Chapter 2
Lucy
I don't remember falling asleep. We got home last night and barely reached the bedroom before Mateo freed me of the romper, grumbling about how to take off the stupid thing, making me laugh.
With a fierce kiss, he worked my body like we'd been apart for years. It was one of those nights he didn't hold back at first.
Wrapping a hand around my throat, he gently squeezed, fucking me hard and fast, almost punishing, forcing me to submit. My self-doubt and anxiety dissolved with each heavy thrust, giving me a glimpse of the real Mateo, the one he keeps hidden.
Like all previous times, though, his grip eventually loosened. He eased his weight off me, letting my head fill again with unnecessary bullshit because I'm too embarrassed to admit what I want.
More.
Harder, faster, rougher.
I want his weight holding me down, forcing me to stop thinking. I want him to tie me up, to restrain my limbs so I can squirm and struggle against his strength.
If only we had better communication, if I was more confident and less anxious, if he could spend more time with me… maybe I could figure out what's wrong between us, or why he holds back. Maybe I could admit that I want the darkness I know he's hiding.
Truthfully, my sex life has always been a little vanilla. I hadn't thought much about it before. I rarely came with penetrative sex unless I helped myself, and it was often missionary, quick and simple.
But then I met Mateo, and it didn't matter if we were having lazy Sunday morning sex or a can't-keep-our-hands-off-each-other fuck fest; I always come, and it's always amazing.
Even though he holds himself back, our sex life is great.
I've tried things with Mateo I never knew I wanted. He spent weeks prepping my ass for anal sex. It was my first time, and he only admitted to wanting it in the heat of lust one night, and I thought: hell yes, I want that.
It made my imagination go wild, thinking about all the other things we could try. But he never pushed past what we've done, and I'm too chicken-shit to ask for more.
When he chokes me, it scares me, just a little. But that fear overrides my overthinking brain, and I can let go in those moments. All my stresses, my anxieties, my constant worrying—it all disappears.
Not realizing how exhausted I was last night, I crashed hard after we had sex.
I woke up to Mateo tucking me in. It's still dark out and I yawn and look up, seeing he's already dressed for work. He says nothing; he rarely does. But I can see the love in his eyes. I can feel it.
I can also see a million words on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps them buried and leans down, kissing my forehead before saying goodbye. A strange sense of unease hangs like a gray cloud, and ?watching him walk out of the sparsely decorated bedroom pricks at my heart.
My anxiety is typically manageable. Ironically, my social media platform is one thing I use to help manage it, even though it absolutely also makes it worse.
I love to post tips and tricks that I've used to manage my anxiety. If I learn a new breathing technique or find an exercise that helps me, I'll share it. But then, I get a little obsessed over how many likes the post got, which worsens my anxiety, defeating the purpose. It's a vicious cycle, and the irony isn't lost on me.
Regardless, I try not to post about anxiety too often; I don't want people to think I don't have it under control. I'm ZenInTheCity, after all. Big smiles, positive affirmations. What would people think if they discovered how stressed I was every time I posted a selfie with a giant smile?
Mateo's got me a little edgy this morning, though, so I direct some of that energy into self-care. Drawing a bath, the jets swirl and splash the water while it fills. I take pictures of the bubble bath products, candles, and herbs artfully resting on the tub's edge. I don't have contracts with all the companies, but I get a lot of products sent to me for free, so I do my best to use and post about them as often as possible.
Feeling slightly more relaxed, I pull on a pair of running shorts, a strappy bra and my favorite sneakers. Phone tucked securely in my pocket, I peek in the mirror. Just enough makeup to look like my skin is flawless, and then I'm off.
As the day goes on, I feel more and more like myself. I run through the streets, ending up in Sunrise Park. When I find a quiet copse of trees to record next to, I spend hours taking pictures and making videos of some of my favorite stretches, saving them to post for later. I order a vegan taco from a street vendor and sit on a bench editing pictures.
It's late by the time I head back to the apartment. I'm exhausted and decide to catch a ride instead of running home. A cab finally picks me up after I wave about like a frantic tourist, too tired to wait for an Uber. We pull up in front of my building, and I pay the driver and head inside, my steps slower and more controlled than when I hopped in the cab.
Resting my head against the elevator wall, I stare at the tacky, gold-plated metal, playing with different versions of my smile in the reflection. I'm pretty good at wearing one, even when I don't feel so happy. The doors open on fifth, and I straighten and pretend I wasn't making faces at myself like a massive dork.
