Chapter 6 Influencers
Influencers
Sage wakes up the next morning to Emerson’s voice, all sharp syllables and hard consonants, not a trace of her Southern drawl to be found.
She cracks an eye open from where her face is squished against the pillow to find her friend—mostly silhouette and shadow spilling through the cracked door—pacing in the bathroom.
She registers some legal jargon, but the throbbing in her head quickly distracts her from Emerson’s phone call. She groans into the pillow, wipes at the spot of dried drool at the corner of her mouth, and reaches blindly for her phone on the bedside table.
It’s dead.
Vaguely, she remembers lying under the covers and scrolling through an article titled “The Ten Best Hikes on the Isle of Skye” until the words started to blur. She must have forgotten to plug the phone in before she fell asleep.
Theo had spent at least an hour telling her about the area of Scotland where he and his family used to escape to for quality time.
“We spent nearly every summer there,” he had explained as he gazed down at a picture of him and his brother on a hike.
They had their arms slung around each other’s necks, Theo squinting in the bright light of the sun, and Oliver, a head taller and hair a shade darker than Theo’s golden blond, grinning in a relaxed, easy way.
“One summer, Ollie bet me twenty quid I couldn’t beat him up to Old Man of Storr.
” He’d grinned, scrolling through photos until he came across a cluster of rocks resembling the profile of a man, settled atop sprawling hills, a loch just visible in the distance.
“I broke my ankle just before reaching the top. He thought I was taking the piss. Felt horrible when he realized I was actually hurt.”
“Did he drop the bet?” Sage had asked.
They were bent over Theo’s phone, so close that she could feel his answering laugh reverberating through every place they were pressed together.
“Nope. Came to collect as soon as I got home from getting my cast on.”
He’d smiled in that wide way again, and the image of it had lingered behind the eyelids she’d forced shut last night in a desperate attempt to get some sleep.
“Shit, I didn’t wake you, did I?” Emerson asks from the bathroom doorway, phone still clenched in her hand like a weapon. “There was an issue with the deposition for this case and I swear to god, if this associate tells me one more time he’s not the one who fucked it up, I’m going to fuck him up.”
Sage waves off the apology, half of her face still buried in the pillow. “Is it that same client you’ve already been having issues with?”
“Yes,” Emerson says, curt in a way she only gets when she doesn’t want to talk about something.
Sage pushes up onto her elbows, her eyes squinting as she takes in her friend. “Em.”
Emerson blows out a breath, her bangs fluttering with the force of it. “It’ll be okay. The partners are just … being a lot right now,” Emerson assures her before glancing down at her phone. “It’s 9:15, and I am in desperate need of caffeine. I’ll grab you something while you get ready?”
She drops a bottle of water and Advil on the bedside table before plugging in Sage’s phone.
“Have I told you lately that you’re my favorite person in the whole world?”
“No, and I’m feeling very neglected.”
“Emerson, you’re my favorite person in the whole world.”
“I’ll let Theo know.”
Sage groans as she rolls onto her back and covers her head with her arms. “I knew you were going to be a pain about this.”
The mattress dips as Em sits beside her. “Describe his smile again. I don’t think I quite got it the five times you explained it on the Uber ride back last night.”
“I hate you. You’re my least favorite person in the world.”
Her friend flops down on top of her with a huff. “Rude. It’s because of me that you had a fabulous night!”
“Could’ve done without the tequila shots at the end.” Sage grunts as Emerson shifts on top of her until she can press her forehead against hers, forcing her to meet her glare.
“First of all, tequila shots are tradition,” she pouts. “Secondly, it helped you make a new friend!”
Friend may be a stretch. A woman named Iris—a director, if Sage remembers correctly—happened to be standing nearby and was all too happy to partake in the round of shots Emerson had somehow goaded them all into.
They’d chatted for a bit afterward, mostly about their love of fashion and the best places to buy secondhand designer goods.
“And third,” Emerson continues, “it was the least you could do after ditching me all night for your pretty boy toy.”
Sage’s cheeks heat even as she squirms beneath her friend.
“Theo isn’t my anything. And don’t act like you weren’t having fun working the room. Did my eyes deceive me, or did Fuchsia Suit give you her number?”
Emerson blinks. “She did. Do you think Taylor will be jealous?”
“No.”
