Chapter 2
My throat burns from the vodka shot I just tossed back as music pumps through the club, but I relish it. At least it’s something real I can resent. Slamming the shot glass on the bar top, I signal the bartender for another while wincing over the first.
“Someone came to party tonight,” Caleb says, slipping an arm easily around my waist. “That’s my girl!”
Nope. Just wallowing in my reality of being a thirty-year-old woman who lives with her parents and has wasted the last two years pouring my heart and soul into a business that may never happen.
No wonder my parents tried to talk me out of trying in the first place.
I should have listened to them when they told me to stick with my communications degree, but nooo, I had to follow my stupid heart and switch to a business major, all because I got too wrapped up in a side hustle.
My parents were right—I should have left it at being a hobby.
Another shot appears in front of me and I slam that one back too, hoping it washes away the aftertaste of my hopes and dreams.
“Come on, babe, let’s go dance.” Caleb tugs my hand, already searching for his friends, but I stay where I am.
“I don’t really feel like dancing.”
“Sure you do, this vibe is popping,” he says, his phone suddenly out as he records a quick video of the mass of bodies jumping up and down to the thumping beat the DJ is churning out.
He turns the camera back on himself. “Let’s gooooo!
” he shouts at the phone to be heard over the music, grinning ear to ear.
The same beaming, unreserved smile drew me to him when we met on New Year’s Eve.
Usually, I’m a fan of his optimism, but for once, I wish he could press pause on the persona he uses for his followers and be real with me.
In dating an influencer, I’ve learned that you’re never in a relationship with just one person—Caleb comes as a package deal: him and his sixty thousand followers.
“Can we go home soon?” I ask, the vodka swirling in my gut.
He gives me a knowing smirk, but sex is the last thing on my mind right now—way down the list after wrapping myself in my most comfortable pajamas and curling up under the covers with a pint of ice cream for at least a week.
Pressing a kiss to my temple, he says, “Wish I could take you to my place, but you know I’m working, babe. ”
I nod because I get it, and I don’t want to ruin his night just because I had a bad day.
Our jobs are similar—both in the realm of social media, the only difference being he’s the face of the products and clubs he promotes, whereas I hide behind other people’s accounts, keeping myself out of the spotlight.
My family—and even Lyla—have never really understood the demands of the job, or how stressful it can be, and I don’t like to complain to my parents after pushing so hard to switch my university major in the first place.
I need them to see that it was the right choice; only now the doubt creeps in.
Caleb is the only person who understands, but lately it seems like all we have to talk about is work.
“Cheer up, buttercup,” he says, pinching my chin and giving it a playful wobble. He gives me a sympathetic lip pout. “I don’t like seeing you so bummed.”
I try for a smile. “I’m sorry, I’m such a downer today. I probably shouldn’t have come.”
Especially not when this night out was supposed to be a celebration. Instead of being here with us, though, Lyla is at home with Adam, trying to figure out the bombshell they got dealt today with Adam’s unexpected layoff. (So much for the promotion he thought he was getting.)
As if summoned by BFF telepathy, my phone buzzes in my back pocket and I pull it out to find a text from her.
“It’s Lyla,” I tell Caleb, who’s bobbing beside me to the music, his attention back on his own phone. “Apologizing again and checking in to see how I’m doing.”
I roll my eyes, despite the gratitude that manages to push through my bad mood as I text her back.
Me: Please don’t worry about me, I promise I’m fine.
Lyla: Proof please.
I show Caleb the text and gesture for him to come in for a picture.
He fixes his hair quickly, then bends to tuck his chin over my shoulder and flash his perfect white teeth as I snap a photo and send it to her.
There. Proof that I’m alive and doing well.
So well that I’m partying at a club. She doesn’t need to know that I’m doing the mental math of how long I need to stick it out before I can ask Caleb again to take me home.
Me: Happy?
Lyla: Your smile is as fake as Caleb’s hair color.
Me: Be nice.
Caleb’s never been her favorite person, but she’s a worrier who can’t help but watch everyone’s backs. As the oldest of five siblings, her mother-henning comes honestly.
Me: Go worry about your husband. I’m fine, promise.
Lyla: How many 5-minute wallows did you do today?
