Chapter 6
Ping. Ping.
I groan. That awful sound.
I ignore my phone, staying firmly tucked under my covers in the fetal position. My cramps are unbearable today. But I’m really not allowed to complain. According to Dr. Michel, every period I get is a blessing. It means that while my window is closing, it’s not completely closed.Hope. These painful, aching cramps are hope.
Ping. Ping.Ping.
Ah, fuck. Now I’m up.
I rip off the covers. Back-to-back notifications like that can only mean one thing.
I swear once upon a time, social media was fun. Now I cringe and taste the scant hint of bile in my throat whenever those damn alerts start popping off.
I never used to keep my notifications for social media on. I’m fully aware of the benefits of detaching, but nowadays, I have to stay on top of the trolls. The more they comment, the fewer brands want to work with me, so it’s a ferocious game of report and block. Report and block. Over and over. It doesn’t resolve anything. I just move the target. It’s like a game of whack-a-mole… No. Whack-a-troll.
I laugh to myself, immediately missing my best friends from home. Addie, the youngest of our group and lover of terrible puns, would’ve peed her pants at “whack-a-troll.” We should be laughing together at the moment. I could be at home with my friends in Denver right now.
But I’m hiding because while I need them the most right now, they are also the ones who won’t believe I’m okay. And once they tug at the thread, I know I’ll unravel.
After dragging my phone off the nightstand, I glance at the comments on my latest TikTok makeup tutorial, which has jumped by a couple of hundred thousand views. Gamma Cosmetics paid me a sizeable amount to post a getting-ready video using only their new vegan beauty line. They sent me every product they make. The makeup feels nice. The blush and the eyeshadow glides well and the colors are gorgeous. But the truth? It smells like shit. Literally. It reeks of cow manure. I had to wash my face three times after the video to get rid of the lingering smell of soiled pasture.
I hold my breath as I scroll through the comments, waiting for the first one that’ll feel like a blunt knife straight through the gut.
Viral videos are my job security. And yet these days I cringe when the algorithm favors me. Because once you have visibility, that’s when the trolls start running their mouths. Creating content is easy. Posting it, however, has been about as enjoyable as a root canal. All these platforms are about visibility, reach, and connecting. But no one is prepared for what they’re actually connecting to.
Two years ago, I was on my soapbox, preaching to my struggling influencer friends to simply ignore the spiteful, hateful people. “Hurt people need to hurt other people,” I’d say. “It’s as simple as that. Don’t let the losers steal your shine. The majority of the world is inherently good.”
It’s becoming much harder these days to practice what I was once preaching.
I swipe up on the lengthy list of comments, all mostly tame so far. Someone asks how long I’ve been using Gamma’s products. What’s the diplomatic way to say, once and never again? I respond: I just started my Gamma journey. So far, so good. I’ll keep you posted! Another user asks me how the product smells. I’m sure Gamma would be pretty upset if they paid an influencer to say their product smells like cow shit, so I settle on: earthy. Someone complains about the price of quality makeup these days—that’s fair. I leave that comment but don’t respond. I continue scrolling and my heart rate calms. Okay, this is good. Neutral. Everything is fine and this is—
Oh, wait.
Niopette_04:Please stop making videos and go fall off the earth.
Niopette_04: You’re annoying and irrelevant and no one wants to buy makeup from you.
Niopette_04: You look like a hoar.
I let out a deep breath. Well, first things first, Niopette_04, you spelled whore wrong. Also, what the hell kind of username is Niopette? And why is your user icon the Campbell’s Soup logo? And most importantly, why the fuck are you bothering me?
I didn’t do anything wrong. But here I go again, trying to quickly cover up the crime scene like I’m guilty.
Step one: delete comments.
Step two: block troll.
Step three: ignore feelings.
Bonus step four: hunt down some Pamprin.
My bare feet thud heavily against the faux wood floors as I head to my kitchen. I’m going to miss this composite flooring. It’s perfect for an apartment. It looks just like real wood but can take a beating. There’s no evidence of the furniture I dragged across the living room that would’ve gouged real wood. No discoloration from the coffee or the nail polish I’ve spilled. It never shows a scratch, blemish, or stain. Absolutely beautiful…and fake.