"Evenin' y'all," I offer a tired but genuine smile at my new neighbors, an elderly couple I've noticed in the building on other nights when I was coming home with Mateo. Old money's my guess, dressed to the nines, looking like they're coming from a dinner party, the woman rocking serious Iris Apfel vibes. She gives my appearance a once-over, disapproval pursing her lips. She doesn't smile back, but that's okay. Not everyone practices smiling as much as I do. They get off the floor below my stop.
The elevator silently lifts, and a heavy sigh escapes me. The empty metal box pops open on the top floor, and I step out, pausing to take a deep breath and a moment of gratitude, the buzzing nerves under my skin slowly dissipating.
To say I have complete control over my anxiety is like saying my naturally sunny disposition is performative. I can't help it—the sunny disposition or the sometimes crippling anxiety. They just are. I just am . But both make good selling points when you're internet famous, just for being you. Or a hyped-up, majestic version of you.
The anxiety—along with every post I've ever made about managing anxiety, stress, and mental health—is always with me, but I do a damn good job at slapping on a smile and convincing myself and everyone else that those breathing techniques do work. No, seriously, try that weighted blanket; it'll calm your nervous system right down. No time to prep a healthy meal? Try this meal kit; it's great for you, chock full of nutrients, and will take the stress of decision-making right out of you.
Feeling calmer, I let myself into the apartment, knowing it'll be quiet and empty on the other side of the door. My footsteps echo on the marble tile as I shuffle down the darkened hall, mail stuffed under one arm, juggling keys and my phone with the other.
I don't turn on the light just yet, letting the glittering Port City skyline light my way. The newness of the uptown apartment hasn't worn off on me. Every time I take in this view—as I exit the hallway and emerge into the recessed living room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city—I'm giddy that I get to live here . It's a long way from that double-wide I grew up in down south.
Mateo texted an hour ago, letting me know he'd be working late tonight. Again.
He works late every night, so the fact that he texted really means he'll be working so late he may not come home at all. One night, a few months ago, when he said the same thing, I popped by his office under the guise of bringing him dinner. Our relationship was new, and admittedly, I was a little insecure. But sure enough, once the security guard let me into the building and up to the fiftieth floor, there was Mateo in his corner office, crunching numbers and tearing his hair out, stressing over the stock market as it opened somewhere far from here. I held up a bag of greasy takeout, and the relief on his face made me feel ashamed for mistrusting him.
Still, sometimes I can't help but think that if I swung by his office every time he said he was working late, I might not always find him there. I've never smelled another woman's perfume on his collar. I've never found any indication that he sleeps around. But he keeps secrets.
Dropping my keys, purse, and mail on the pristine white marble countertop, I head to our bedroom. Our bedroom—it's a trip to think about. Two months ago, four months after we met, Mateo asked me to move in with him. I was cautiously optimistic about this mysterious man I had fallen for.
On the one hand, he had this gorgeous apartment, and I was crazy about him.
On the other hand, the apartment looked staged—decorated in an impersonal style, like he didn't live here—no personal effects or pictures.
All his clothes are here. His fancy watches, his toothbrush. And except for the nights he works late, he always comes home at night. But the apartment never felt like his .
When I asked him about it, he shrugged and said he didn't like clutter.
Never mind that he has no friends over. In fact, he never talks about having friends. Maybe he doesn't have any. I'm sure I'm overthinking things, as usual—the curse of the anxious—creating problems where they don't yet exist.
I don't bother turning on the light. The casting glow from the city that never sleeps is enough. I shuffle through my drawer, finding the swimsuit I was looking for. It's on the sporty side, like most of my clothes, with lots of dainty straps giving it a hint of sex appeal, perfect for tonight's video.
It's late, and I'm tired, and I've been working all day. But I need to finish a few more ready-made posts so I can relax tomorrow. Stripping down and putting on the swimsuit, I make my way back down the hall, bare feet slapping on the cold floor, past the kitchen into the living room, letting myself out on the terrace.
Assembling my recording equipment, I prop my phone up just right and critique my reflection in selfie mode. Untying my ponytail, shaking my long hair loose, letting my white-blonde locks fall down my back, I lean in and wipe some of the eyeliner from under my eyes clean. Fortunately, the contouring makeup and false eyelashes take actual effort to remove, so I still look fresh as a daisy. Nothing left to do but turn my smile back on and hit record.
