Chapter 19
LOLA
Seattle looks exactly like how I left it, except all the rain from the mountains must finally be hitting the city, in that constant, low-grade drizzle you get used to living here. It’s like the mountains took the bite out of the storm, and now it’s petering out in the streets and alleyways.
Everything is gray as I navigate back to our apartment, struggle to get the garage door opener from my glove box, and pull in. The garage isn’t nice, by any means. I have to watch out for broken glass, and the ceiling feels low enough that I worry I might scrape against it when I go over a bump.
But it’s better than parking on the street.
I pull into my spot and wrench my aching, tired body out of the driver’s seat.
I should just bring everything up now — all my gear is in a twisted, moist heap on the floor in the backseat, thanks to Rowan — but I can’t face it.
All I want is to crawl into my bed, try to sleep off the oppressive, dark sadness that blooms in my chest and threatens to creep up into my throat.
So I take only what I need. The suitcase in the back and my phone.
When I push open the door to our apartment, it’s dark, and for a second, I think Maisie must be at work, interning, or at the library.
But then she comes around the corner, her hair wild, her eyes blazing, nearly slipping as she tries to take the corner of the breakfast bar, her socks sliding against the hardwood.
“Lola May Kennedy!”
“Maisie, what—”
“Where the hell have you been?” she asks, not giving me time to answer as she shakes her phone at me. “Have you heard of answering your phone? I thought you were dead!”
I open my mouth, glance at the calendar, realize I was supposed to be back yesterday at the latest, then shut it again.
“Hello?” Maisie says, and then I burst into tears. She pauses, stunned, then sets her phone down on the counter with a smack, stepping up to me and wrapping me in her arms. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Lola, what the hell happened?”
We move to the couch together and she brings me a glass of water.
By the time I’m done recounting the story — losing my drone, finding it, hurting my ankle, thinking I might be murdered, then definitely getting way too deep in my feelings for a man I’d just met — I’ve stopped crying, though the tears are lingering in the back of my throat.
“And you have no idea why he told you to leave?” Maisie asks, her eyes still wide with awe at the story. She’s also kind of looking at me like I might have consumed a wild mushroom and dreamed up the whole thing. I almost wish that were the case.
For the sake of the story, I told Maisie about Rowan’s obsession with privacy, but not his real identity. Not the fact that he’s a billionaire hiding in the mountains to avoid the scandal thrust upon him by his ex-friend and ex-girlfriend.
“No,” I say, running my finger around the rim of the glass, thinking about the cold look on his face. “I don’t.”
As much as Maisie wants to stay up all night and get more juicy details, she has an exam early in the morning, which is fine, because I feel talked out and just want to bury myself in my bed.
I take a shower, letting myself cry dramatically under the stream, then put on my softest pajamas and burrito myself into my quilt.
I know I shouldn’t, but I grab my phone, opening it for the first time since yesterday.
And it’s open to the gallery.
I blink at it, the video it’s open to. The empty plate, me smiling, shooting outside the window, showing the scene beyond.
It hits me, all at once. When I came out this morning, Rowan was standing there, my phone sitting neatly atop my suitcase.
He looked at it. I never put passwords on my phone — I can’t remember them — so I’m used to leaving it unlocked. He must have thought I was betraying him. Recording and taking videos even when he asked me not to.
The thought falls into my stomach, heavy, sinking. I imagine him standing there, swiping through the gallery, getting that look like the one he had that first night I met him. He has good reason to hide, wanting to be left alone.
And he thought I was planning on posting this stuff.
Grabbing my pillow, I stuff it against my face and scream into the fluff, frustration and hurt welling up inside me. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that me taking the pictures led to this, or the fact that Rowan didn’t trust me.
Maybe, after what happened to him, he won’t really trust anyone again.
But I wanted to be an exception.
“Lola Kennedy,” I say, giving my best smile to the woman behind the table, though I’m sure it’s far from reaching my eyes.
“Hmm,” she says, dragging her finger down a long list of names on a clipboard. It takes a second, but then she nods, smiles at me, reaching for the name tags beside her. “Yes, there you are. Let me get you a tag. You can write your name, then your handle.”
Of course they’d have custom name tags. If I wasn’t still feeling wrung out, I might smile at the little sign, the line to put your handle down. It’s cute.
“Thanks,” I say instead, taking the tag and affixing it to my blouse.
The room behind me is crowded with people, mostly women, all talking about collaborations, likes, views, follows. For a second, I’m paralyzed next to the check-in table.
I paid more than a hundred dollars for this, months ago, thinking it was going to be a great opportunity for me. Now, the last thing I want to do is hold a flute of champagne, stand around and talk to these people for hours, fake-smiling until my cheeks hurt.
This morning, when I woke up with puffy, crusty eyes, I decided I wouldn’t even be attending. But I’d put it on the calendar, and when Maisie came home, she’d marched right into my room, pulling off the covers and demanding I get out of bed.
“You are not about to give up on your career because of a man,” she said, taking me by the shoulders and forcing me toward the bathroom to take a shower.
