My memories of last night feel surreal, but reality is slowly settling around me like volcanic ash. I can’t believe what I did to Miles, but I’ve had fits of giggles every time I think of it. Immature? Yup. I don’t care. After what he did to me, it is worth it.
Some of the truths I discovered last night drop fast and heavy, like burning lava: My mother paid Miles to date me. He took that horrible picture. She posted it intentionally to fabricate drama and generate buzz. Everything Miles uncovered needs to be examined and healed from. I’ll probably be unpacking this with a therapist for a few decades. Do I need to know how deep the betrayal goes, or can I just walk away? I want to run away, of course, but I won’t do that anymore.
But one thing makes me giddy: I am quitting my job with peace. I’m not confident I’ll find a job that brings in the income I’m used to, but I’m finding that I don’t care. Living in a trash can in a parking lot would be better than continuing in that dysfunctional situation. I have no guilt about leaving my mother, or her team. Anyone who heard what was uncovered last night will understand that it would be insane for me to continue that working relationship. And given the number of notifications on my phone, everyone has heard it.
And I haven’t ignored any of it. I dove in single-mindedly first thing this morning. I did ten minutes of breathing exercises and paced my living room for a solid half hour first, but still. I did it. My inboxes are a flooded mess, and my accounts are going haywire. There’s as much positive as there is negative. The hot pink powder throwing footage has gone viral. Someone has already made a remix where our yelling voices are auto tuned to sound like an angry breakup song. I laughed out loud at that one. It’s catchy. Maybe I’ll make it Miles' ringtone.
I hum the melody of the song as I slip into my running shoes and make the short drive to Torrey Pines State Natural Reserve to meet my mother. I did an online search for easy hikes near me and foundsome beach trails barely twenty minutes from my condo. I can’t believe I’ve lived this close to a hiking spot my entire life and I’ve never thought to go hiking. I am remedying that today.
I find the sign for the trailhead and park The Hulk to wait for my mother. I open my phone and go to Instagram to kill time. My mother hasn’t posted anything in my name. Yet. But I’ve been tagged in dozens of posts since I checked in this morning. I click on the first one. It’s a video of the hot pink powder debacle that’s been edited to look like I threw the pink powder unprovoked. It makes me look pretty nasty, but the most-liked comment makes me gasp.
“Dude. If you think this is real, then you don’t know the real Indigo Fox. She’s kind, she’s freaking hilarious, and she deserves better than that tool. #TheRealIndigo” was posted by username MercerBird just over an hour ago. I would have known it was her, even without seeing her name.
A lump forms in my throat, and I follow the hashtag #TheRealIndigo and find two posts that have gotten a lot of attention.
The first is a picture that looks like one of the hikes I did in Utah with the group from Nizhóní. It’s a shot of me from behind, and I’m helping an older woman through a tricky spot in the trail. My hand is on her back and I’m smiling sweetly at her. The caption says, “I’ve been coming to Nizhóní for years and I’ve seen every kind of hiker. Some are slow, some are fast. Some are brave, some are scared. This gal was so nervous and Indigo stayed with her throughout our hike with a smile on her face. This says everything about Indigo Fox. This is the real Indigo.” I click on that profile to see who posted the picture and almost scream when I discover that it is Machu Picchu lady’s account. Her real name is Jennifer Harris. I click “follow.”
My eyes go wide when I see that the next post is another picture of my behind, this time wearing black Skinnybee workout gear. No one should have these photos yet. It’s a shot of my mother and me, facing the desert and looking serene. The caption starts, “Falseadvertising.” Then it’s a tirade. Details about my mother’s treatment of me are spelled out in nauseating detail, and it ends with: “Indigo has endured her mother’s manipulation and emotional abuse for years and still manages to be loving and compassionate to everyone around her. This is the real Indigo. She is more beautiful than her mother will ever be, unless she finds a plastic surgeon for the soul. P.S. I quit, Kara.” There’s only one person who could have gotten that picture, and she was sitting under the tent that day.
“Thank you, Ashley!” I crow.I really hope my mother doesn’t sue you.
I scroll through the rest of the pictures, and it’s more of the same. I cringe when I see a picture of myself filling up a huge styrofoam cup with cherry Coke at that gas station in Utah. There’s one from a group project I did in my psychology class in college, pointing at a slideshow presentation. I carried that project and we aced it, for the record. I’m a little weepy now, going down this rabbit hole.
There’s a sharp knock on my passenger side window. My mother is here. I wipe my eyes and undo my seatbelt. Here goes nothing.
She looks the same as always. Not a hair is out of place. Her off-white workout set shows off the spray tan she got for last night's party, and coordinates perfectly with her Golden Goose sneakers. Well, she tried.
"Mom, you're going to ruin those shoes out here," I say, climbing out of the van.
"You said to wear good shoes, not to be ready forThe Amazing Race." She catches her reflection in the van window and smooths her smooth hair. "You're still driving this thing?"
"For now. Are you ready?'
"For?"
"To talk. I figured we could do it while we do this quick hike. This trail is supposed to be pretty. That's what I wanted to show you." Part of me hopes that the fresh-ish air will mellow her out. She isn't goingto like what I have to say, and the word "mellow" has never been used to describe Kara Fox, but it's worth a shot.
"We don't actually have time to goof off. We have a lot of work to do." She arches an eyebrow, "Especially after that little stunt last night." She doesn't sound angry, though. She sounds excited. Warning bells go off in my mind.
Her arched eyebrow makes my heart rate go up. I don't want to do this, but I have to. I can't live this life anymore, and Joe's voice is echoing in my mind:I'm allowed to choose a life that makes me happy.I let out a stabilizing breath.
"That's exactly what we need to talk about. Let's walk and talk." I point out the trailhead, but drop my hand when I see how shaky it is.
We hike in silence for a few minutes, allowing some distance for the group ahead of us. The trail is sandy and surrounded by shrubs I don't know the names of, and I spot a type of cactus that I recognize from my time in Utah. It sparks some confusing homesickness, but the salt air reminds me where I am. And something about the fresh air makes me ready to talk.
My mom beats me to it. "We're going to have to explain away last night. We can go live tonight and get into it. We'll say that Miles' drinking became a problem. He told lies about me, and you were only defending us."
We're not at all on the same page. I take a moment to think of how to say what I need to say while we march through the loose sand. "Mom, was Miles lying when he insinuated that you paid him to date me?"
She takes way too long to respond—long enough that I know the answer. The combination of humiliation and rage makes me march ahead of her on the trail. "This is a nightmare." I might throw up.
"It's not like that, Indigo." Her false sweetness is like lemonade in a paper cut. "You two are good together. Miles is good for you, and our followers like you with him."
"Did you pay him to be with me, though?"Say no. Please say no.
More silence. "I didn't pay him to be with you. I paid him because his time in our lives made our business more lucrative. He has to make a living, too. Just like you."
"So, he was what? A paid actor?" I'm yelling and I only realize it when a guy on the trail ahead of us whips around. Let him hear. It's nothing he couldn't find on Google, anyway. "That is so messed up in so many ways!" I've worked up a good anger now, and the floodgates are opening. "And let's talk about the picture! Let me see if I understood Miles correctly. You asked him to get a compromising picture of me, which—gross. But he did it." I'm still yelling. Still don't care. "And you used it to concoct a phony mental health crisis for attention. Is that everything? Any more betrayal I should know about?"
