Chapter 20
Lucy
"So anyway, that's when I told her, you can either take the picture or get a new fucking job."
Mary-Anne's eyes widen, while Portia blows out a huge breath.
"Dang, Cara. That's kinda harsh, no?" I fidget in my seat, suddenly rethinking the idea of brunch. It's only been two weeks since I was last here, I can't have changed that much.
Cara rolls her big blue eyes at me, waving me off. "No, not even a little bit. If she can't hold her ground then she has no business trying to make it in this industry."
Mary-Anne politely clears her throat and leans forward to project her soft voice. "Umm, didn't you say it was a religious temple, though?"
"Uhh, yeah. But it's open to the public. If they didn't want me making room for pictures, they shouldn't let you bring in cameras." Cara shakes her head, like they're the ones in the wrong.
I've been known to take up space on a sidewalk and annoy people to take pictures in public. I would never force people who are trying to pray in front of a Buddha statue to move out of the way and wait so I could take a good selfie.
I'm tempted to ask Cara who this new assistant is but fortunately, Portia changes the subject. I'm grateful because if I had to sit here and listen to more bullshit, I might vomit. Or have a panic attack. Probably both.
As it is, when I arrived for brunch at our usual spot, my heart raced and my skin felt like it was on fire beneath my sweater. I couldn't fan myself enough because then I just felt cold and clammy, but I forced myself to walk through the door. But as soon as I sat down, I felt better, hurdle past. But it hasn't dissipated completely.
"Oh, Lucy, have you checked your accounts lately? I know you haven't used your phone in a while, but I wasn't sure…"
I shudder. "Uh, no. I have no idea what's going on with them. I'm probably going to get fired by all my advertisers." It's only been two weeks, but that's the sad truth.
Mary-Anne's eyes go wide. "Well…" She chews on her lip, then looks at Cara and Portia.
Cara spits out, "You have like, two million followers."
"W-what?" What ? I look at Portia who winces and nods her head.
"I don't understand. I haven't posted anything."
"Well, apparently people who loved the Delaney drama started following you both. Since Delaney's been posting all those videos apologizing to you, it's keeping everyone engaged. A little trashy if you ask me, but… whatever." Cara chews on her breakfast, and I feel a twinge of guilt hearing the jealousy in her tone. It took me so long to get to 1.2 million followers. And now I'm at two? All because my supposed friend tried to ruin my life and reputation?
That creeping feeling under my skin returns, and I think it's obvious, because my best friend has mercy and changes the subject again.
"So anyway, Lu, how's the living situation?" Portia grins wide, all but bouncing her eyebrows suggestively. I forgot she sent me those videos until just now, too preoccupied with what happened the last time I came in for brunch.
Now I'm overheating for a different reason.
"Oh, I thought you and Mateo made up? Did you move?" Mary-Anne asks sweetly.
I glare at Portia, feign nonchalance. "I didn't move. And yes, we did. I mean, we didn't really technically break up, it was pretty obvious right away that the pictures were bullshit."
"Lies! I totally had to talk you off the cliff." Portia snarks, sipping her mimosa.
"Okay, yes, fine. It took me a second, but once I found out the truth of what Delaney did, it seemed obvious. Mateo would never cheat on me. But, yeah, now things are good and he has a couple of friends crashing with us for a few days." I brush it off like it's no big deal, when dismissing them as nothing more than Mateo's college buddies feels inherently wrong.
They're so much more than that. But the more time I spend with them, and the more I want them in my life, the bigger the divide feels between me and my old self. It's like all the things that blew up in my face, my inability to post anything, to stomach the social media machine, all sit firmly in before or after categories.
I'm in the after, and I have no idea what that means or looks like. Or who I am in it. What will I do with my life, if I'm no longer an influencer? I mean, I always knew I'd age out. Then again, people with funny or interesting platforms stay famous well past their twenties.
But I'm not funny or interesting. I'm health-and-wellness. I'm sexy-workout-clothes and brunch-with-the-girls. I'm rooftop-swimming-pools and avocado-toast.
My stomach churns, but a hard pinch on my arm snaps me out of it.
"Dude. You're spiraling."
I take a deep breath. "Thanks, Portia."
"No problem. Anything you want to share with us?" Portia asks, though her words come out more like a demand. Like she's tired of my bullshit. Not as a friend, but that I keep brushing off the big stuff, and feeding her the lies of perfection. She's tired of it, and has been prodding me since everything blew up to be real with her.
So, like I did with Mateo… I try to open up and be honest. "Umm. Well. Y'all know I've always struggled with anxiety. I mean, it's not a big deal—"
A kick under the table from Portia makes me jump and rub my shin. "Alright, jeez. Hold your horses. This is hard."
