Chapter 3
Lucy
My attention wavers. Indistinct chatter weaves around me, though I keep catching glimpses of conversation. I try to listen, but it's nebulous, their words slipping in and out of focus, floating around me like ash.
" Lucy . Lucy!" A foot nudges mine from under the table, and I shake my head clear.
"Huh?" Turning to face Cara, the sounds of brunch rush back full force, forks scraping, glasses clinking, laughter, and chatter echoing around our table. Cara bugs her giant blue eyes out at me, giving me a tight, admonishing smile. I must have missed something.
With a huff, she shakes her head, tosses her tight blonde curls over her shoulder, cheeks flushed in annoyance against her pale pink skin, and turns back to our group, her attitude shifting on a dime.
"Delaney, you have to tell me where you got that hat," Cara yells.
Cara sits to my left, and next to her, across from me, is Mary-Anne. Next to Mary-Anne sits Portia, and between Portia and me sits Delaney.
But I can't bring myself to look at her, even when she responds to Cara.
"No chance in hell, bitch! I got this sucker at this adorable little haberdashery. I'm gonna feature him next month, you can find out then like everyone else." Delaney taps the brim of her brown suede fedora, complete with ornate feathers, and lifts her mimosa, her hand shaking just a touch, but it's subtle. With all the clinking silver bracelets adorning her thin wrist, you'd barely notice it, but I do. Delaney's been drinking a lot lately.
Mimosas at Sunday brunch have been our ritual for nearly two years, but lately, it seems like an excuse for her to get plastered before noon. I cared about that yesterday. That was yesterday.
"Whatever, it's not like I'm gonna steal your tag," Cara scoffs, picking up her phone, sulking like a bratty teenager.
"So, who are you taking to Belize?" Portia changes the subject, offering Cara a small kindness, reminding her she has her own success to celebrate. Portia's pink acrylic-tipped fingers wrap primly around her mimosa flute.
We play our roles well. Portia is more high-class than all of us and the only one that actually came from money. She carries an air of regality with her gorgeous bone structure, long neck, and flawless dark brown skin; even now, at our casual brunch, she handles her glass with poise. I've always admired Portia. Not because she's posh but because she has a dark sense of humor and a hefty appreciation for sarcasm, and it's so unexpected, given her polished upbringing and newest season Birkin bags.
Cara squeals excitedly and drops her phone on the table next to her half-eaten, gluten-free, vegan pancakes. "I don't know yet, maybe Mark, remember that guy with the—" she hooks her finger suggestively, "but I don't even care if I go alone. I'm thinking about doing this whole piece on solo dating, you know? Like, date yourself for a while, right? Anyway, they're putting me up in this like cabana thing. The front steps are literally on the beach. Like, I can wake up and just like, walk out into the water in the morning, the water comes right up to the bedroom."
Mary-Anne tilts her head thoughtfully. "Wouldn't they worry about hurricanes being that close to the water?"
Cara rolls her eyes, exasperated, "No, dummy. They're all built with these sustainable materials or whatever, so if it gets blown down by a storm, it all, like, goes back to nature. They're supposed to be a part of the Earth or something."
Portia frowns. "That makes zero sense. Are you sure you're getting that right?"
Cara shakes her head like we're the idiots. She continues to tell us all about the company sponsoring her trip, an eco-focused organization that's been snatching up cheap property worldwide for the last few years, building resorts, and edging out locals. We've heard it a million times, but when you finally get enough followers online to get advertisers that send you on these all-inclusive trips, it's hard not to brag, so I get it. But right now, it just makes me cringe, thinking about displaced people and environmental disasters and climate change and the state of the world, and suddenly, it feels like everything is closing in around me.
Delaney watches me. I can see her from the corner of my eye, but as Cara prattles on and Mary-Anne and Portia pipe in with their opinions, the pressure becomes too much. There's a burning in my chest, wrapping a heated fist around my heart.
