“Besides, with my mother here I’m going to be busy. She doesn’t like to sit still.” In the short time I’ve been with Joe I have already ignored a few calls and texts from her. She is in go mode which means she expects me to be in go mode.
“She seems passionate about what she does.”
I appreciate his diplomatic phrasing, but I can imagine what he witnessed when she arrived this morning. “‘Passionate’ is a kind way to describe it. Some of my friends say she’s overbearing.” Also controlling and manipulative, but I keep that to myself. No need to drag every skeleton out of the family closet tonight.
It’s almost dark now, so I can’t see his face well, but I can sense his eyes on me. “She knows how to get what she wants, I’ll give you that. It’s not a terrible thing. Seems like it’s made her successful.”
No one can deny my mother’s success. She has what everyone wants: A beautiful face, perfect house, clothing, cars, vacations, a handsome husband who quietly supports her in everything she does, and a daughter who obediently follows in her footsteps. Her life is perfect. That’s success, right? “I guess so. And I shouldn’t complain. Her success has taken pretty good care of me, too.” On paper—or on tiny phone screens, I suppose—I have all of that success as well, minus the husband. “I should be grateful. I should be happy, and I don’t want to be a whiner. I have a blessed life. I’m lucky.”
But surrounded by sagebrush and Joe’s mountain air scent, and swinging my flip flop-clad feet under a clunky tailgate, my real life doesn’t feel real. The sky is black now, and there’s a blanket of stars overhead unlike anything I could see at home. This feels real. In myactualreal life I set up a camera and do my skincare routine for thousands of people to watch, and get paid for it. I do clothing hauls and try on outfits. And tomorrow I will dress up in Skinnybee’s new line of athletic wear and model it somewhere within a ten mile radius of Joe. That thought makes me shrink and I can’t pinpoint why. I'm not sure I want him to see this side of me in action—the side that gets squished into shape wear and coated in layers of shellac. I want to be the Indie that wears her hair in a braid and lets her freckles show, but I need to suck it up and get back to work. This line of thinking makes me sigh, deep and gusty.
“You are lucky. At least, from what I’ve seen online.”
“Stalker.” I tease, even though butterflies bang against my ribcage at the thought.He’s been checking me out online! And not just the Undie-gate photo.But I need to remind the butterflies to calm down because Joe and I decided to be just friends about thirty seconds ago.
“Remember how Ikind ofhad a huge crush on you? Since we’re just friends now, I can tell you that.” He says this like we weren’t kissing each other’s faces off just last night. “So, total honesty, here.” He clears his throat, and spits out the next part at lightning speed: “I looked at all of your pictures and stuff. Maybe I shouldn’t admit that, but whatever. My point is, you do have a good life. I never would’ve guessed the girl sleeping in a van on my property is friends with Drew Barrymore.”
“Oh my gosh, I’m not friends with her. I mean, I would be. I just got pictures with her at an event.” And believe me, my mother’s team milked that one dry. “That’s not an everyday thing for me. I don’t have celebrities in my contacts on my phone.” I’m a little embarrassed, but I have to grin when I picture Joe scrolling through my Instagram account. It’s like picturing Superman taking a bubble bath.
“But you have a life where you go to events and take pictures with celebrities. That’s pretty incredible.” There’s something off about his tone. He’s working way too hard to talk me into loving my life.
A thought nudges at my mind that I can’t ignore: Maybe this is self-preservation. Maybe he’s not remindingmeof my awesome life. He’s reminding himself. Because he’s had someone leave him before because his life wasn’t enough. I’m making assumptions, and I can’t drag his thoughts out of his head, so I stay quiet, swinging my feet like the casual friend that I am.
“You’re right.” I know he’s right, but why do I feel so sad about it?
Chapter 12
The next morning I wake up antsy. I’m supposed to report to my mother’s room at ten o’clock, but it’s not even six and I’ve been lying here staring at the peeling ceiling of the van for at least an hour. I’ve been doing this off and on since she called me at one in the morning to tell me my schedule for the day and guilt trip me for sleeping in The Hulk.
I have four and a half hours of Me Time left. I want to hike through the desert, drink forbidden soda, and wear comfortable clothes for every minute of it, so I make a spur of the moment decision to invite myself on the morning hike with Mercer. I stop at the gas station and fill two 32 ounce styrofoam cups with cherry Coke, grab some pink frosted sugar cookies and head to Nizhóní while it’s still dark.
“Room for one more?” I ask, handing a soda and cookie to Mercer. She’s supervising the resort guests as they load into the van. I barely made it on time. Machu Picchu lady already has her hiking stick, cell phone, and a Camelbak water bladder strapped onto her back. She’s struggling to climb into the van with all of her gear.
“Girl, yes! You are a lifesaver for this.” She sucks down half the cup in one long pull. “I thought with your mom here we wouldn’t see much of you anymore?”
“I have a few hours. Does that give me enough time?” Time to soak up a lifetime worth of relaxation before I go back to work? Why do I want to cry? I needed more sleep last night.
“Totally. We’re doing a close one today, just up the canyon. It’s an easy hike. Sunrise meditation and crap,” she finishes under her breath. Then her smile lights up her face and she smacks my behind, “Get in the van, loser, we’re going hiking.”
Fifteen minutes later we park on the side of a road that looks familiar. I realize we’re doing the “training” hike I did with Joe and my heart twists, but I’m relieved to know that at least I’m not in over my head on this one. I fall into step beside Mercer as she leads the small group of women up the trail. Troy happily brings up the rear after Mercer snaps that it’s his only choice.
The sky grows brighter as we make our way through the sagebrush, and we reach the entrance to the sandstone cave room just as the sun is about to peek over the rusty red canyon wall. Mercer announces that we’ll stop for rest and meditation until twenty minutes after the sun rises. The women scatter to different locations, and Mercer drags me to a boulder just outside the cave that is just big enough for two medium-sized women to sit. I close my eyes and breathe in deep through my nose, listening to the breeze through the bushes and the birds chirping. I’m going to miss this clean desert air.
“You can meditate tomorrow. Today is for filling me in on the latest Indigo Fox slash Joe Pratt gossip.”
My eyes pop open. “Ugh. There is no gossip. Nothing fun, anyway. Joe and I decided last night that it will be better if we’re just friends.”
“Whose dumb idea was that?” she snarks as she tightens her blonde ponytail. I don’t blame her. For a supposedly wise choice, this is all feeling very dumb.
“We both decided. I mean, I’m not going to be here long anyway. It could never go anywhere.”
“Yeah. I guess so. Just throwing this out there—vacation flings are a thing.”
“Does Joe seem like a vacation fling kind of guy?”
“He doesn’t.” Her voice is resigned.
“Which is part of his allure.” I sigh. “Alas, I am single.” I sigh again, and it turns into a yawn despite the cherry Coke. I promise myself I’ll sleep better tonight.