"I know it is. But don't downplay it. I saw you after brunch two weeks ago. I also know that's not the first time you've nearly passed out from stress. We're your friends. Right?"
Mary-Anne pipes up, nodding her head profusely. "Yes, absolutely. Whatever you need, Lulu. We're here for you."
"Thanks Mary-Anne." I look over at Cara, unsurprised she doesn't say anything, but when she notices me looking, mid-sip of her mimosa, she nods her head and puts her glass down.
"Totally. We're here for you."
"Right. Well… it's not a big deal—"
" Ahem —"
"No, Portia, I'm serious, it's not. A lot of people struggle with anxiety. It's definitely made worse in our culture because of social media, as I'm sure you can all attest. But I've been dealing with it since I was a kid. It's difficult to discern real problems with ones my brain decides are threats. I used to use chewing gum as a coping mechanism when my heart started racing whenever I'd get stressed out. But my anxiety morphed as I got older; now I get hot and my senses overload, and gum no longer does the trick."
The words spill out of me now, floodgates open. "We didn't have insurance when I was growing up, so my mom never attempted to medicate me. As I got older and got into health and fitness, I tried to manage my anxiety on my own, without using drugs."
I let out a harsh laugh. "Some days, I probably should be on medication. But mostly, when I feel a little out of control, I turn on cool air, fan my chest, intentionally slow my breathing, and try to talk myself through the anxiety. That I learned in therapy, and it does help."
"Why didn't you stay in therapy?" Mary-Anne sks.
"Well, it's expensive, for one. Being self-employed, as you all know, isn't that lucrative when you're just getting started. And honestly, I really thought I had it under control. I mean, that's what my account was supposed to be all about. Where I could post breathing techniques or whatever tips and tricks I found to help other people going through the same thing."
"And look hot while doing it," Cara adds cheekily.
Portia groans, "Yes, Cara, that's definitely what matters here."
"What? I'm just saying, how else is anyone going to listen to what you're saying if you're not looking hot while saying it?"
"Are you fucking serious right now?"
"Are you? Jesus, Portia, climb off your high horse. Like you'd ever post a real picture of you having a bad day."
She may have a point in that I don't think Portia's ever done such a thing. But don't tell Portia she can't or won't do something, because she'll chew up your words and spit them back at you. She turns directly to me.
"You know what? I have a new idea for the photoshoot we were going to do. I'm going to need some time redirecting and planning it though. You in?"
I don't know what she has in mind, but the gleam in her eye has me nodding instantly.
"Great," she tilts her head, pointedly ignoring Cara, sipping down the last of her mimosa.
"So, you're feeling okay, then, Lucy?" Mary-Anne asks again.
"I am. At least, I think I'm on my way there. I'm definitely still struggling. I mean, before I freaked out two weeks ago, when I was online, if I posted something, I had to physically force myself to walk away from my phone and wait before I checked it. When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I did, my very first thought, was I need to check my phone . I didn't realize how intense it was until I got a little space from it."
"I don't know how you've managed to separate yourself from it. I'm kind of jealous. I've done it before, but never for more than a day or two."
The elusive digital detox. I've touted it in the past, did an entire series on it. Pretended to take a break and disconnect but instead used the time to collect content, and then I reemerged, seemingly healthier and less stressed on the other side. I've hated myself for those lies. Because I've tried it too, and couldn't last a day, let alone two. Now it's been two weeks and my phone… I don't even know where it is right now. Somewhere back in the apartment.
I don't even know when the obsession or need to scroll faded. Even boring, quiet moments—and I've had so many of those these last few weeks—I don't reach for my phone at all anymore. The realization carries a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest. Like another lock clicking into place.
"It's all about balance, Lu. I mean, you don't need a personal catastrophe to distract you from your distraction."
"That's all it is, though. A distraction. It's meaningless."
"Umm, excuse you, remember who you're talking to?"
Properly chastised, I wince. "I'm sorry, that was a shitty thing to say. It's not meaningless. And I really do think making posts that help people cope with their mental health can help. Especially if they're like me and don't have health insurance, or maybe they do but don't have access to quality care."
"Look, Lucy. Maybe sometimes it's meaningless, but it isn't always. I mean, it isn't like you're peddling diet pills. You were talking about actual body and mind-healthy things. What's so bad about that?"
"It's the toxic positive culture of it all. Spiritual bypassing. Slap on a smile, grin, and bear it, even if you want to break down. Even if you feel like shit and don't want to. Or if you do want to, you want everyone to see that it's not all perfect sunshine, rainbows, and dollar signs. Some days, I do actually look and feel terrible. But if I post anything even remotely cynical, people freak out and accuse me of being inauthentic. As if, by employing all these techniques, these mental health tricks and exercises should forever cure me of anxiety and stress. It's a double standard."
