“I think I need some time.” The idea of breaking away fills me with the energy of twelve diet Cokes and I’m on my feet and at the door in a flash.
“Youneedtime?” His surprised tone irks me.
“Yeah. I need a break.” It annoys me that he needs me to elaborate.
“A break from what? Trying on clothes? Going to parties? Putting on makeup for your camera?”
Something that has been simmering for months boils over inside of me. “From you!” The words shoot out of my mouth like a bullet. “I need a breakfrom you, Miles. We’re over.” These words don’t capture the full scope of what I need, but it is all he needs to understand. I need time away from him, but also from my social media accounts, and my mother’s all-seeing eyes. I haven’t taken a vacation that didn’t involve endorsing products in years. I am overdue.
I push past Miles and make a straight shot for the kitchen, where I know my dad keeps a stash of Oreos on a high shelf in the pantry. That will be a good place to start. No dainty gluten-free, vegan, zero sugar, berry tartlet for me tonight, thanks. I need to demolish a few rows of Oreos and figure it out from there. I am on a mission.
I keep my head down, effectively ignoring most of the party guests, and take the back way to the kitchen where I sequester myself in the pantry with the lights on and the door closed. For someone who barely eats, my mother’s pantry is excessive. It is larger than my bedroom, with shelves and shelves of gadgets, appliances, powderedhealth foods, and protein drinks. I scoot a step stool into the back corner and reach around on the top shelf. And there it is.
I peel back the shiny blue packaging and take a long whiff. “Hello, old friend.”
I sit on the step stool and pop the first Oreo in whole. My head almost explodes.Hello, sugar. I’ve missed you. Hello, white flour, will you marry me?My eyes roll back into my head as I savor my first real treat since I had braces, then the door opens with a bang. I clutch the open package of cookies to my chest, bracing for a lecture from my mother or more condescension from Miles. I am two for two on choosing terrible hiding places tonight. And somewhere in the back of my mind it registers that there are tiny black crumbs cascading down the dusty rose velvet of my dress.
Only it isn’t my mother or Miles, it’s one of the caterers. “Sorry. Just looking for a broom.”
I recognize her. She has served a few times with the catering company my mother uses for parties like this. She looks about my mother’s age and even more done with life than I feel. I push the door closed and hold out the package of cookies to her. Her tired eyes crinkle at the corners as she debates. I hold them out again. “Go for it. No one’s watching.” Part of me is hoping I can buy her silence on the whole “Lifestyle influencer Indigo Fox hiding in the pantry snarfing Oreos” thing.
She points at the corner of the ceiling, where I notice a tiny white camera with a shiny black lens. How long has that been there?
“Someone is always watching,” she says with a wilted smile. She snatches an Oreo and eats it whole—a woman after my own heart.
“I’m Indigo Fox.” I hold out an awkward hand. I don’t usually shake hands with other women, much less inside a closed pantry, but this meeting of minds warrants the formality.
She shakes my hand with a quick smile. “I know who you are.” She reaches for another cookie. “I’m Bonnie. Why are we eating cookies in the pantry?”
“Hiding from that.” I gesture in the general direction of the party. “Hiding from my problems. And hiding from my boyfriend. I guess he’s my ex-boyfriend now.” I frown. Shouldn’t I feel more sad about this? I frown because my lack of sadness is confusing. We had dated for months. I should feelsomething, but I only feel anger when I remember the way Miles treated me, with a side order of humiliation over the photo that shall not be named. I can’t even think about that.
She sighs. “I feel you, hon. I’m a single mom of three teenage boys and this is my second job. I get it. We all need a quiet place to ignore life sometimes. And the cookies help.” My heart gives a little squeeze when I realize I have been complaining to someone whose life is far more complex than mine, who is working a second job serving food to people who barely work at their first jobs.
She snags another cookie, pops it in her mouth whole, and shoots a peace sign at the camera. “Hang in there, Indigo.” She grabs a broom hanging on the wall and leaves as suddenly as she arrived.
The room is quiet again as I sit on that step stool and stare at the camera. Who installs a security camera inside their pantry? I can’t even hide in a food storage closet and be truly alone. Even my secret rage-eating of cookies is documented in this house. The boiling anger I felt with Miles resurfaces. I have to get away from this. I am leaving, and Dad’s cookies are coming with me.
I fling open the pantry door, Oreos and the burning desire for freedom fueling me. I could sneak out the back door of the kitchen. Miles had parked my Range Rover under the portico on the back side of the house when we arrived this afternoon, in an effort to escape the rain. It could not have worked out more beautifully.
I burst through the back door, expecting to make a clean break for my shiny, black SUV, but I am faced with a dumpy van instead. This van could win awards for ugliness. Under the dust and grime it is probably olive green and has curtains—Are those really curtains?—hanging in the rear windows. It is definitely not my Range Rover.Where is my car?
I scan the drive in a panic. I want to leave, and fast—preferably before anyone else catches me with Oreos on my teeth and mascara running down my cheeks. Ah! There it is, boxed in behind the caterer’s van and an SUV I don’t recognize. Well, crap.
I spin toward the door, sudden terror brought on by the very real sense of being trapped forever in this house full of cameras. I need to run far away. At that moment my new friend, Bonnie, comes out the back door carrying a large box. She marches straight for the green van, jingling a huge keychain that hangs on a metal hoop from her wrist. I have a stroke of genius.
“Hey, um… Bonnie?” This is crazy. I can’t believe what I am about to do, but when the thought forms in my mind excitement bubbles up inside me like I’ve uncorked a bottle of champagne. I can’t stop it.
She startles and spins to face me, jostling the box so she can see me. “What’s up?”
“Do you know whose van this is?” I bite the corner of my lip and nod at the green hulking thing parked under the portico. It’s an appropriate name for that van, I decide.The Hulk.
“It’s mine. Is it in the way? Do you need me to move it?’’
I smile at her. She smiles back warily. This is working out perfectly.
“Actually, I have something else in mind.”
Two hours later I’m driving north on I-15 with the lights of La Jolla glowing like embers in the dusty rear view mirror of The Hulk. I laugh and turn up the volume knob on the radio. Bonnie left it tuned to a station that specialized in 80s hair bands and currently Twisted Sister blasts through the rattly speakers. I had discovered quickly that The Hulk’s air conditioner only recirculates the musty,warm air inside the van, so I sing along with the windows rolled down, my dark red hair whipping around my head.
