Chapter 13
My laptop rests on the kitchen island, goading me. I stare at the silver, sleek device that’s silently scolding me: Buck up. Hustle harder. Swallow down the feelings and get the fuck back to work.
I just don’t want to today. The past two days with Carson and Adam have been painfully eye opening. I was elbow deep in poopy diapers, run ragged from trying to entertain a toddler in an empty condo, and somehow I felt completely fulfilled. I was held and touched by a man who isn’t mine to keep and yet have never felt so safe. It felt so honest, that I’m having trouble returning to reality.
I have to post something. It’s been two days, and I’m sure my absence has already screwed up the algorithms. Within two days, I’m sure I’ve already missed out on some new trending song, dance, or joke that could’ve gotten my brand partners millions of views. Every time I’m not operating strategically and robotically, I’m missing opportunities. Make no mistake, entrepreneurship is a constant hustle for survival. There is no rest for those who want to stay relevant. But today I just don’t give a crap about being relevant.
I retreat from my laptop and spin around. Walking through the main living room, I make my way to the giant glass doors. As soon as I slide the balcony doors open, the afternoon heat wraps around me. It’s soothing, a nice contrast from the brisk air conditioning inside the condo.
The sun is sparkling off of the strip of ocean visible behind the busy highway. I can’t imagine how much Adam paid for this condo to be able to see a strip of ocean from his balcony. This could be content. I could film a selfie video with this view behind me and come up with some sort of snappy caption.
Instead, I pull out my phone and call one of my best friends, Reese.
The phone barely rings before she picks up and says, “Hey, Hollywood. Did you get your emotional support pickle too?”
I smile into the phone. “Well, that’s one hell of a greeting.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Reese cackles.
“Not remotely, but I’m intrigued.”
“Addie bought us all little stuffed pickles. Purse stuffers. It’s the silliest, cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I wish I could live in that girl’s brain. I imagine it’s all rainbows and cotton candy in there. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t had disappointing sex yet.”
I laugh. Addie is the youngest of our friend group and is still a virgin in her mid-twenties. “She hasn’t had sex yet, period.”
“Yeah, same thing, Mani. All sex is disappointing in one way or the other.”
Hunching over and resting my elbows on the balcony rail, I ask, “I take it your dating life is going great.”
“Snazzy as usual,” she snarks.
“You know what I think we’re doing wrong?” I ask.
“Being heterosexual?”
I ignore her sarcasm. “I don’t think we’re connecting properly. I’ve been thinking lately, especially on social media when you kind of fabricate your reality, you’re stuck in your lies to maintain a persona. But if you’re honest with someone about who you are and what you really want, and they still want to connect, sex would probably be explosive.” It seems to be that way with Adam. We haven’t even had sex yet, but I can still feel his electric fingertips on me. My newest addiction.
Reese is quiet on the line for a while and it’s just the distant sound of honking horns and squawking seagulls. “You still there?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Reese clears her throat before continuing. “I’m torn between asking if you’re seeing someone or asking if you’re okay.”
I exhale. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? Outside of missing a couple of girls’ nights, which I hate to tell you—samosas, sangria, and Sex and the City is really hard to enjoy with you guys over video chat—nothing’s changed. Every time I talk to you guys, someone asks me if I’m okay. I’m still the same me I’ve always been. Why is there such a spotlight on how I’m doing?”
“Oh, babe,” Reese exhales. “The problem with having friends who have been attached at the hip for over a decade is we can tell when you’re being yourself, and you’re trying really hard to be yourself.”
“Fair enough,” I force out.
“As curious as I am about your whole ‘connecting for great sex’ monologue, I’m going to go with the latter. Are you okay?”
Of all my friends, I can only trust Reese with my next request. “If I tell you the truth, will you promise not to press the issue?”
“Yes.”
“I’m struggling. But I need some time to figure out some things on my own.”
She sighs. “If you came home, we could struggle together. My lease is up in a few months. I could ask for a two-bedroom. Just like old times.”
Old times? I roll my eyes at the notion. If she only knew. We’d get a tiny two-bedroom apartment together in metro Denver. It’d be me, Reese, and the baby she doesn’t know I’m desperately trying to make into a reality.
“Then again,” she continues, “the way my hair sheds drives you insane, so maybe you’d be better off at Quinn’s uppity place, or Addie’s total shithole. Or, if Noa’s summer doesn’t end in total disaster, she’ll still have a house in the suburbs.”
“Can you picture me as a suburbs girl?” I ask with a scowl. Although lately, I think I could.
“Good point. Well, your city girls still have your back. My point is, when you’re ready, you have options. Whatever you’re going through, we were here at the start, we’ll be here at the end. When you’re ready, babe.”
“Thank you.”
“And check your mailbox for your pickle,” she says with a laugh. “Addie wants pictures. She apparently custom ordered all of these from Etsy. It’s embroidered with your initials.”
“That’s every girl’s dream. Her name on a pickle.”
Reese laughs. “Agreed.”
“Shit, she probably sent it to my old address, though. I’ll go check—”
“You moved?” she asks.
“I didn’t renew my lease, so I’m bunking at a friend’s place in the same complex. All that changed is the apartment number.”
“Mhm…a friend?” Reese asks, her singsong tone insinuating she knows exactly what I’m hiding.