This isn't like me. I love brunch. I live for brunch. Normally, I'd have taken a hundred pictures by now—of myself, my friends, and the food in front of me, artfully arranged with and without a single bite missing. I'd be editing them already, ignoring the twenty-dollar avocado and egg sprouted-grain toast and focusing more on posting pictures.
But the idea of picking up my phone repulses me. Ever since last night, since that picture came in.
The reminder propels my attention to Delaney, who's arrogantly smirking.
We stare at each other, and everything feels wrong . Delaney's always been pretty, but as I take her in, shamelessly staring at my supposed friend while she stares back at me, I notice little details. More puzzle pieces. Her chestnut brown curls look unwashed and overly styled, her light brown skin looks pale and dry, barely perceptible bags under her eyes. Yesterday, I would have chided myself for being so judgemental. Today, it's ammunition.
"Lucy!"
"Huh?" I tear my gaze away from Delaney, my other friends at the table watching me with concern. I don't know how long I zoned out or what they're talking about.
"Are you okay, hun? You seem…" Mary-Anne hedges. They all knew something was off the moment I walked in this morning, my hair a ratty mess since I fell asleep with it wet from the pool. My makeup sweated off sometime through the night, and when I showed up, Portia grimaced, plucking a single false eyelash off my cheek that had come unglued.
"I'm fine. Sorry. What were you sayin'?"
"She was saying ," Portia interjects with a dramatic eye roll, "we saw you crested 1.2 this morning. Congratulations." She raises her glass. It's funny. I didn't even notice. When I woke up, I went out by the pool, picked up my phone without looking at it, and stuck it in my purse. Haven't touched it since.
"Oh. Right. Thanks." I grab my mimosa and down the drink. It's my first one. I'm at least a glass behind everyone else.
I should give a shit that I hit my next goal. 1.2 million followers is a lot. It was my goal six months ago, and last night, when I was only a couple hundred followers away, it was all I could think about. But now… Now all I can think about is why Cara isn't using her fame for climate change. And why I thought getting validation through followers would actually fill a hole inside me.
If it did, then I wouldn't feel so gutted right now.
I suspected something was off, didn't I? How could I be so blind?
The mimosa I just drank in three gulps burns in my stomach, the sour taste of orange juice bubbles up my esophagus. I need to get out of here.
"Well, I think I'll hit one million by the end of this month. And Lucy, don't forget, you promised to do that shoot at the park with me later today." I nod in agreement at Portia, but it's an empty gesture. Usually, I'd be more engaged, trying to help my friends build their platforms. I really want them to succeed, too. Not that Portia needs it. The only reason she isn't the most famous of the five of us is that she doesn't hustle. She doesn't need to, not like the rest of us. Not like Delaney and me.
"Okay, Lu, what is going on with you today? Are you on the rag or something? Oh my god, you're not pregnant, are you?" Cara snorts into her glass.
Delaney whips her head toward me, but I shake my head. "No, I'm not pregnant. I just drank the mimosa too fast. I'm fine." Suddenly I'm feeling overheated. I'm definitely not pregnant, but if I was, what terrible timing. "Is it hot in here?" I look around at my friends, half of whom are back on their phones. "It feels hot in here," I whisper to myself.
Cara picks at her plate with a fork, giving me an annoyed look. Out of sheer curiosity, maybe a sense of masochistic punishment, I look to Delaney. I can't even explain why, only that her attention used to feel like the sun, and we've been friends for years. She leans in close to you when she talks, like she's conspiring or sharing a secret only for the two of you. She's a force of nature.
For some reason, as hard as she works, she's never reached even close to my online numbers, and I know it bothers her, but still… She's always been my staunch cheerleader; supportive, fun, always down. Only the moment I look at her face, I feel sick again. I lift my shirt away from my chest to fan my overheating neck.