"So, maybe you should talk more about that. The double standard of it all. That you're a human being who has bad days, which is why you use all those techniques in the first place. I don't think we talk enough about toxic positivity, I totally agree with you there. But maybe you should be a part of the solution. Closing down and running away from your platform, does that help anyone? Isn't that why you got into all this in the first place, to help people?"
Again, I feel ashamed that I didn't give my friends more credit. Because they definitely understand more about what I'm going through than I thought. It sounds like they're going through it too, in their own ways.
"Now," Portia changes the subject, "before we talk about the photoshoot I have in mind, we need to do something about this."
Her eyes bug out, pointing toward my hair, like she's trying to tell me something I haven't managed to bring up on my own.
"It's not that bad." I defend.
"No offense, but you look like you slept in the barn. For a month. And what's with the hair? What in the hell is this?" She reaches out and lifts a piece of my hair, tugging, and I can almost feel the extension inches past my roots in her fingertips. "I've been waiting for the right moment to ask, I didn't want to offend you because I knew you had a lot going on, but I can't tell if you're going lazy-chic or if you really hadn't noticed this rat's nest." Abandoning all propriety, ignoring the fact that we're at a classy cafe having brunch in public, she threads her hand through some of my strands, tugging on the knots. "I mean…"
"Alright, enough of that. I can't help it! I've been busy and—"
"No, this was willful."
An argument sits on the tip of my tongue, but it's true. Something's been holding me back from taking any care in my appearance. And I don't think it really has anything to do with social media and being offline.
My girls watch me process and squirm until I finally admit I don't know what's holding me back. Turning in on myself, I'm grateful when Portia stops pushing. We finish lunch, Cara and Mary-Anne cheek-kissing their goodbyes. Portia and I walk slowly toward the park. I tentatively told her I'd do a photoshoot with her the other day when I promised to come to brunch. I'm glad she's changed her mind. Apparently Cara lit a fire under her ass and she has a whole new direction she wants to go in, so I don't question it. I'll gladly put it off, anyway.
She doesn't tell me what her new plan is, but when we walk past a salon and she not-so-subtly slows her steps, I realize why.
"Do I really look that bad?" I muse, though it kind of hurts to say out loud.
"Not even close. You're beautiful, Lu. With or without makeup, with or without couture."
"So are you."
"Aww shucks," she smirks, eyes glittering. "But this isn't about looking pretty. You should fix this," she lifts a lock of my hair.
"I just don't… I don't want to be defined by this. It feels fake. So much about my life before feels like it was fake. I mean, Delaney faked an affair with my boyfriend, nearly decimated my heart just so she could get more followers? And all the work I put in, all of the research into local fitness clubs and finding little holes in the wall that sold healthy food, all of that meant nothing. Because as soon as I drop off-grid, my followers nearly double? I mean, like, what the fuck ? Who gives a shit what I look like. I'm done caring."
I fold my arms across my chest, my heart suddenly racing. It hurts to say those words. I don't know if I'm done caring, but I really want to be.
She doesn't say anything for a minute. Before I'm done stewing, she says, "Look, I get it. But taking pride in your appearance isn't fake. Do you think I'm fake?"
"No, of course not—"
"‘Cause I work hella hard on my platform. I'm a good person, I love my friends and my family. I donate money and time. Is there something wrong with me?"
"No! Not at all."
"So?"
"So, I…" I let out a deep breath. "I guess I'm just afraid of how much of my life is real. I don't want to be perfect anymore."
"When were you ever perfect?" Portia scoffs.
I laugh, but it's hollow. "Point taken."
"Look. I get it. I really do. But there's a difference between wanting to dye your hair because it looks pretty or get extensions because it makes it look thicker, and becoming obsessed or attached to the idea that it has to be dyed and thick to be perfect. So, dye it blonde. Or brown. Or pink. Who cares? It's when you start clinging to these ideas that things have to be a certain way to be perfect that you lose focus from the bigger picture."
"Which is?"
She shrugs one shoulder. "Which is, being kind to yourself and helpful to those around you. Dye your hair whatever color you want. Shave it. Keep dressing like this, although I beg of you to wear something other than this ugly yellow sweater, because every time I see you lately, you're wearing it. But none of that matters as long as you're choosing for yourself, not for other people or your followers. Fuck what everyone else thinks. Stop judging yourself so much because, honey, you're judging us all when you do that, and there is nothing wrong with me. Get it?"
I bite my lip and think about her words. I haven't given my appearance much thought since everything happened.
She continues, "I'm not saying you don't look beautiful just as you are. You're gorgeous. I'm just saying… choose how to take care of yourself or how to present yourself based on what you want . Not based on what you're afraid it'll say about you."
And that was how she convinced me to walk into the salon.