I’m rummaging in my fridge for a drink to wash down my little purple horse pills of relief, when my phone goes off again. It’s so loud I can hear it from the bedroom. But this time it’s a ring instead of a chime.
After snagging my AirPods off the counter, I tuck the left earbud in and double-tap, playing my little version of Russian Roulette by not knowing who’s calling. I refuse to let myself hope it’s Adam.
No way it’s him. He made his intentions pretty clear.Just friends. My logical brain says he’s right. He would’ve absolutely been taking advantage of me in a vulnerable moment. But all my wounded ego can think is, what an asshole. When a lady asks you to throw her one, just do it, for fuck’s sake.
“Hello?”
I already know who it is by the furious keyboard clicking on the other end of the line. “Sorry. Just give me one more minute. Wrapping up a…” Quinn trails off, not finishing her thought.
I give her thirty seconds as I wash the Pamprin down with a swig of orange juice right from the jug. In fact, I’m walking around in my underwear, no bra, with a ratty tank top I’ve had since college. Here is the upside to making yourself a recluse—manners and presentable clothes are always optional. Don’t mind me, just living my best life.
Once my patience has run thin, I slam my fridge door, intentionally making all my glass goods rattle.
“Shit! That’s loud. You’re on speakerphone, Mani.”
“Quinn, never mind the fact that you called me. Would you like me to try you back when you’re not so busy?”
It’s not intentional. Quinn is a workhorse. She has been since the day I met her freshman year. I’ve always admired her work ethic and her business savvy. I think that’s why I palled around with her so much and jumped at the chance to become her roommate. I was hoping some of the Quinn magic would rub off on me.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “You’re right. Work is insane today, and I’m still waiting on news about everything.”
“That’s right! Your promotion. What’s the verdict?”
Quinn has been working her ass off at her dad’s company since her junior year of college. She earned her way up the ladder, refusing to slide into her success because of her last name. Everything she’s worked toward for a decade is about to come to fruition, in the form of a promotion to Chief Marketing Officer of one of the biggest tech security systems in the world.
“It’s looking good. There are a few more hurdles to clear before it’s mine. My dad won’t officially announce me as CMO until I see some projects through. I need the third quarter earnings report before I can show the major ROIs from the plans I implemented—”
“I have an idea,” I say, cutting her off before she starts diving into business jargon that I don’t have the patience to decipher. “When you make the cover of Forbes magazine, you should wear a hot-pink dress. I know they like to stick women in navy pantsuits on the cover, but it’d be the ultimate form of rebellion, you know? Show the world that you are one of the most intelligent, powerful, business-minded, women on the planet, but dressed like Barbie.”
She scoffs. “How many pink things do I have in my closet, Mani?”
I rack my brain for a moment. “Three. The Chanel clutch—”
“Nope, it’s been four years and Reese still hasn’t given that back. I’m going to assume it’s hers now.”
“Fair enough. Then, two pink things. That crystal necklace I bought from Minerva the first time I dragged you to go see her—”
She interrupts me with an audible shudder. “I can still feel the cobwebs. That lady was so fucking creepy.”
“Don’t judge.”
“I’m not. There are plenty of psychics who don’t operate from a crypt.”
Utter exaggeration.Minerva just had a particularly stale, dingy basement, and yes, she needed an industrial-sized dust buster to handle her home, but she was the sweetest little lady. I’ve always loved psychics. I just like the idea of there being something more out there we can connect with. When it seems like the world is on fire, and people are failing you, it’s nice to think there’s something more.
After Quinn’s mother passed years ago, she didn’t sleep for weeks. And she didn’t cry. She said she wanted to, but she just couldn’t. She was in shock, mixed with guilt and exhaustion—a painful little cocktail of self-loathing. Quinn seemed to go numb in response.