“You said you wouldn’t press.” I really don’t know how to explain Adam. He’s best kept a secret. Mostly because I know I’m being a little reckless and irresponsible investing my emotions in something that I know will end. Adam and I are an impending heartbreak in the making.
My call waiting beeps and I pull my phone from my ear to check the ID. “Hey, I have to go. It’s my mom’s treatment clinic.”
“Okay, but I’m changing your nickname from ‘Hollywood’ to ‘Secrets.’ Love you. Call us more, okay?” She makes a kissing sound and ends our call.
I wait for another ring before answering the next call. Based on the constriction in my chest and the way my heart is pounding, my intuition is telling me this can’t be good. The facility never calls me, they only email. Something is off.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Mrs. Rhodes?”
“Ms.,” I correct. “Yes, that’s me. Amani is fine.”
“Hi, Amani, this is Tim Morrish. I have you listed as the responsible billing party for our patient, Claire Rhodes.”
I blink slowly. Get to it, Tim. I know you have bad news. “Yes, that’s correct,” I reply flatly.
“I just have to inform you that we’re on a recorded line. Would you like me to read you our privacy policy before we begin?”
“No, thank you, Tim,” I grumble, shifting my weight from my left leg to my right. “Is everything okay with my mother’s treatment?”
“Everything is fine, but due to new compliance mandates, we’ve had to completely replace some of our machines, making it necessary to restructure our billing.”
“Plain English, please?” It’s obvious he’s skirting around whatever it is he wants to tell me.
“Treatment prices have gone up…significantly.”
“That can’t be right. Prices just went up a few months ago, and that was already unaffordable to begin with. You guys know her insurance refuses to pay a penny, right?”
“That’s likely because this treatment is considered more experimental. Insurance would help cover nerve block medication or opioids—”
“No,” I bark out. “No more pain meds. They make her so sick and she can’t have a lucid thought. This isn’t about masking her pain. It’s about giving her some quality of life. How can you guys keep doing this?” I release a slow, shaky breath. “Sorry, Tim. I’m not trying to shoot the messenger. Don’t give me the exact number. I don’t think I can stomach it right now. Just tell me, how dramatic of a change are we talking?”
“Will you be sticking to twice a week treatments?”
“Yes,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the strip of ocean that I wish I could dive into and just disappear in. “And the hydrotherapy massages too.”
“Nearly double, Ms. Rhodes.”
“Oh, fuck me,” I choke out. “Please just email me the new quotes,” I say before hanging up the phone. I resist the urge to chuck my phone right off the balcony. Hanging up was rude but far more polite than what else was about to come out of my mouth.
* * *
I pulled my blow-up mattress into the bedroom and unpacked some stackable plastic storage bins that I placed on either side. It’s almost like I have a functional bedroom. Every time I sniffle, the wobbly mattress jostles me, making it impossible to rest. Maybe if I could stop crying, I could get some sleep.
Yanking the covers over my head, I listen to the hum of the television behind me. I set my flatscreen on the carpet and set it opposite of the bed, hoping that mindless reruns of my favorite sitcoms could lull me to sleep. But no such luck. The stress and tears have me wide awake. That, and the fact that it’s six-thirty in the evening.
Minerva, in all her psychic wisdom, used to tell me that when you’re safe in the eye of a perfect storm, watching everything you built get smashed to smithereens around you, it’s the universe taking charge. It’s destiny ripping apart the pieces you’re too afraid to let go of to build something so much better. I’ve been in the eye of the storm for a while now.
Nothing is getting better.
After I got off the phone with Mom’s treatment facility, I became manic. I hit my accounts hard and posted four videos across multiple accounts. One glitched, the rest tanked. Two hours of content creation down the drain. I checked my email, only to see an astronomical quote from Mom’s treatment facility and that Gamma cosmetics is shutting down their influencer partnerships for the foreseeable future. From the social media stalking I did on their main account, it appears like they landed a huge celebrity endorsement, meaning I lose a solid chunk of monthly income, and one of the richest reality TV stars in the world probably just pocketed what they consider to be valet tipping money.
The cherry on top to this dismal afternoon is that my troll found me. Now, they are Niopette_05. I’ve already blocked their accounts one through four. This time they got a little personal, sliding into my DMs with a slew of spite. Anyone with half a brain knows not to read the messages, but I’m in constant psychological warfare. Maybe if I can take the blows and stay standing, it means I can actually survive social media.
Most of the insults were low-hanging fruit. Their word weapons of choice were ugly, uneducated, a whore, a con artist. I’ve heard all that before. I’m embarrassed to admit that it was the last portion of their message that sent me under the covers: please don’t reproduce. The world doesn’t need more of you.
Congratulations, Niopette. You win. I won’t be reproducing.
Now, I can’t afford to go through with IVF. Mom’s well-being remains my priority. She gave me everything. Her back is a mess because she spent the better part of two decades scrubbing floors, waiting tables, working triples in whatever underpaid manual labor jobs she could find. All so I could have a semblance of a normal life with birthday parties, new clothes for school, even a car at sixteen. Sure, it was a clunker, but I drove to school while my mom took the bus to work. And I know in my heart right now that if she knew I wanted to get pregnant, she’d willingly spend the rest of her life in agonizing pain to see me happy.
My choice is made. Mom comes first and my window is closing. I’m going to have to fantasize about something other than a baby.