Delaney's still giving me that knowing smile. It's her signature look, this kind of devil-may-care half-smirk that keeps people guessing. It's charming, arrogant. She had that same smile in the picture that anonymous number texted me last night—the one where she was fucking Mateo in the backseat of her car.
Delaney lifts one eyebrow, daring me to accuse her. I open my mouth to do just that, but I can't. My throat practically closes around the unformed words.
The sounds around the room feel like they're growing and pulsing. The cacophony of phone alerts, my friend's voices discussing how to get more followers, chewing, silverware, glasses, servers, cash registers. The champagne in my stomach churns, but all of it fades when Delaney folds her arms on the white fabric linens on the table, giving me that half-smirk, leans in close and, in a voice a little too cavalier, asks, "What's the matter, Lucy-bear?"
What am I even doing here? When I left the apartment this morning, my one formulated plan was that I would come here and confront her. But even that was half-assed. I knew I wouldn't. It's not in my nature. I'm the sweet one, the southern girl with the thick accent, polite to a fault. Portia would say something. Cara too. I would get here, see Delaney, and shout, " How could you? " Then I'd storm Mateo's office and throw something messy, like a thick green smoothie, in his face. Something sticky that stains his perfect clothes.
Suddenly, everyone's phones beep simultaneously. One by one, my friends check their notifications, staring in horror. They look at me. Then, at Delaney.
I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the tile floor. Everyone at the table looks startled, but their faces all blur together. I feel like I can't breathe, like I'm not getting enough oxygen. My heart races, pounding out of my chest; all the loud sounds in the room pulse to the staccato of my heart's rhythm, and I turn to walk out of the restaurant.
I hear my name being called, but I keep walking, stumbling, bumping into tables and chairs until I reach the exit. Pressing my hand to the door, I push, the late morning sun blinding. I don't care. I keep moving, storming down the sidewalk, my vision adapting to the bright sky.
Finally, I feel like I can breathe, and the realization has me gasping, as though I've been underwater for too long.
Bent over on the sidewalk, nearly a block from the restaurant, I'm sucking in oxygen like an asthmatic. People amble around, ignoring me, just another fixture in their way.
We've only been together six months, and despite his secretive nature, I've always thought he could be the one. People talk about love at first sight like it's a trope, but for me, it was real. Mateo's neither charming nor overly friendly or outgoing. But he's magnetic. Intense. Confident in the way some men are, sure of himself with no wasted words. A workaholic. But I'm a natural caretaker, and he made me feel like the center of the universe when I could pull his attention away from numbers and market trends with nothing more than a flick of my ponytail.
Mateo and I fit. Perfectly. I love him. I can't believe he would do this to me, to us.
I feel sick. I can't go home. I need to check my phone, but the idea of turning it on, logging into my accounts, pretending that everything is so perfect… I can't do it.
My breathing picks up again, rapid and shallow. The churning in my gut returns, but I can't blame the champagne this time. The urge to move, to flee is overwhelming, but I've nowhere to go but home.
Our home.
Oh god, I'm going to be homeless. I need to pack my things, at least an overnight bag.
My brain starts making lists.
"Dammit, Lucy!" Portia shouts from half a block away.
"I'm sorry about the photo shoot," I mutter absently when she catches up to me on the sidewalk. Rolling her eyes, she grips my elbow and walks me to the mouth of an alleyway.
Though I consider Portia one of my closest friends, I don't want to burden her with my drama. All she sees is what I show everyone else—a sunny disposition and a cheerful smile. It's unfair to burden her with whatever spiral I'm about to fall into, but her being here, following me… it means a lot.
At twenty-seven, I assumed I had it all figured out. I thought I had everything I needed. A meager scholarship got me a generic degree from a small liberal arts school; a successful business that started as a side hustle. And when my lease ended, and Mateo asked me to move in with him, I thought, now I've made it.
But I haven't made it. I'm failing. I've got no mental stability, I'm completely rocked, and I'm about to be homeless because Mateo has a mistress.