All of our best friends tried something to help. Noa cooked an entire fridge-full of meals and it was actually the rest of us who ended up gaining a few pounds from all her baking. Quinn barely poked at her food. Addie clung to her like a loyal golden retriever and kept her distracted. Impressively so, she was the only one able to get a smile out of Quinn here and there. Reese, the only other member of our group of five who is able to understand business jargon, seeing as she speaks fluent legal jargon, responded to some of Quinn’s urgent work emails. She even ran reports so Quinn could get some rest. But no matter what we did, she still couldn’t sleep or cry. She couldn’t feel.
Eventually, I dragged her to Minerva for a reading, mostly as a joke, but by the time we left, Quinn was bawling. I think it was more from exhaustion than anything, but still, she slept for nearly two days straight afterward, so I call that a win.
“You call her creepy, but you kept the necklace.”
She’s silent for a beat. “Yeah, I love you that much. But case in point, that’s the only pink thing I own.”
“Wrong. Your thruster is hot pink. The one with like twenty vibrating patterns. The one you keep in your nightstand drawer.”
There’s a commotion as I hear Quinn scrambling to grab her office phone. I snicker to myself.
“Did I not just tell you you’re on speakerphone?” she hisses. “And my office door is open.”
I smirk into the phone. “You know better than to put me on speakerphone.”
Instead of scolding me, she seems to hum in approval. “Well, you seem more like your obnoxious self.”
“You’re welcome.” I curtsy even though she can’t see me.
“No, I’m serious. You’ve been so quiet lately. I volunteered to check on you today and make sure you were all right after last night.”
“Last night?” I ask.
“Yeah, you missed girls’ night. We figured your internet was on the fritz again, but we tried to FaceTime you like ten times. Mani, jokes aside, I’m worried about you.”
I have flawless internet at Elm Community. Spotty service is an excuse I’d use to miss girls’ night when I was having a tough time pulling myself out from under the covers. The benefit to living this far away is they can only call me incessantly. They can’t bang down my door and demand proof of life. Well, technically, they could. And if I keep missing our longest-standing tradition, they really all might show up in L.A. soon.
“It’s already Saturday?” I ask, pretending to be surprised. Of course Quinn is working on a Saturday. “This whole damn week has been a blur. Don’t be worried, I’m just busy.”
It started with my disappointing non-pregnancy news, then quickly evolved into my homeless and carless situation, and wrapped up in a nice bow two days ago, with me offering Adam Montgomery sex, and him metaphorically responding with a “thanks, but no, thanks,” handshake.
But I’m not telling Quinn all that.
“I’ve just been distracted trying to lock down some new business. I’ll FaceTime you guys next week. I promise.”
“How is business going?” Quinn asks.
I suck in a little breath and hold it. Yet again, here is an opportunity to be honest. A chance to tell one of my best friends in the world I’m struggling. An opportunity to ask for help.
“Good.” Dammit, Amani. Just try. “Actually, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, what’s up?” For a moment, I tap my finger against the countertop, watching my light pink nail click against the granite. “Mani?”
“Do you ever hate your job? Or just aspects of your job? Actually no…not the aspect…just people?”
“Of course I do. One of my direct reports thought ‘EOD’ meant ‘End of December.’ Can you believe that? He was planning on being six months late with an analytics report that we needed for Q3 investor reporting. He literally told me the report was too much labor to get it done. This guy is my analyst.It’s literally in his job description. I had to write him up for neglecting job duties, and now the entire office has nicknamed me ‘Devil Wears Prada.’ There’s no winning as a woman in corporate these days. I have to be the boss, without being bossy—the double standards, I mean…” She audibly exhales. “Sorry, babe. Tangent. That’s not what you meant, is it?”
“No,” I say with a sigh. “I meant, have you ever been at the point where you start questioning whether or not humanity is inherently good?”
“What does that mean?”
How do I explain this?“You know how people can be like The Matrix. You plug in, go through the motions, fake a smile, and you pretend so much you actually think everything is okay. But when you unplug and you’re looking at what’s really going on, it’s a robot-war shitstorm and humanity doesn’t really exist. These aren’t people, it’s just evil, empty AI shells.”
