Chapter Thirty - Lucky
CHAPTER THIRTY
I hate the way her words slam into me, hate the pain that ricochets inside my chest. But I hate the look in Becca’s eyes even more. The mistrust, the anger, the hurt.
Her accusation echoes in my ears, and my entire body tenses. It’s like that moment right before you get into a car accident, that split second where you brace yourself for impact.
“Just tell me,” Becca’s voice rises an octave, her lower lip beginning to tremble. “I deserve to know the truth. Were you in on it?”
And just like that, a semi-truck slams into me, cracking my chest wide open. I’d braced for it, but the impact is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and for a second, I can’t breathe, I can’t think.
“Is that what you really think of me? That I could be capable of doing something like that?” My voice comes out low and deep. I’m barely keeping it together.
“How well do I really know you, Lucky?” Becca replies, straightening her shoulders.
“After all, we’re just content creators.
We can be whoever we want to be when the cameras are on, right?
Isn’t that what you said? And somehow the cameras knew exactly where to find us last night.
” She throws my own words at me with such force, I nearly jolt backward.
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“How do I know that?” Becca keeps going. “I mean, you’re willing to risk your own life for views and follows, so how do I know you didn’t orchestrate this as well?”
“Because I wouldn’t do that,” I practically explode, jumping to my feet.
“Did you forget what happened to me? The worst moment of my life was broadcast live for the world to see. While I was lying on the ground with that ATV on top of me, the camera kept rolling. I’ve been trying so hard to get past that day, but that stupid video .
. . the comments, the way people look at me now.
I can’t get away from it. That’s why I’m here, doing all of this! ”
Becca’s body language doesn’t change, nor does the accusation in her eyes. Frustration burns hot in my gut.
“Do you honestly believe that I would kiss you the way I kissed you last night, that I would tell you that I’m falling for you and then have it all turn out to be some kind of publicity stunt?
” I yank a hand through my hair, my fingers catching on the tangles and sending sharp stabs through my scalp.
“I’ve done a lot of stupid shit for my channel, Becca, but I would never do that. Especially not to you.”
Becca glares, and I can’t tell if she believes me or not. It makes the room start to feel small, as if there’s not enough air in it for both of us.
I want to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close so that she can feel this damn heart in my chest, beating and bleeding, but the cold look in her eyes is resolute.
Anger surges through me then, a fiery energy that makes it hard to stand still.
“And you know what? You’re right about me.
I make content that requires me to do ridiculous things, dangerous even.
And I know that deep down there must be something broken inside me, something so fundamentally fragmented that I would even consider continuing on with my platform after what happened, but at least I know who I am, and I’m honest about it. ”
Becca’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Are you saying I’m not?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re so damn afraid to admit how much you hate being an influencer.
You’re afraid to admit it to yourself, and you’re afraid to admit it to them.
” I wave the phone, the screen lighting up with notifications.
“Don’t come at me acting like you aren’t playing the same damn game I am.
You need all of this,” I throw out my arms. “Just like I do. Whether you can admit it or not, we’re exactly the same. ”
I should stop there, but the ache in my chest only spurs me on.
“You know what else? You may be doing all of this to take care of your mom, and I can respect the hell out of that, but no matter how many followers or sponsorships you have or how many views your videos get, it’s only a band-aid to the real problem.”
“What are you talking about?” Becca demands, though some of the fire is gone from her tone.
“Damn it, Becca, even if we win, all the money in the world isn’t going to fix your mom.”
The words don’t even sound like me, but they spew from my throat with such force I know there’s nothing I can do to take them back. I don’t want to. The truth always pisses people off.
It hurts them, too, a voice whispers in the back of my mind. I know I’ve hit my mark when the color drains from Becca’s face, her eyes lining with silver tears.
“I think you should go,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself.
Part of me recoils as she withdraws, slamming down an almost tangible wall between us, but the rest of me is still so blazing mad that she could think so little of me, that she could believe me truly capable of using what happened between us as some kind of twisted manipulation.
“Yeah, I think we’re done here.” I push past her, letting the door slam shut behind me. I stalk towards my own door, fishing my key card from the pocket of my shorts. Once inside, I don’t even switch the lights on. I just sink down onto the edge of the bed, jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
My frustration fades the longer I sit there, but a marrow-deep ache takes its place.
I’ve experienced pain before, but this? I’m not even sure how to measure it.
I think back to the days after my accident.
Every few hours, a nurse would come in to check my vitals, and they would always ask me to rate my pain on a scale from one to ten.
There were a few days where the pain was towards the higher end of the scale, but I’d never reached a ten, never gotten to the point where it was so unbearable that it eclipsed all other pain.
And now I know why. Because a ten doesn’t come from something physical. It’s not an ATV landing on top of you or hitting your head so hard you nearly break your own skull.
It’s this right here, this pain in my chest.
I fall back against the comforter, trying to figure out what to do next. Part of me wants to run back down the hall and beg Becca to talk to me, to apologize for what I said about her mom, but the other part of me keeps replaying her accusatory words, words that still sting.
I unplug my phone from the charger and tap on the screen. My notifications are out of control, and the little red number that indicates my private messages keeps updating as more and more roll in.
The comments aren’t great—Becca was right about that. A lot of people love the idea of us together, but just as many are pissed about our ruse. It doesn’t matter that we never promised them the truth or that we didn’t technically break any rules. They only care about their perception of us.
It doesn’t matter that perception and reality are two very different things.
I tap one of the reposts, making the video full-sized on my screen. My heart gives a pathetic jolt as I watch. There’s no sound, and I can’t tell who’s behind the camera. But the comments say more than enough.
“Well . . . at least no one is talking about your accident,” I say out loud.
The words echo across my empty hotel room, and I wait for some feeling of triumph to fill me. Even if we don’t win the competition, this should be more than enough to make my accident disappear.
But the feeling overwhelming me isn’t victory.
Not even close.