Of course he does. He's a high-powered CFO who manages billions of dollars. He assumed I would just be his trophy girlfriend, and god, do I feel like such an idiot.
No matter how much I love him, I'll never forgive him for cheating.
"Lucy!" Portia snaps, and I realize she's been cursing my name for a minute. Arms crossed, she's furious. "You can't believe all that shit, Lucy. Don't believe it for one second."
"What?"
"I saw the pictures. I assume that's why you've been off all morning?"
I swallow down the bile and nod.
"Cara and Mary-Anne flipped out on Delaney after you left. She called us all cunts for taking your side then stormed off."
"How could she do this?" I whisper. I suck in a breath and start crying, shoulders shaking. Portia envelopes me in a hug, rocking us back and forth, patting my back.
"Oh, honey…" She strokes my hair while I cry, and after a couple of minutes, I pull back.
I sniff, wiping my eyes. "I just don't understand how Mateo could do this."
What I was not expecting was for her to snort and then laugh. Catching herself, she shakes her head apologetically, but then starts laughing again.
"Portia!" I cry.
Thankfully, she stops laughing. "Sorry. Sorry, babe. I'm not laughing at you. That was totally inappropriate." She mimes zipping her lips. "It's just, there's no way those pictures are real. You need to talk to Mateo. He's fucking obsessed with you. Also, he hates Delaney. And she's totally obsessed with him. It doesn't add up."
"You don't think those pictures aren't completely damning?"
"I don't know, Lu… it just seems crazy. That man is insane over you. And Delaney? We all know she wants what you have, no matter what it is. She's been trying to nail Mateo since you two met."
"What?"
She nods. "Yep. We all knew. She hits on him constantly, if you get up and go to the bathroom or your attention's turned away. But Mateo can't stand her. It's obvious."
"But what if it's real, Portia," I whisper. Every day, people like me who believe they're in a loving relationship get cheated on.
"If it's real… then you'll deal with it. 'Cause you're a badass bitch. You're Lucy . You radiate sunshine out of your ass. You'll figure it out. In the meantime, though, I think you should call him. Get his side."
I shake my head. "I don't know how I can talk to him right now. I feel like I'm fallin' apart," I cry, Portia pulling me in for another hug.
"Wait, how did you know? Who sent you the pictures?"
She grimaces. Pulling out her phone, she hands it over, and explains that someone sent them all links to a gossip account with tons of tags and reposts from hundreds of accounts and followers.
I stop scrolling when I see my name. Just below are the pictures. Delaney and Mateo. My hands shake, a burning in my chest takes hold, but I force myself to read the caption.
According to the anonymous poster, a friend of Delaney's claims she knew all along that Delaney and Mateo were together, but I was the one in the way, the third wheel. Delaney reportedly feels terrible about the pictures but won't further comment.
"How in the hell did this happen so fast? When did you get the pics?" Portia asks, looking over my shoulder.
"Last night."
"Well, Delaney's out to get you, 'cause this shit is already tagged like, a lot. Which means it's been circulating probably since last night. I honestly can't believe I'm only just hearing about it. This claims Delaney made a quote yesterday… shit, she was acting so normal at brunch this morning."
Her phone rings in my hand, and I shriek, "It's Mateo! What do I do?"
"I don't know!" Portia throws her hands up.
When Mateo's incoming call fades, the pictures on the account reemerge. His face is clear as day—one of him walking next to Delaney in broad daylight, coming out of her apartment. In the other two, they're having sex. It looked like she set up the camera, but there was no way to know if he was aware his picture was being taken, something he told me he hated.
"You okay?" Portia asks kindly.
My anxiety faded while we've been talking, leaving an empty sadness in its wake. "I'm…" I look around the busy street, willing the words to appear. I'm sick of lying. Pretending to have my shit together. "I'm not okay." I quickly wipe my eyes, tears on the verge of spilling over.