There’s silence for a while, and then I hear Quinn furiously tapping against her keyboard again. Good grief. She couldn’t even go five minutes without attending to her emails—
“Hey, are you closer to LAX or Burbank Airport?”
“What?” I ask.
“Evil empty AI shells, Amani? You’re not okay. I’m booking a flight.”
“Quinn—”
“What’s our pact? Hm? Of all of our friends, you and I have an unrivaled pain tolerance when it comes to the world’s bullshit. We promised to be honest with each other, didn’t we? When was the only time I ever told you I was in a bad place?”
I’m hesitant to say the words because the rule is, we don’t talk about Savannah, Quinn’s mom. It’s the only way Quinn copes. We’re not allowed to bring it up. “When your mom died.”
“Right. And once I finally asked for help, you pulled me out, didn’t you? That’s why I kept that stupid, creepy necklace. It’s a reminder that even when you feel like there’s no hope, there’s hope. Because we’re all right here for you. So tell me now, Mani, is all the sketchy flakiness over the last year because you’re busy or because you’re hurting?”
I hold my breath as my eyes start to water. If Quinn had FaceTimed me from her cell phone instead of calling me from her office phone, the ruse would be over. She’d be on a flight immediately because I’d break right now in front of her. I’d tell her how I’m feeling the weight of social media, but I can’t stop now. Mom needs the money for her pain treatments, therefore I have to keep pushing through the toxicity, the anxiety, the ballooning depression. It’s just fucking feelings, not sticks and stones. I’m not allowed to break because of stupid online trolls. I’m stronger than that.
Or, I’m trying to be stronger than that.
“No. I’m not. I promise.” The lie tastes so familiar on my tongue. “I’m fine.”
“You’ll tell me if something’s wrong, right?”
“Yes.”
“I only believe you about seventy-five percent at the moment.”
“Eh, well,” I mumble, subtly covering up my sniffle. “C’s still get degrees.”
“All right, well, since you’re okay, can I catch you up on the gossip from last night?”
I open my pantry door, scouring for snacks. All I have are stale pita chips, fiber cereal, and the disgusting maca root chocolate cookies that organic snack brand sent me. They are offensively gross, but I didn’t have the heart to throw them away. Apparently, they are supposed to be somewhat of a libido booster. A cookie aphrodisiac. I swear, the random shit these people want me to help them sell.
“What gossip?”
“Guess who also missed girls’ night because their boyfriend is in town and moved in?”
Huh?Which of us has a boyfriend? Last I checked, me, Addie, Reese, and Quinn were painfully single—
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock.
My heart leaps out of my chest at the unexpected intrusion at my front door.
“Hang on,” I grumble to Quinn. “Either the world’s largest woodpecker is at the door or the police are here to collect me.” Who the hell knocks like that?
She must not hear me say hold on because she continues on about how “he moved and they are living together.”
I yank open the door at the same time I ask into the phone, “Wait, you’re talking about Noa? Who ‘moved in’ with her?”
It’s Adam who answers my question. “I’m assuming Chase,” he says simply, eyeing me up and down with a growing smirk.
Sucking in his lips, he averts his gaze. I look down to see what he’s alarmed about and when I can clearly see my nipples through my very see-through white tank top, I realize I answered the door with no bra and still in my cheeky underwear that barely covers a third of my admittedly bony ass. I cross my arms firmly over my breasts, covering up my visible nipples.
“Quinn, I gotta go.”
“Chase moved to Denver to be with Noa officially,” Adam continues to explain, as if I asked. “But seeing how close you and Noa are, I’m sure you know that already.”
Actually, no.I’ve been in bed for the past two days, trying to block out the world. “Right,” I lie. I’ll ask the girls questions, lots of questions,later. Right now, I’m wondering why the hell Adam is holding a key ring with a tiny bedazzled electric guitar, a sparkly pink key, and a car key fob decked out in pink rhinestones.