"Hey, y'all! It's me, ZenInTheCity, you're with Lucy! Now, I know what you're thinkin', why do I keep pushin' swimming? Well, it's one of the best exercises you can do. It's good for the joints, low impact, and works out the entire body. Keep an eye out this week, I'm gonna be workin' my way around Port City, sharing with you the best and easiest ways out there to get your swim on!"
I dive into the pool dramatically, then swim back to the phone to stop and edit the recording. I'm so close to 1.2 million followers I can taste it, but I won't count my chickens till they hatch. I already have half the locations for my swim-focused content tagged and ready to post. It'll give me two weeks worth of content, but it never hurts to have more ready.
I get anxious if my accounts dip too low in backup, ready to post content, so over-preparing has become my mantra. Because of my constant need to hustle, a possible by-product of my childhood, I have the most followers and advertising revenue amongst my friends, all influencers to some degree. It should make me happy, and I should give myself a break, but honest to god, the higher my numbers climb and the more famous I get, the more stressed it all makes me. With all the effort I put in, it feels like a failure every time my numbers drop, even though they always come back higher. That's the nature of this work, though; it fluctuates.
I record a few more shots of me exercising in the pool, but it becomes too challenging with the lighting warring with the night sky. It would be easier in an indoor public pool, but I am, after all, on a private balcony penthouse overlooking the city. Leaning over the pool's edge, I post a few teaser shots and schedule the video to go live first thing tomorrow.
Letting my phone drop onto the towel, I swim back to the center of the pool, my body floating to the surface like a starfish. It's chilly out, late springtime, and there's a breeze this high in the sky, but the pool is heated and the cool air feels good. I'm not afraid of heights, but I can't bring myself to look around much when I'm out here, or I start questioning the feats of human engineering.
It's only been a few minutes, but I'm already itching to check my phone and see how many likes I've got. But I make myself wait. Before the anxiety can crawl out of my skin and take over, I force myself to swim laps, to stay active, and focus on something else. Movement always helps.
Somewhere around the fifth lap, the anticipation takes over. My skin itches, and it becomes a physical thing, denying the urge to check my phone. But I keep swimming, letting the warm water slide over my skin. At the end of the tenth lap, I feel calmer and even force myself to take another few breaths, like I earned it, before swimming back to the edge to check my phone.
To my delight, I've already got three thousand likes, but only a few new followers. That's okay. Those shots were throwaways, and it's only been a few minutes. Refusing to let myself feel too down, a text alert comes through from an unknown number. I tap the text, but nearly drop the phone once it opens.
The world around me becomes so quiet, all I can hear is a faint ringing in my ears. A tingling sensation creeps into my hands, a pit weighs in my stomach. I don't know how long I stare at the image.
Eventually, the late-night cool breeze and my wet hair pull my attention back to my surroundings, and the sound of the lapping pool water wakes me from the trance.
My pruney fingers tremble. I throw my phone on the ground with more force than necessary, cringing when it bounces off the ground, and climb out of the pool, feeling dizzy and sick.
Standing on shaky legs, my racing heart feels like it's overheating, unaffected by the cool night air that suddenly freezes my skin, goosebumps erupting along my bare flesh.
I glance around like someone will pop up and tell me what to do to help me with this nausea and fiery rage and heartbreak, but when help doesn't come, I grab hold of the towel with shaking hands and wrap it around my body.
Sucking in a deep breath, it's fast and sharp, burning my throat, and I know I need to calm down. I try to recall all those techniques I'm constantly posting to help control my heartbeats. They feel so fast and loud in my chest. What do I do again?
The slow-count breathing doesn't do shit. Inhale, count to four. Hold, count to seven. Exhale, count to eight. And repeat. Again and again, I try it. But it doesn't work; each inhale somehow feels empty of oxygen. I glance down at where my phone rests on the ground, trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle I didn't know existed.
Grateful Mateo isn't coming home tonight, wrapped in a towel, I head to the bedroom and crawl under the covers, letting my wet hair drape over my pillow. I contemplate showering to rinse off the pool water, wash the makeup off, and maybe even brush and braid my hair, but I can't move.
The heavy weighted blanket provides little comfort, and I stare blankly at the wall. Numbness wins over, and rather than process my feelings and make a plan, I wait—for sheer exhaustion, confusion, and sadness to pull me into sleep or for the sun to rise—whichever comes first.