She winces, but it's okay. I know how pathetic I sound. Mateo cheated on me, and because I'm semi-famous, there are pictures to prove it, pictures that people are sharing as entertainment.
"These pictures prove nothing. I know it sounds crazy, but… I don't trust Delaney not to make this shit up. You should talk to Mateo."
The phone rings a second time. I give Portia a pleading look. "Will you answer?"
She nods, putting it on speaker.
"Portia? Have you seen Lucy? She's not answering her phone. Is she with you? Do you know where she is? I can't get a hold of her." Hearing his voice nearly breaks me. Deep, raspy, gruff, like he's barely spoken a word aloud to anyone all day. Typically quiet, everything he says is straight and to the point, so his frantic rambling sounds out of place.
"Mateo," Portia hedges. "I just left brunch. She was pretty upset."
"Did she see the pictures?" He asks. Pain lances in my chest when he acknowledges their existence. Like it's evidence that he even knows about them. He's quiet for a second before continuing, "My receptionist just showed me. You know it's bullshit, right? She knows it's bullshit? Please fucking tell me she knows it's bullshit."
Oh, how I want to believe him.
"They're pretty convincing pictures." I know Portia's only playing devil's advocate, but it still hurts to hear.
"I've never fucking cheated on Lucy. I love her. Just tell me where she is. She's not answering her phone. I need to talk to her." I can almost picture him pacing in his office, pulling at his hair.
Portia's eyes meet mine, but I shake my head slightly.
"I don't know, Mateo. I want to believe you. Why would Delaney lie?"
"Because she's a stupid, vapid fucking leech. I'm telling you, I didn't do this. Fuck! Esto es tan jodidamente estúpido! "
"You know I don't speak Spanish, dick. And how do you explain the pictures?"
"What, that girl doesn't know how to doctor photos? Doesn't she edit that shit for a living?"
It's a good point, and all the evidence—the fact that I knew so surely before today that he doesn't like her, and Portia's points regarding Delaney's feelings, how weird she's been lately—I think I believe him. I want to believe him. Still…
"Lucy is everything to me. Where is she? At home? Please tell me she went home, that she's somewhere safe."
When Portia says nothing, he pleads, "Please tell me. I could never cheat on her. Ever."
She clears her throat. "Mateo, it's just you and me here. I've got Lucy's back, and I'll help her pick up the pieces. If you truly love her, you won't drag this on or lie. Hell, maybe you two could even work it out. But tell me straight, right now: did you cheat on Lucy? Did you sleep with Delaney?"
There isn't even a moment of hesitation in his voice. No stalling, no hedging. "Never. Fucking never ."
I bite my lip, sucking in a breath, holding back the tears. I tap the mute button on Portia's phone.
"I don't know what to do," I admit. "I need some time to think."
I don't have to analyze why. Because I believe him about Delaney, but there's that big empty space of unsaid things between us. Mateo might not have been unfaithful, but he's hiding something from me, and we aren't okay. I hate admitting it, but we haven't been okay for a while.
Portia unmutes the phone and tells Mateo he should give me space, maybe a day or two to think.
He replies, "I understand. It'll take me about thirty minutes to get home. Hopefully that's enough time for her." Then he hangs up.
What a dick. He knew she meant more than thirty minutes.
"You can come to my place and hide out."
A genuine smile, maybe my first since yesterday, curls at my lips. "You're a good friend, Portia. No, I think he and I have a lot to talk about. But just you offering… I appreciate it."
"Anytime. I mean that, Lucy. I'm here for you."
Feeling marginally better than I did twenty minutes ago, we part ways.
I can either believe the photos, that I missed all the signs in my relationship, and that Mateo is an exceptional liar, and he cheated on me. Or I can believe that Delaney orchestrated the whole thing for some cruel reason, and Mateo is innocent.
Regardless of the truth, my relationship is still in jeopardy.