I point to his hand. “What are those?” I return the favor of eyeing him up and down now. I never realized how tall he is. I don’t remember him towering over me like this the other day. Was I wearing heels? “And why are you always in a suit? It’s Saturday.”
He ignores my second question. “Do you want to get dressed, first?”
Crossing my arms firmly over my breasts, covering up my visible nipples, I then narrow my eyes at him, remembering how peeved I still am from our last encounter. “I’m fine.” I nod to the girly keys in his hand. “Why do you have keys to Barbie’s dreamhouse?”
“These are for you.” He waggles the keys in my face. “A key to your new condo, a key to your new car, and a little electric guitar, since you’re so into death metal and all.” He flashes me a playful smile.
Smart-ass.He loves that he caught me in a lie. He probably knows my entire playlist history on Spotify is just Selena Gomez on repeat.
“Cute. But I already told you the other day—”
He holds up his hands, then clasps them together in a praying motion. “I’m an ass. I get it. And I’m very sorry.”
Huh?“Sorry for what?”
He shrugs innocently. “I don’t know. It just seemed like the safest way to start a conversation with you.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re allowed to not want to sleep with me. Sure, my ego took a hit, but whatever.”
“Well, if it helps your ego, I’m kind of hoping you’ll uncross your arms at the moment.” He pumps his brows at me and flashes me his money-making smile. He really does have nice teeth…and dimples…and I like the way his hair is a little curly when it gets too long.
“What do you want?” I ask, doing the opposite and tightening my death grip around my chest.
“Your car,” he says simply.
“Randy’s already called and I’m supposed to pick up my car next week. Apparently, there’s something wrong with the transmission too.”
“And the timing belt, your rotors are shot, and your left brake light is a little dim in comparison to the right, but that wasn’t a huge deal, just the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the repairs were going to be more than the car was worth. I’ve never seen a car look so nice on the outside, but on the inside basically held together with bubblegum and hair scrunchies. What did you do? Buy a used car from a man in a trench coat trying to sell fake Rolexes?”
I balk, offended. “It was a reputable used car dealership.” Actually, it wasn’t, it just was the only car I could afford in cash when I got to California. I left my car at home with my mom. I have to buy most things in cash because lenders don’t see brand partnerships as reliable income. I can’t exactly show them a W2 or paystub. I can make twenty thousand dollars in one month, and then not even break four-figures the next month. What lender wants to take a chance on that sort of instability?
“You got hustled, sweetheart. So I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck in discomfort.
I scrunch my nose at him like I smell something bad. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”
Ignoring me, he blurts out, “I got you a loaner.”
“Adam,” I deadpan.
“A loaner. I did not buy you a car, calm down. It’s one of mine. It costs me nothing.”
“Just like you didn’t skip an important meeting to have lunch with me?” I raise my brows at him. “I’d call you a stalker again, but honestly? I don’t get it. You played your cards, I offered the bait, and then you just swam away.” I wiggle a hand in the air, like a fish swimming, while my other arm remains tightly around my chest. “I’m not interested in mind games, and I have about ten years of packing that I should’ve started yesterday, so if you’ll excuse me.”
“Wait,” he protests
I take a step backward, intent on turning on my heel and closing my front door behind him, but he grabs my forearm in one of his large hands to hold me in place.
My body tenses. It’s not that he’s hurting me. It’s his firm grip, like he’s desperate to keep me, making my stomach flit in anticipation. Neither of us moves, even as his knuckles press into my chest.
“If you were any other woman, I swear, Amani, after lunch that day, we wouldn’t have even made it back to your apartment. After hauling ass to the nearest empty parking, I would’ve fucked you in my car.”
“Classy,” I mutter. I meant it to be sarcastic, but there’s no humor between us. My throat is dry, and I keep looking at his lips, almost certain they could quench my thirst.
“I just don’t sleep with women I like talking to because I don’t like to—”
“Blur lines,” I finish for him.
