“It’s a shame. He’s so much better than your last boyfriend. What a tool.”
I laugh. I like that she doesn't pull punches, and I can’t disagree. I’m also curious how she reached that conclusion since I can’t remember talking about Miles to anyone but Joe. "What makes you say that?"
"The last six months of your social media history." She kicks a pebble away from her foot with a shrug. "I got bored last night."
"Oh geez. You must have beensuperbored." She's definitely well acquainted with my life now—the polished and edited version of it, anyway. I wonder how it looked after seeing my actual face and personality in real life. I'm in the mood for an objective opinion from someone I admire. I'm craving reality and I know she won't spare my feelings so I ask, "Total honesty. Outsiders perspective. Does any of it look real—the stuff on my social media?"
"I guess so. I mean, it all looks pretty perfect. You're a lot more famous than I realized, so that's cool." She’s being way too nice, but her tone is saying, "I found out you have horns hidden under your French braid, so that's cool."
Ifidget. "But you've known me for a week or so now. Does all that stuff seem like me?"Why do I want her to say no?
"Well, I sawonepicture that was the Indie I know," I catch her teasing tone and know what's coming. "You'll have to teach me that yoga pose. I'm not familiar with that one."
"Wow. Way to go straight for the jugular." I'm laughing with her. Her candor is truly refreshing.
"You asked! But seriously, I like this version of you." She flops a hand in my direction, "The fun, down to earth version." She's not just saying what she needs to say to get what she wants from me. Pandering to me holds no benefit to her, so I know she’s sincere. “That online stuff is cool, but yeah. It’s a little—” She makes a face I imagine a robot cheerleader would make: Huge, cheesy grin, wide eyes, the lights are on but nobody's home.
I can’t help but laugh at her. She’s not wrong, but I do that stuff because that’s what my followers expect. I’m supposed to be an authority on beauty and having my life together, so I had better be pretty and have my perfect life together, right?
“I’m starting to wonder if I prefer this version of myself.” I cannot believe I said that out loud. I hope no one besides Mercer heard me. There are way too many people dependent on Indigo Fox Inc. for me to bail on my life permanently and become a desert-dwelling hiking guide. “I do love all this. Maybe I can make this a yearly thing?” I scan the horizon taking in the coral cliffs and pale green sage brush spread out around us. Maybe a once-a-year visit will be enough to fill me up and make the rest of the year bearable? Can I handle coming back here and seeing Joe for a week at a time? What if he gets a girlfriend eventually? That train of thought makes me frown.
“You should. Don’t you do everything online? Couldn’t you work from here?”
“No. I need to be near my mother and our team. They do way too much for me, and there’s a lot that can’t be done remotely.” I had already thought this through and the impossible idea had fluttered out of my mind as quickly as it had fluttered in. “The only option that might work would be for my mother to pull up roots and move here.” We both chuckle at that mental image. “Plus, my father would have to move his practice. He’s a surgeon. Even then, there’s just not enough going on here. We’d have to travel all of the time. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Do you have to work with your mom?”
I cross my legs and rub the scorpion sting/bush kicking wound on my ankle. It’s getting better, but the healing scabs are itchy today. I uncross my legs and shift in my uncomfortable spot on our boulder. “I think I do. For now, anyway. We’ve built so much together. I can’t walk away from that. Plus, she’s done so much for me.” And I don’t say it out loud, but I also make a decent living at what I do. I couldn’t replace that income at another job, with my undergraduate degree and total lack of work history. I’ve saved and invested a lot of money and I like that I don't have to worry about finances.
“Sounds like you’ve thought it all through.” Mercer is totally quiet for the first time since I met her. “I’m seriously going to miss you, though. You’re weird. And funny.”
“I’m not gone yet.” A goofy idea hits my brain and immediately shoots out of my mouth. “Want to camp out tonight? Like a girls’ night?”
Her face lights up when she responds, “In your crappy van? Heck yes, I do." She bumps my shoulder, "Let’s do it!”
I smile through the rest of the hike knowing that I only have to get through this photo shoot, then I get to play with my friends.I can do this.