“Hope you used some of that charm on Theo,” she grumbles as she rolls off of her. “I’m going to get coffee. Say you’re sorry and maybe I’ll bring you a double shot latte with extra caramel.”
“Em, I’m sorry. I should have lied to you. Taylor will definitely be jealous,” Sage says with as much sincerity as she can muster.
Emerson flips her off as she heads toward the door. “Go shower, you demon. You smell like a bar.”
“Who’s the charmer now?”
Sage feels decidedly more human once she’s showered and dressed for her panel.
Emerson comes back with caffeine and a green juice that Sage chokes down only because Margot has gotten her into the habit of doing so after a night of clubbing, and though she loathes to admit it, it helps her feel better.
Still, she definitely overslept, so she’s harried as she tugs on her black blazer and fastens in turquoise earrings, Emerson ushering her toward the door. Sage curses as she doubles back to snatch her phone, still charging by the bed, and tucks it into the back pocket of her slacks.
Taylor and Anna are waiting near the revolving door in the lobby, Taylor tracking an Uber since it’s raining, and they don’t want Sage looking like a drowned rat on stage.
It’s a frenzied mess as they rush to the Javits Center, and by the time Sage is in the greenroom and saying hello to the other authors who will be on stage with her, her heart is racing, and she feels a bit sweaty.
Emerson presses a steadying hand between her shoulder blades.
She doesn’t say anything, just lets Sage use her grounding touch, lets her take some of her calm and steady strength.
It’s enough to open Sage’s lungs, to have her straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin before an assistant with a Comic Con badge is telling them it’s time to go.
It has to be the fastest hour of Sage’s life, because next thing she knows, the moderator is saying, “We have time for one more question.”
A woman about Sage’s age steps up to the standing mic they’ve placed in the aisle, a small, spiral notebook in hand, and clears her throat. Her long, auburn hair is curled in perfect ringlets, her septum piercing glinting as it catches the light. There’s a press badge hanging around her neck.
“My question is for Sage Collins.” Sage leans forward into her mic and gives the woman a smile. “I was wondering if you had anything to say about the new rumors about you and Theo Sharpe.”
For a moment, Sage simply blinks. The room has gone eerily still, and there’s a tingling sensation crawling up her spine that makes her sit straighter as she tries to keep some semblance of professionalism.
It’s like someone has turned down the volume on reality, and when they flick it back up, it’s on the highest setting, because Sage’s laugh is loud and forced and almost makes her jump even though it came from her own mouth.
“Yeah, that whole situation was wild,” she manages to say around her pulse hammering in her throat. “But I actually shared a statement the other day, and—”
“So the pictures from Vibe nightclub last night? There’s a lot of speculation that all of this social buzz is a publicity move on your part.”
Sage’s lips part, but words have utterly failed her, caught somewhere in the maelstrom of embarrassment and confusion and anger that’s warming her cheeks as she stares at the woman.
She has no idea what she’s talking about, has no clue what photos she’s referring to, because her phone was dead and she was late and …
“Sorry, but this isn’t the place for such questions,” the moderator interjects, trying to regain some modicum of control over the situation.
The woman is unmoved. “I just think readers deserve to know if an author is manipulating them. For someone who writes about embracing your true self, to be lying on social media like this—”
“That’s all the time we have for today!” One of the assistants has turned on a spare mic, and her voice drowns out whatever the woman is saying.
For a terrifying moment, Sage thinks no one is going to move.
But then the crowd is on their feet, and Sage is being ushered off the stage with the other authors and led through the labyrinth of hallways that lead to the greenroom.
“That was ridiculous,” one of the authors hisses from beside her. “Are you okay?”
Sage is very much not okay. Her hands are shaking, that too-light-for-her-body feeling tingling in her bones, but she manages a nod. She gets back to the greenroom, all too aware of the way the panelists are shooting her furtive looks as they mutter about inappropriate Q&A behavior.
Sage tucks herself into a corner and pulls out her phone. It takes her two tries to open Instagram because of the way her hands are trembling, and she didn’t think it was possible for her stomach to sink lower, but it does as soon as the home page loads and …
There.
Several grainy pictures of her and Theo flood her tagged photos. Their sides are glued together, Theo’s phone hanging loosely in his hand, their heads bent close. They’re looking at each other like there’s no one else in the room.