He locks onto my eyes, tightening his grip. “I like you. I haven’t liked anyone in a long time, so, obviously, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Sorry I upset you. I should’ve compromised. At least a kiss. Maybe a little over the pants petting would’ve been the gentlemanly thing to do.”
He holds a straight face, but I burst into laughter, our familiar rhythm returned. Okay, fine. He makes me laugh like it’s an easy thing to do.
“If you’re into me, and I’m into you, what’s the problem?” A flurry of excitement swirls just below my navel, reminding me of how I actually feel about this man.
“I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not,” he says, his eyes dropping to the ground. “And then lead you on and let you down. It’s clear what you want in life.”
“And I’m assuming you want the opposite?”
He lifts his gaze and his eyes dart between mine. “Been there. Done that. It’s not for me.”
Of course there’s a rush of disappointment from my head to my toes. But his admission is refreshing at least. “Adam, that was neither smooth nor rehearsed.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a humorless laugh.
“But it was honest. And I like that. Thank you. We’re okay, I promise.” I pump my eyebrows at him. “I’m actually going to miss randomly bumping into you. But if you’re ever in Denver, I can send you my go-to spots to make your stalking a little easier.”
“Ha.” He releases me and dangles the keys in his other hand, making a small ruckus as the tiny guitar knocks against the bedazzled keys.
“Those are adorable, by the way. Did you steal those from an eleven-year-old Swiftie?”
He smirks. “No, sassy. I already had them. I broke up the matching set. Now I only have sparkly pink drums on my keys.”
Ha. I wonder where he went out to buy this for me. Had to be Claire’s. “Adam, I’m not taking those—”
“Look, if you really want to go home, then I’ll even help you pack. But you said you wanted to stay here. Please don’t leave all because of me.”
“All because of you?” I ask. “Someone is a little full of themselves, hm?”
“I meant what I said, Amani. I want to help you. I want to be your friend.”
I inhale then blow out a deep breath. “That’s just what men say when they want to have sex but don’t want to call you the next day.”
“I didn’t say friends with benefits. I just said friends.”
I raise one brow. “Just friends?”
He jiggles the keys again. “And technically your landlord. Also, your car rental company.”
“Do I really come off that pathetic?” I ask, my tone noticeably somber. “You feel so bad for me, you’re jumping through all these hoops?”
He holds my gaze unshyly. “I’m jumping through hoops because you’re worth jumping for.” He speaks slowly so I can soak up every word. “There is nothing pathetic about letting someone help you, okay? All you have to do is decide what you really want.”
I feel it in my bones. There’s something here I still need to work out. So I uncross my arms and hold out my hand, letting Adam drop the keys into my palm.
“It’s condo number 3A, and it’s ready whenever you are. I’ll have my car dropped off here this week. Both yours for as long as you need them.”
I smile. “When’s rent due?”
He rolls his eyes as he shakes his head. “Let’s just say the first. I’ll have Jessie set up an agreement if you insist.”
“I do.” Relief washes over me, and damn, it does feel good for once to let someone save the day. “Thank you, Adam.”
“You’re welcome.” He thinks he’s slick, but I watch his eyes drop to my chest briefly, then back up. “All right, I have to run to a meeting, one I can’t miss this time, but text me when you’re ready to move your stuff. I’ll help you.”
Since I’m on a roll today, I accept his help. “Okay, thank you. Oh, wait, I don’t have your number.”
He quirks a brow. “Check your DMs. I put it in there like ten times.”
I chuckle. “Finally got me to respond to your messages, huh?”
“Yup. Only cost me a car and a condo.” He winks at me.
“All right, well, I’ll see you soon then,” I say, then take a step backward into my apartment and close the door behind me. I’ve barely taken two steps when there’s another knock.
I open the door to reveal an anguished-looking Adam, his face furrowed in concern.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Can I ask an off the record question?” His words are hurried.
“Sure?”
“Are your nipples pierced?”
I nod at him slowly. “Yes.”
“Mhm, okay, cool,” he mutters before turning back down the hallway. I shut the door behind me once more, but still hear Adam grumble from down the hallway clear as crystal, “Fuck!”