Chapter 6
Lucy
BlueBarbarella02 comments: I dunno, I think @WaywardDelaney is hotter than @ZenInTheCity - Mateo's never even in her pics, I bet she lied about dating him
NapCityReject comments: Zen needs a reality check, Mateo's better off BTW is it just me or does she look like if a porn star and a teletubbie had a baby
GhostGurrl99 comments: her voice is so annoying, no wonder he cheated, i'd fuckin kill myself if I had to hear that perky screech day in and out
BeastlyBestie comments: there's no way she hasn't had plastic surgery, fillers at least- she's obviously a liar. I believe Delaney, she seems way more down to earth
Thanks to the social media machine and Delaney's nonsense, my life's work is now cannon fodder. They're insatiable, greedily devouring every bit of my public persona, scouring old content, meticulously picking apart every reference I've ever made to Mateo. That he's never on camera only fuels their conspiracies, and the comments and DM's keep flooding in.
Everyone thinks my boyfriend is a cheater, and my typically sunny reputation is in the tank. But the idea of setting the record straight by opening my accounts to accuse Delaney publicly of lying spikes my anxiety so high and sharp I can't bring myself to pick up my phone, let alone open apps and do damage control.
My downward spiral, obsessing over what people say about me, would be incomplete without an empty bottle of wine and Mateo's abrupt departure playing on repeat in my head.
I mean, sure, I told him we should take a break, but I wanted to snatch those words back so quickly. But then… he barely argued.
I never wanted it to touch you, Lu. What does that even mean?
With my online persona imploding and Mateo staying elsewhere—with "friends" that I didn't even know he had—it was easier than I thought to stay off my phone, my usual method of taming my anxiety.
So after he left, I paced the apartment, cried, shoved my face into Mateo's pillow because I already missed him so much, and before the sun came up, I finally passed out. The only good thing that came of my night was that I didn't do something stupid like call him and beg him to come home before we hashed our shit out.
When I woke, my face was raw from the tears; half my false eyelashes had fallen out, old glue sticking one eye shut. It took me twenty minutes to remove the remaining lashes.
Afterward, I stared in the mirror, not recognizing myself. My freckles were everywhere. My roots were showing. If I took a selfie, I doubt half my followers would even recognize me.
But this is me, isn't it? Beneath all the veneer?
I realize, belatedly, that last night was the first time Mateo's ever seen me without makeup.
Even after we moved in together, I often got up before him to brush my teeth. Touch up my makeup. Brush my hair, run oil through the tips. Spritz on some perfume.
But right now, the idea of going out into the real world, making an appointment with my eyelash technician, to take the steps to put my face back on feels like a step too big.
I debate putting on makeup, just to feel pretty. To feel less cutesy with all my childish freckles. But I can't stomach the effort.
Would Mateo still want me, I wonder, if I never wore it again? If I stopped going to spin classes that made me want to heave, if I stopped doing a monthly cleanse, primping and plucking every inch of my body? Without the polish, would he still love me?
I wish I could just light a candle called Vagina Power, feel my inner feminist roar, and free myself from the fear that Mateo, or even I, can only love persona me, not the real me. Not the messy, insecure, supremely anxious me.
I look pathetic. I feel even worse. And I can't stand to look at myself in the mirror a moment longer, so I track down my phone and face the music.
Of course, I'm flooded with notifications, just like last night. One, in particular, makes my already unstable heart race.
Forty minutes later, I'm banging on Portia's door.
"Girl, who died?" Portia asks when I rush past her into her apartment. "And what the hell are you wearing?"
I look down at my workout shorts and hoodie, two sizes too big. It's not expensive or couture. I bought it at a thrift shop years ago. It was so comfortable, and I loved it, but I never wanted to wear it except around my apartment before I moved in with Mateo, after which I buried it in the back of my closet. The hoodie has a paint stain on the chest, two holes on one arm, and is a god-awful mustard yellow.
No lashes. No makeup. Thrift store clothes.
It's how I know my downward spiral is growing wider.
I look up and meet Portia's scrutinizing gaze, expecting her to call out how different I look. Instead, she shakes her head in amusement but says nothing. Tentatively, I follow her into the kitchen, where she's prepping veggies and fruit for her weekly smoothies, portioning each out for the freezer. I do this, too, when I've got my shit together.
