Chapter 1
“Have you seen Indigo?” My boyfriend's signature showbusiness voice carries above the sound of the party as he filters through the crowd outside the room where I’m hiding. I’m Indigo. He’s looking for me, and he’s getting closer.
"You haven't seen Indigo, have you?" It’s Miles again. Of all the nights for him to notice I’m gone, why this one? I need to be alone.
“Hi, yes. Thanks. My trainer has me on a new regimen. Absolutely killer. Yeah, I haven’t eaten anything but steak and kale for a week. Have you seen my girlfriend?” He’s just outside the door and I can’t hear the response from whoever he’s talking to. I cross my fingers. I don’t think anyone saw me come in here.
I lower my eyes and sink deeper into the plush couch in my mother’s office, willing it to be more plush. There is no couch in the world plush enough to hide me from Miles, or the picture I just saw on my phone. Forget the couch. I want to be buried in the deepest, darkest pit on earth where no one can find me. Dramatic? Yes. The picture I saw online was that bad.
My hands are icy cold and my heart is flying. I slide farther down the couch, but the velvet material of my evening dress sticks to the fabric of the couch like Velcro. The dress stays seated on the couch and Iam halfway on the floor, leaving my legs exposed and the sweetheart neckline of my dress nearly strangling me.
Miles’ footsteps pause outside the closed door. I’d left the room dark when I came inside to hide, but still I hold my breath. This task is made easier by my dress, which has me in a half Nelson on the couch.
“Indigo?”
I can hear him breathing.I was so smart to hold my breath. Thanks, dress.
Bruno Mars blasts from my phone. It is Miles’ ringtone, which he programmed himself, for the record. I didn’t even know you could still do that. He’s so old school.
The door bursts open and Miles strides in. “Ha!” He stands over me and his eyes scan the full length of my legs. “Why are you hiding from me, Gumdrop?”
I scoot back up into my dress and onto the couch. The nickname that I hate helps me put my mortification and resulting fight-or-flight response on pause. “Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.”
“Sure you do. You’re small, sweet, and sparkle like a gumdrop. Of course you like it.” He gives this pat explanation every time I beg him to stop using the vaguely degrading nickname. What’s worse, he uses it in hashtags on his social media accounts. Pictures of us on date night? #gumdropgoesout Pictures of us in a cabana on the beach? #gumdropinthesun Fortunately, his following is middling compared to the thousands of people who had no doubt seen “the picture” by now.
Ugh. That’s right, I’m humiliated. How did I forget? My face burns with a heat that forces me to cover my face with my hands.
The couch shifts next to me and he grips my knee. A cloud of his usual musky cologne joins us, always the third party to our conversations. “I saw the picture. Did you think you could hide from me forever?”
“I don’t want to see you or anyone.” I slide away, forcing his hand off of my thigh. “Can I have a minute by myself to decide how I’m going to handle this?”
Only, I have no idea how I’ll handle it. My mind races. Who took the picture? And who hates me enough to share it with the world? I’ve gotten hundreds of messages in my inbox about the photo in the past twenty minutes, none of them friendly. As of my last refresh, I’d received a hundred new nasty comments that will need to be deleted.
“Always so cute when you’re mad.” He maneuvers back up to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and rubbing his smooth hand over my bare arm. He’s trying to crack me. He knows that if he treats this like nothing, I’ll treat it like nothing. We’ll forget about it, go back to the party, and I can face the embarrassment with him on my arm. I’ll lose most of my partnerships, my followers, and a decent chunk of my income. Meanwhile, Miles will turn this into a funny story to tell at this dumb party—one in a long series of dumb parties that only serve as a backdrop for product endorsement and content creation for my mother’s brand.
My mother had become a social media influencer almost as soon as the position poofed into existence in the world, and before that she worked in fashion merchandising. She has a thousand friends from every place we have ever lived, starting with the Dallas/Fort Worth area where she supported my dad through medical school, to La Jolla, California, where he has been practicing cosmetic surgery for almost fifteen years. Her brand—ourbrand, since my life is interwoven with hers and has been thoroughly documented by her for several years now—centers around lifestyle, beauty, fitness, fashion, you name it. She has a line of clothing at Neiman Marcus, and both Reese Witherspoon and Ariana Grande follow her on Instagram.
I didn’t intend to follow in her footsteps, but people found me through her and it happened. I have a strong following that watched me graduate from high school, suffer through college and finish witha marketing degree, break up with my first serious boyfriend, and get Lasik. I take pictures and live my life; Mom’s team applies the filters and sets up the partnerships that turn my strange life into a livelihood where thousands of people watch my every move. Some people call us the Irish Kardashians. And those people areveryinvested in my current boyfriend, who is squeezing my thigh in that place that tickles and makes me want to elbow the offending thigh-squeezer in the throat.
I shift away from his squeezing to the other side of the couch. “Miles, stop. This is serious. You saw it. I’m going to be a stupid, viral meme before tonight is over.”
He rolls his gray eyes. “That’s a bit dramatic, babe,” he says in a tone condescending enough to make me consider homicide.
“You saw it! It is bad!” I screech like a large bird in distress, “Have you seen my shrinking follower count?”
Another eye roll. “I don’t obsess over your follower count, so no.”
“I don’t obsess over it, but itishow I pay my bills.” He will never understand it no matter how many times I explain it, but he certainly benefits from the secondhand exposure it gives his fledgling music career. “This is a big deal to me, Miles.”
“Everything is a big deal to you, but this isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.” He slides back over to me and returns his hand to my thigh. “Who cares about all of that? Let’s go back out to the party. There are people I need to see and I want my Gumdrop by my side.”
“You aren’t listening to me.” I pick up his hand and remove it from my leg. I am angry now. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He stands abruptly and his glare is all fire. “Then you can sit here in the dark and have a pity party over nothing. I have people to talk to.”
He stalks toward the door and is almost through it when I call out, “Miles!”
He holds the door and his expression tells me he thinks he is about to win. I can see on his face that he is expecting me to wipe away my runny mascara and stand next to him all night while he makes contacts, an inanimate Gumdrop stuck on his arm. The thought of walking into my mother’s living room and smiling while Miles tells everyone how his singing career is on the verge of taking off and I pose for photos in this dress that I am being paid to wear makes my stomach turn.