Me: I’m going through a tunnel.
Lyla: That’s what I thought.
Me: Our entire life plan just went out the window. Give a girl a break. You’re allowed to freak out about this too, you know.
She doesn’t answer, and after a minute, I slip my phone back into my pocket to find Caleb filming himself taking another shot of something.
I spot a couple of his friends headed our way with a bottle, but I don’t want to share him right now.
It’s silly, but I need some comfort, so I grab his hand, pulling him around the dance floor's edge to the hallway leading to the restrooms where the music isn’t quite so loud.
“You look so sad, babe,” he says, brushing my hair out of my face, his blue eyes peering down at me. “Want me to get you a ride home?”
My childhood bedroom flashes through my mind, and I almost groan at the thought of going back there.
“Can I go to your place, and you can meet me there when you’re done?” I ask. “I love my parents, but I know they’re going to have a million more questions if I go home, and I don’t have any answers yet.”
“But it’s just business as usual for you, right? Nothing has to change. You haven’t quit on your clients yet.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say, pressing my face into his chest. “My resignation letter is already in my email drafts. The only reason I haven’t sent it is because my dad insisted I wait until the ink was dry on the lease. It’s just one more thing for them to say they were right about.”
He frowns down at me. “But you like what you do.”
I pull my lip between my bottom teeth. “I did. But I’ve spent so long helping other people build their brands … I was looking forward to finally building something for myself, you know?”
“Then don’t let Lyla stop you. Just go for it.”
I frown. “Setting aside the fact that I can’t afford the space alone, this was always mine and Lyla’s dream. Doing it without her feels wrong.”
“So, what will you do?”
I shrug, biting the inside of my cheek as that feeling of helplessness from earlier washes over me again. “I honestly have no idea what’s next.”
He rubs circles on my back. “Don’t worry, babe. You’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe …” I say, but I’m doubtful. “I didn’t realize how badly I was counting on getting the storefront and apartment until today when everything exploded.”
My parents are great, but they’ve kept my bedroom the same since I moved out almost ten years ago.
As supportive as they are, they’re already hinting at me backtracking to find a different career path that’s more stable and dependable, and the last thing I need as I try to figure my life out is them pressuring me to do it their way.
The vodka shots are catching up with me now. Along with the vision of what living with my parents indefinitely would look like, they make me blurt out my next thought without running it through the filter.
“I could stay with you,” I say, tipping my chin to peer up at him.
He grins. “Sure, babe. You can spend the night.”
“No, I mean—what if I move in?”
His confident grin flickers, and the alcohol starts to sour in my stomach. Oh. God.
“That’s … kind of sudden. Don’t you think?”
I take a half step back, hating that I sprung this on him. “No, no. I know. You’re right.” Maybe it’s the loud music making it hard to hear my thoughts, or maybe it’s the buzz, but instead of leaving it at that, I keep talking for once. “It’s just … we’ve been together for almost a year.”
Caleb’s eyebrows lift. “Well … it’s only been eight months.”
“Some people get married after less time than that.”
“Whoa. Sloan, I—”
I wave away his instant panic. “I’m not saying we should get married. I’m just making a point.”
“Okay.”
He starts looking around again, subtly shifting away from me, and my anger flares.
“I can’t believe this,” I say, laughing at how blatantly he’s avoiding the question. “I’m basically homeless and you won’t let me move in with you.”
“That’s not true,” he argues. “Your parents said you could stay with them as long as you needed, and you’ll be more comfortable there anyway. My condo is tiny, and if I’m going to start this podcast—”
“You’re picking a podcast over your girlfriend?”
For the first time, the understanding expression on his face wipes clean, his eyes turning hard and determined.
“No, I’m picking me, Sloan. This isn’t just some stupid podcast; it’s the next step in my career.
Which you should know better than anyone, most people don’t take seriously, but I do. And I thought you did too.”
The hurt in his eyes makes me reach for him, but even though he doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t lean into my touch either.
“No, that didn’t come out how I—ugh!” I run my hands through my hair, squeezing before I look up again and try to backpedal. “I’m sorry. I take you seriously, Caleb, I do, but everything I’ve been working towards for the last two years just imploded before it even started, and I need …”