Portia's wearing an expensive silk kimono robe, and it flutters as she moves, highlighting her graceful curves. I'm mighty jealous of her confidence and nonchalance in the face of my emotional breakdown.
"You gonna explain why you're rolling in here looking like an extra in a zombie flick?"
I take a seat at the counter. "Did you see the post?"
She nods slowly, face grim.
"It's been drivin' me insane trying to figure out why she would do this. I thought we were friends. It took me forever to get the courage to pick up my phone this morning, and then I saw her post. I'm tagged in it, like, a million times. I can't escape this bullshit." Sniffing, I suck in a breath, but I refuse to keep crying. Not over Delaney.
"Well, at least you don't have to worry about her and Mateo having an affair. He called this morning, by the way. Asked me to check on you." She snorts, "As if I wouldn't. Anyway, apparently, he called his lawyer at the ass crack of dawn, who showed up at Delaney's place to scare the living shit out of her. Must have worked."
I can't believe he did that.
Then again, I can. Mateo always shows up in those behind-the-scenes ways with big, grand gestures. He just can't show up for the little, everyday things, like telling me about his day or talking about his feelings.
Portia picks up her phone and presses play on Delaney's recent post. I only listened to the first few words before I closed the app and rushed over here.
"For those of you who are speculating, I'm here to address some concerns. Yes, I knew about the doctored photos, and I've apologized to Mateo Torres for my role in the photos being spread. But what Mateo does not understand, what most people don't get, is the pressure we're under in social media to produce content. Whoever is responsible, it was a stupid stunt to create publicity. But I wasn't the one who doctored the pictures. I just saw an opportunity and went with it. I shouldn't have pretended like they were real. I just want Lucy to know that. I love you Lucy-bear, you're my best friend. Peace and love friends ."
Hearing her lie and say she loves me makes me cringe.
"So my theory is that she posted it to drum up drama between you two. Besties gone awry. I can't believe she thinks anyone would believe she's not the one responsible."
"But why throw herself under the bus and admit to lying? Or why lie about something so specific in the first place? She must have known Mateo would get angry or that the lie would backfire."
"I don't think Delaney's as smart as you think she is. I also think she has an unhealthy obsession with him, and maybe with you, too. In any case, she may have publicly apologized, but her followers have crept up in numbers, so it's actually helping her brand. People are sluts for drama. Which is why I think this whole thing was staged as a stunt for social media."
"What the hell?" I shake my head in disbelief.
"I know. Whatever, fuck her."
I'm relieved she posted the statement and confirmed what I believed, what Mateo insisted on, that they were never involved.
But it doesn't change how I feel, even knowing the truth. My anxiety's never been higher. My relationship is a mess.
"What are you gonna do, Lu? Are you and Mateo okay?"
"I honestly don't know." I chew on my lip, staring into space while she packages her smoothies, letting me overthink. "Mateo and I haven't been great for a while," I admit.
"Seriously? You guys seem perfect."
I shrug. "Sometimes we are. I love how he makes me feel. I love his attention. He's so smart and interesting and, in some ways, even more neurotic than me, which is kind of funny. But he's mysterious. Too mysterious. I'm glad he's not cheating, obviously, but it feels like there are other things he isn't telling me. Big things. I tried confronting him about it, and he sort of admitted something else was going on, but then he clammed up."
He clearly doesn't show his true self to me. But I don't really show mine either, do I?
Between the social media veneer and the way he sometimes makes me feel when we're having sex, I want more, but I'm too scared of what he'll think of me if I ask for it. God, I can barely admit it to myself. I want him to make it hurt. To turn my brain off. To consume me, overwhelm me. Ruin me.
"So, where did you guys leave it?"
"He's staying with friends. I didn't even know he had any. He's never mentioned them."
"You don't believe him?" Her eyes narrow.
I shrug, "It's not that. It's just another thing he kept from me."
She returns to her fruits and veggies, stacking the bags in the freezer. Offhandedly, she remarks, "Maybe you should follow him home from work, see what he's really getting up to."
I huff. I could never do that.
No. No way.
That's a crazy idea.