“I’m not giving up,” I’d whined, shutting my eyes and shaking my head like a toddler. “I’m just taking a day off.”
“You were really excited about this. And I know the ticket was expensive. You’re going.”
So, through the sheer will of my roommate, I showered, dried my hair, got dressed, and marched down the street to the rooftop patio of a local hotel for the Seattle Influencer Conference.
At least there’s free food. Well, not free, but paid for long enough ago that it feels free now.
I pile a plate full of little pastries and something that looks like a tiny hot dog, then head for the corner of the room, dropping down at a table that might as well be shrouded in darkness.
Nobody’s in this corner of the room. Why would they be?
Who would come to an influencer conference and hide away from networking opportunities?
“Hey, can I sit here?” I blink and look up at the girl standing on the other side of the table. She’s wearing trendy purple checkered pants and a cropped black shirt. Her shoulder-length black hair is pin-straight, and there’s a piercing shining on the left side of her nose.
I recognize her. She’s the other Seattle influencer going for the Ecotra spot.
“Oh,” I say, looking around at the other empty tables around me, throat suddenly feeling thick. “Sure.”
“I’m Abbie,” she says after sitting. She clears her throat and offers me a quick smile with dark mauve lips. “Sorry for ambushing you. I’m not good at networking, and I thought talking to just one person might be more manageable than going out there.”
She jerks her thumb in the direction of the main part of the room, where people laugh and sparkle, throwing their heads back and feverishly exchanging information. I feel bad for thinking mean thoughts about Abbie, even if I didn’t say them out loud.
“It’s all good,” I say, clearing my throat and offering her the best smile I can. “If I’m being honest, I was a different person when I bought the ticket to this.”
“Oh, I was the same person,” she snorts, looking down at her little plate of food. “I just thought I’d be different now.”
That makes me laugh, and before I know it, Abbie and I are talking easily.
She’s lived here her whole life, and she’s posted about bookshops and record stores for years.
With the inclusion of her Alt in the Woods series, she’s only just started racking up the kind of follower count that makes you an influencer.
“It was weird,” she says, shaking her head, wiping the condensation away from her cup. “I was posting because I wanted those places to get more love, and it worked. And now people look up, like record stores in Seattle, and I’m one of the main things that comes up.”
After she gives me some recommendations for which shops to go to, she leans back in her chair — looking far more comfortable — and asks, “So, what happened to you?”
I blink at her. “What happened to me?”
“Yeah, you said you were a different person when you got the tickets.”
Abbie watches me with serious eyes, and before I can stop myself, I tell her. Just like I told Maisie, I tell Abbie everything about what happened — with the exception of Rowan’s identity.
“Holy shit,” she says when I’m finished. She’s laughing, but it’s not mean — mostly disbelieving. “That’s… I’d say wild, but I’m not sure that word can cover it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, sinking back down in my seat, cheeks hot. “I mean, you probably think I’m nuts.”
“Nah.” She shakes her head, letting out a little sigh. “When I started doing Alt in the Woods, it was because I wanted to make space for people like me to still enjoy nature, you know? Most people who hike are all like, Patagonia and ponytails and stuff.”
I laugh, because that’s exactly what I looked like when Rowan found me.
“Anyway, I kind of get the feeling that… well, when you’re hiking or camping or whatever, you kind of get whatever you need.”
“… what do you mean?”
She shrugs. “I’m not like, woo-woo spiritual or whatever, but, yeah, I mean— I think mother nature, or whatever… it’s like whatever you need to go through, that’s the path you’re on. It kind of forces you to come to terms with yourself.”
“So, you don’t think I’m ridiculous for feeling like this about him? After only a week of being around him?”
Abbie laughs. “I mean, some people believe in love at first sight. So how implausible is it that you might feel strongly about the guy who saved you, nursed you back to health, and fed you homemade sourdough?”
Put like that, it does make sense.
“And no offense,” Abbie goes on, rolling her eyes, “but I think you should drive right back up there and demand to talk to him. It’s so annoying when people give up on stuff that quickly, you know? Like, literally, just talk. No offense.”
“Ladies?” Someone in a blush pink pantsuit appears at our table, smiling. “Just letting you know we are cleaning up, and we’ll have to clear out the event in ten minutes, according to the venue’s policies.”
Abbie and I look up for the first time. “Oh, sure, yeah, sorry.”
The woman smiles and walks away, and when Abbie and I exchange contact information, it doesn’t feel quite as empty as I thought networking might.
Maisie is gone when I get home. I throw my bag on the recliner, pace for a second, then sit down at my computer, plugging my phone in and opening it up like a hard drive to pull the footage from it.
Sometimes, when I’m making content, it feels like a grind. Like pulling teeth.
But sometimes, I get into a creative flow. Everything — ideas, design, editing — comes easily, and the result is usually satisfying. And right now feels like one of those times.
I sit at my computer for hours, cutting and splicing, putting together a story I’m proud of. The result is a video that feels, just a little bit, like magic.