A few hours later I’m perched on another boulder, dressed in the tightest, blackest compression leggings known to womankind. The sun is hot on the dark fabric and I’m starting to sweat. I’m grateful we’re doing this photo shoot far, far away from the resort so no one can see this. A photographer squats in front of me, shooting from a low angle that won’t do great things for my shape. I know my angles, and this one makes my body look like a sleeve of bagels. I’ll be a lumpy column of dough wrapped in high end athleisure clothing in this round of shots.
Nevertheless, the photographer is endlessly effusive. “Oh, perfect. Hold that face.” Snap, snap, snap. “Ugh. So good. You’re a goddess.”
I don’t look like a goddess, this is just a photographer thing. They all do it. I take their Mr. Collins-esque praise with a grain of salt, well aware that occasionally I look like excellent boiled potatoes. But I'm feeling good after my time with Mercer. I’m wrapping my head around working on my vacation and these worlds colliding. I can do this, and it might even be fun. And I hate to say it, but I’m kind of liking the stuff in Skinnybee’s new line. Despite the fact that my top half is barely covered by the snug sports bra—I could never do a real workout in this thing—I think I look okayish.
Ashley is touching up my mother’s makeup in the shade of the white canopy tent that was set up for the remainder of the afternoon. She’s sipping something from an insulated mug, using her special straw that stops her from pursing her lips. It’s supposed to prevent wrinkles around her mouth, but it makes her look like she's doing a fancy drug. She’s probably getting tired and loading up on iced coffee. We’ve done a few location changes and many wardrobe changes. But I’m feeling good. We’re almost done. It’s like I’m in middle school and I get to have a sleepover with my friend as soon as I finish my chores.
“Tone down the smile. Give me a tad more serious, babe. You’re tough. You’re strong,” the photographer says, still crouched in the dirt in front of me.
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. I turn my lips down at the corners and relax my eyes. I focus my gaze on the distant mountains behind the photographer and try to think serious thoughts, like global warming and filing my taxes for the year. I still need to do that. I’m definitely not smiling anymore, but now I think the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction and I’m grimacing. I try to relax the muscles in my face and think neutral thoughts about things that won’t make me smile or frown: White rice, the Great Lakes, golf balls. Now the right side of my face is smiling and the left side is frowning. And what am I doing with my arms? Should they be dangling down my sides like this, or should I drape them over my knees? My arms end up half dangling over my legs.Why can’t I be normal?!
“Why are you making that face?” My mother's voice cuts through the shutter clicks and makes me jump. When did she sneak up behind the photographer? Her face says she’s been watching me for a while. “Let’s get more of the two of us together, but let’s do them standing. That isn’t Indie’s angle. It makes her look pregnant.”
She’s not wrong. This isn’t my angle. And I probably do have a burrito-shaped food baby. She doesn’t even know about the carne asada I gulped down on the drive here. Hiking makes a gal hungry, and burrito bellies are easier to hide when I’m in a baggy t-shirt instead of a workout set designed for the male gaze.
She stands beside me wearing the cool, neutral expression that I have never been able to perfect. It has the added benefit of keeping a person’s makeup from creasing. My makeup is surely due for a touch up again, between all the faces I’ve pulled and the sweat. It’s been a while since I’ve worn the layers of primer, foundation, concealer, blush, bronzer, and highlighter. My face is basically a frosted cake.I’m surprised my make-up isn’t melting and sliding off my skin in sheets under this warm desert sun.
My mother pulls her toes up behind her to pretend to stretch her quads, placing a hand on my shoulder for support. Her face says,“We just finished a soul-nourishing hike through the desert and we’re empowered. Isn’t my outfit perfect?”
She’s a natural at this, but I’m rusty after my short vacation. I pretend to stretch… something. I end up putting a hand on my hip and leaning against my heel. Is this a stretch? The shutter clicks and the photographer is silent now that my mother is in front of his lens. She’s a pro. Under her breath she tosses out, “Everything shows in these things, and I meaneverything. We should skip dinner tonight.”
