. Four deep breaths. Don’t let this ruin your night.
With a tight mouth, she re-opened the app and muted Harry, a reasonable compromise.
For an indulgent ego boost, she wandered to the section that showed her all the new followers that had come in over the past few days.
People had sent little fan messages — with a few scams and creeps here and there, naturally.
There was even a new follow and message from the man who liked the vegan dish, and this brought a conciliatory smile to her face.
At least there was one man who liked what she had to offer.
Maybe two, if things continued to go well with Julian.
Opening her photos, she reviewed some videos and pictures she’d accumulated over the past few days.
Harry wasn’t the only one who went on adventurous, colorful vacations.
There were ones of her dishes, some candids a photographer had taken of her prepping, even one of her and Erik during the set-up, which made her smile.
While Cierra was planning on posting when she got back, after Mia’s usual assistance, she felt an impulse to put something out that night.
A digital testament to her bright, fulfilling, exciting life for everyone to see.
She ventured to her messages first and noticed at least eleven message requests, which were hidden from immediate view.
Intrigued, she switched over to the hidden messages tab to see many were from the same person, a Gabriel Brown.
Gabriel: Hey again, just wanted to make sure you saw my earlier message . . .
Gabriel: So I’m a producer for Plated. Tried to reach you a few times but . . .
Cierra read on, bewildered at what she was seeing. Was this a prank? This couldn’t be real. She had just begun her page a couple of months ago — not even that. Was she being scammed?
She did a quick Google search for “gabriel brown producer plated”
And to her cautious delight, there Gabriel was, with LinkedIn images and an IMDb matching the same face she saw in the IG account. Gabriel, with the (limited) digital sleuthing she had done, seemed to be who he said he was. Apprehensively, Cierra wandered back to click on the first full message.
Gabriel: Hey! I think you know my mom, Miriam — from the market?
She showed me your page and I think you might be a good fit for a show I work on.
I’m a producer for Plated and we’re currently casting for our next season.
Here’s the link to casting. Can’t guarantee anything, but if you submit, I’d personally put in a good word.
Deadline is August 1st. Hope to hear back soon.
Cierra sat in bed for a couple of minutes with a slightly ajar mouth before clicking off her phone.
Miriam’s son was a producer for Plated?!
She rolled over fully onto her back and stared at the ceiling in disbelief.
Since her failed audition for the previous season, Cierra had convinced herself that being on television wasn’t for her — being on social media was hard enough.
But she wasn’t sure if it was because she stopped dreaming about it, or because the fallout the first time had been so mortifying, she closed off any chance of putting herself through that again.
A carousel of benign, humiliating moments flashed before her like a slide show. The amused way Melanie said her job was cute. Nadine’s comment about feeding the content monster. Four years of quietly hostile disappointment from Harry.
Then she pictured herself, face lightly covered in sweat, but in a way that made her look dewy and flushed.
In a form-fitting apron, smiling with pride in front of a panel of well-groomed judges effusing admiration and praise.
She thought of her dad’s cheerful face, and countless evenings spent in the living room, cheering on the contestants. It felt good.
With a hopeful smile, she turned onto her side, dreaming of her next moves. She would show everyone exactly what she was made of.
A buzz of fresh motivation flowed through Cierra.
A producer of the top cooking competition in the nation had reached out to her.
Her. On the way home from the airport, she shot a text to Julian with a wry smile and zero hesitation.
Whatever had happened between her and Erik in the kitchen was probably a result of the heat of the moment, and she was eager to get her mind off it.
Cierra: Just landed. When are you free?
Putting her phone back in her pocket, she nestled herself into the crease where the backseat cushion met the car door, looking out at the bridge over Manhattan.
The drive home from the airport was one of the underrated perks of New York City.
Miles of glass and steel structures erupting from the ground, a testament to the titans inhabiting the island.
The kind of people determined to make their mark on the world. Soon, she’d join them.
The cab bounced up and down, signaling they had turned off the highway and onto the pothole-ridden side streets of Harlem; she’d be home in no time.
And while she would normally feel exhausted after such an intensive work trip, she was already looking forward to tomorrow.
After a good night's sleep, she’d make a fresh pot of coffee, sit at her table, and spend all day poring over the application.
She’d tried reading through it while she was on the plane, but the overwhelming slew of information made her think it was better suited to when she was settled and could focus.
Upon arriving home, her back pocket buzzed just after tossing her purse and luggage by the door.
Julian: missed you too ;) what about tonight?
Cierra bit her lip and checked the time: not even five p.m. There was a huge art exhibition at a converted cathedral in the Upper East Side she had been wanting to visit. Everyone was going, and her social media feed had been infested with photos.
Cierra: what about the annual Botsky Art Exhibit?
Pulsing little dots persisted for about a minute on Julian’s end. For a moment, Cierra worried she had come on too strong or that her idea sucked. Both caused a spike in anxiety. But then the dots stopped, and her phone rang instead.
“Hey, Julian.”
“Hey. So uh, maybe I got a little excited before you left and already booked a couple things for tonight . . . just in case you were free and wanted to hang out . . .”
His hesitant, slightly embarrassed tone was endearing, and Cierra grinned.
“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?”
“Well, there’s a film festival happening in Tribeca, and I got us tickets to a slot with a sci-fi theme, and then there’s a place a couple blocks from there where we could grab dinner that I’d think you’d really like.
Low lighting, exposed bricks, wine-cellar, French staff who are a little mean but surprisingly informative—”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, something Harry would have never done, she had to stop herself from shrieking before responding. Her cheeks were flushed, and her feet wouldn’t stop fidgeting. The art show was now a discarded after-thought.
“It sounds great, let’s do that.”
“Whew.” He let out a nervous laugh. “I was scared you wouldn’t like it.”
“No, I love it.” At the use of the L-word, Cierra cringed internally, gritting her teeth. But Julian carried on, as if nothing was off.
“Ha, okay then. I’ll pick you up at 6:30?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”