CHAPTER SEVEN
Craft It
The day nurse adjusts Dad’s monitors and jots something onto his chart. I don’t bother asking what it says. I already know. No change. He hasn’t woken up. The steady beep of the machines fills the room, their rhythm both comforting and stifling.
I’ve been sitting here for two days straight, holding vigil by his bed like my presence alone could somehow will him back to life. If there’s no improvement by tomorrow… I can’t even let myself finish the thought.
I glance at him, the rise and fall of his chest almost imperceptible under the thin hospital blanket.
His face looks unfamiliar—too pale, too still.
This is the man who used to swing me onto his shoulders like I weighed nothing.
The man who could fix anything with duct tape and a gruff "good as new." The front porch swing. The handlebars on my bike. Now, I can’t even tell if he knows I’m here.
I press my phone’s home button, the screen lighting up with notifications I’ve been trying to ignore.
New comments. New likes. New messages. People are starting to notice.
Sierra and Lyla even removed my name from our jointly tagged videos.
The second brand trip in a row I’ve missed, and the questions are pouring in.
My heart sinks to the scuffed linoleum floor.
I’m almost out of pre-recorded drafts, and the few I have left are already scheduled to post.
I need to start posting again.
The thought feels like a slap, jarring and misplaced in the sterile silence of the hospital room. But it’s there, relentless and insistent. My fingers twitch over the screen as I swipe through my apps, the familiar motions an automatic response to the gnawing anxiety in my chest.
I look back at Dad, his face lit dimly by the harsh overhead light, and my stomach churns. How am I supposed to be thinking about filters and captions when he might not…?
I shake the thought away, swallowing hard. One more day, they said. One more day to see if there’s any improvement.
I just have to hold on until then.
"You should head home and get some rest," the day nurse says gently, her voice cutting through the steady hum of the monitors.
I rub a hand over my face, my fingers brushing against the faint sting of tired skin. "I could use a shower," I admit hoarsely after two days of silence and half-hearted conversations.
She chuckles softly, tucking a stray wisp of hair back under her cap. "I’ll call you if there’s any change."
I grab a napkin from the bedside table, motioning toward the pen tucked into her pocket. "Let me give you my cell. If something happens, I’m the best person to reach. My mom…" I trail off, swallowing hard. "She’s not great with this kind of thing."
The nurse pauses, her eyes flicking to mine with quiet understanding. "Your mom hasn’t been here." She doesn’t say it accusingly, but I hear the judgment anyway
"She has… a hard time leaving the house," I say, keeping my tone neutral, though the words feel like ash on my tongue. "I’ll be back this evening to sit with him."
The nurse nods, her expression kind but professional.
"We’ll take good care of him," she says, her hand brushing lightly over Dad’s blanket as if sealing a promise.
I offer a faint smile, though it feels hollow, and stand.
The chair creaks in protest as I push it back, the sound louder than it should be in the sterile quiet of the room.
The weight in my chest doesn’t lighten as I head for the door, but at least the promise of a hot shower feels like a small step forward. For now.
My phone buzzes as I walk down the fluorescent-lit hallway, its cold glow reflecting off the glossy floor tiles.
I glance at the screen and see Edna’s name flash across it.
Edna, my manager—red curls, purple glasses, and a reputation sharp enough to cut steel.
She’s been in the game longer than I’ve been alive, and her no-nonsense attitude has gotten me through more than a few PR messes.
I take a steadying breath before answering. "Hey, Edna."
"You’re not on the brand trip," she says without preamble. Her voice isn’t annoyed. It’s not even curious. It’s just a statement of fact.
"I’m dealing with some personal issues," I reply, hoping it’ll be enough to end the conversation.
"Personal issues or not," Edna exhales, a sharp, clipped sound that makes my shoulders tense, "you need to stay present. The moment you’re not in front of their faces, they’ll forget about you."
"I know," I say quietly. I do know. She doesn’t have to remind me.
"Sell them a story, Elowen. Whatever idea or narrative you need to craft, craft it," she continues, her tone brisk and efficient, like she’s reciting instructions for baking a cake.
"I will," I say, though the words feel hollow in my mouth.
"We also got an offer from Belle’s team," Edna adds, her tone softening ever so slightly. "They want to do a collab."
I frown, unlocking my car door as I process her words. "What’s the angle?"
"Southern roots and cooking," she replies. "Seems fun. Authentic. I’ll send over the details."
"Great," I mutter, forcing enthusiasm I don’t feel. "I’ll look at it."
Edna doesn’t waste time with goodbyes. The line goes dead, leaving me standing beside my car, staring at the darkened screen in my hand. A collaboration. A story. A cover.
Craft it.
The words linger like a warning. Or a curse.
I’ll have to come up with some easy videos to record in my childhood bedroom. Maybe something nostalgic. Heartfelt.
But as I climb into the driver’s seat and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, I can’t stop the question from bubbling to the surface. Is this job—this life—really worth it? The stress. The constant performance. The endless grind to stay relevant.
I close my eyes, the steady hum of the hospital fading into the background. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in the very story I’m trying to sell.
***
When I finally get home, I find myself in front of the pink vanity I haven’t sat at since high school. The one that once held dreams of escaping this town. Now it’s holding up my phone, and I’m about to sell a different dream entirely.
"Hi guys!" I chirp into the camera, forcing a bright smile. The faded mirror wobbles slightly in its frame, and the chipped paint on the edges seems to mock my perfectly polished tone. "You’re probably wondering why the background looks so different. Well, I was homesick! It’s been three years since I’ve been back here, so I hopped on a plane to Arkansas.
You ever feel like you just need to go home?
Anyway, let’s get ready for my first night back.
I’m grabbing dinner with some of my childhood friends. "
Lies. Every word of it. But Edna told me to sell a narrative, and I know better than to ignore her advice.
The truth is messy, complicated. It doesn’t get likes.
People don’t want honesty. They want the illusion—the carefully curated version of a life they can envy.
So here I am, feeding them the fairy tale.
Fake optimism and positivity always wins over authenticity.
I used to sit here dreaming about leaving this town, about being someone bigger, brighter, and louder. I got everything I wanted. So, why do I feel like I’m losing it all?
"First, I’m going in with my—"
A low laugh cuts through the air, startling me mid-sentence. My heart lurches as I twist on the wobbly pink stool, finding Brooks leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s watching me with that infuriating smirk, one eyebrow raised like he’s caught me red-handed.
"What do you want?" I snap, my tone icy.
"Dinner with your childhood friends?" he repeats, scoffing. "Other than Leandra and Audrey, you didn’t have any friends."
My cheeks burn, but I keep my expression steady, narrowing my eyes into slits. "Not that it’s any of your business," I bite back, "but I’m not exactly ready to tell the world that my dad might be dying. I had to come up with a story."
Brooks tilts his head, his smirk fading into something more unreadable. "So you lied."
I bristle at his bluntness. "It’s not lying. It’s storytelling. There’s a difference."
"Oh, really?" he says, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step closer. "And what’s the difference, Ellie? One makes you feel better about it?"
I glare at him, my fists tightening in my lap. "You wouldn’t understand. This is my job. My livelihood. I can’t just disappear."
He crosses his arms, his gaze unrelenting. "Sure, I get it. Gotta keep up appearances, right? Doesn’t matter if it’s true just as long as it looks good."
"Why are you even here?" I seethe, my voice rising. "Do you just enjoy making me feel worse?"
He shrugs, his expression maddeningly calm. "No. I just think it’s funny that you spend all this time selling people a perfect life when you’re sitting in a room with peeling paint and a mirror you haven’t looked into in three years."
The words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I can’t think of a single retort. My eyes flick to the mirror, catching my own reflection. The carefully applied makeup. The forced smile that’s starting to crack around the edges.
"You don’t know what it’s like," I finally say, my voice quieter now. "To have people counting on you, expecting you to be something all the time."
"No," he replies soft, but firm. "But I know what it’s like to be honest. Maybe you should try it sometime."
He steps back into the hallway, leaving me sitting there, my bright smile frozen in place for the camera, the weight of his words settling like concrete in my chest.
I finish the video, forcing a smile as I record a second one asking my followers to help me pick an outfit. It’s ridiculous, the lengths I go to sell a life I’m not actually living. As I hit "post," Brooks’ words echo in my mind. …
I know what it’s like to be honest. Maybe you should try it sometime.
Maybe he’s right.
But honesty doesn’t pay my bills—or Mom and Dad’s.
After posting, I wipe off my makeup, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
Without the layers of foundation and mascara, I look…
different. Tired. Like someone I barely recognize.
I hate that. The Elowen staring back at me looks like someone who’s been trying to convince the whole world—and maybe herself—that she’s okay.
I can’t stare at myself any longer in the mirror, so I wander out of my room, the quiet of the house pressing in around me.
The faint scent of chocolate and oats draws me to the kitchen, where I grab a glass of milk and one of Mom’s chocolate chip cookies.
The secret is the oats. They give the cookies this perfect chewiness that makes them better than anything I’ve had in LA.
"I’ll get this uploaded tonight," Brooks’ voice floats in from the living room. "Tomorrow, we can go foraging for more rocks and leaves."
Curious, I follow the sound, pausing in the doorway as I take in the scene. Jasper is bent over the coffee table, admiring his latest creation—a naturescape built from twigs, rocks, moss, and leaves. It’s intricate and beautiful, a miniature mountain scene that looks like it belongs in a museum.
Brooks is packing up a camera and a light ring, his movements unhurried but efficient. Of course. He’s not just driving the shuttle around town, he’s handling Jasper’s social media, too. Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.
"Yeah, alright," Jasper says, straightening up and dusting off his hands as he starts cleaning the coffee table.
Brooks glances up and spots me. Then, he slings the camera bag over his shoulder, and heads straight for me. "You should come with us tomorrow."
"To look for rocks?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.
"To look for rocks," he repeats, deadpan, though there’s a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I hesitate, searching for an excuse. "I have to go to the hospital tonight. I’m not sure when I’ll be back."
"We can wait for you," he says simply, like it’s already decided.
My throat burns, and I’m unsure why his offer feels so heavy. "We’ll see," I say softly.
He brushes past me, his arm grazing mine, and heads for the door. I turn to watch him leave, the weight in my chest growing heavier with each step he takes.
When I left this place, I never thought about what—or who—I was leaving behind. But now, watching Jasper and Brooks, I can’t shake the feeling that it was Brooks who stepped in and held everyone together after I was gone. He was the one who stayed, who carried the weight I abandoned.
And for the first time, I feel it. Guilt. Heavy and unwelcome, settling over me like a fog I can’t shake off.