I wait near the front entrance, where I discover a display stacked high with jars of homemade orange marmalade. The same orange marmalade that made Lucy moan with pleasure. I grab a jar and take it to the register.
Because it’ll be a nice thank-you gift for all her hard work yesterday, not because I’m fantasizing about all the sexy sounds she’ll make while eating it.
Chapter Eleven
Lucy
It’s been a long-ass day, and I’m exhausted in the best possible way. Okay, maybe not the best way, because that would involve orgasms and the kind of soreness that comes from hours of sexcapades, but exhausted in, like, a really great way.
We toured the Joliet museum and the old prison. We took pictures with our first Muffler Man, the Gemini Giant, and the look on Miles’s face as he posed with the thirty-foot-tall fiberglass statue?Priceless. I can totally see why Muffler Men were all the rage in the sixties. Then we stopped in Odell to visit a historic 1932 Standard Oil Gas Station, where I got some killer pics, despite Miles whining that no one cares about old fuel stations.
To be fair, he’s probably right, but it’s on the National Register of Historic Places, and we were going right past it, anyway.
We had lunch at the cutest fifties diner, Polk-A-Dot Drive In, and I put every quarter I had into the tabletop jukebox so we could listen to “Jailhouse Rock” on repeat while we ate. I’ve never seen Miles inhale a burger so fast in my life, but I took my sweet-ass time, finishing only when the last note played.
After lunch, we visited Pontiac, where we toured the Route 66 Hall of Fame and worked off the burgers by taking a walking tour of the Walldog murals painted all over town. The artistry of the paintings was incredible, and I took a ton of pictures, all of which I posted on my social media accounts.
I posted at every single stop today, sharing interesting facts and money-saving tips with each colorful photo. And even though going live triggers my anxiety—because, let’s face it, the internet is forever—I forced myself to do it to drive engagement.
At least, I hope it created engagement.
Now that we’re camped out for the night in Springfield, it’s time to check in.
Nervous, excited energy sluices through my veins as I drop into my camp chair. Miles has already started a fire, so I prop my feet up on the edge of the firepit and open Instagram as I warm my toes.
My feed pops up, and my eyes go immediately to the little heart in the upper right corner. This is it. The first day of the rest of my life. I draw a fortifying breath and tap the heart.
Five likes.
Five.
How is that possible?
It has to be a mistake. I refresh the activity feed and watch as the little wheel at the top spins round and round.
When it stops, nothing has changed.
My heart sinks, and I can feel a panic spiral coming. I quit my job for this. Gave up my apartment. Sold my freaking bed.
I turned my life upside down on a whim, and now I’m going to pay the humiliating price.
My parents will never let me hear the end of it. Miles will win the bet and—
“Plotting world domination?”
Speak of the devil.
I immediately school my features into a mask of bland indifference. I can’t let him see me upset. He’ll take it as a sign of defeat.
“I thought maybe you could use a beer?” He offers me a dark bottle with a bright yellow label and the number 312 printed on the front in black ink. “The guy at the store said Goose Island is a top seller around here, and I figured, when in Illinois…”
“Thanks.” I accept the beer and take a long pull, letting the fruity ale coat my tongue and wash away my worries.
It’s only day one. Becoming an influencer will take time. It’s not reasonable to expect overnight success, no matter how often I see some rando hit the algorithm jackpot and blow up in my feed.
I just have to be patient. One day, I’ll be the person gushing about how grateful I am for my platform and thanking all my fans and followers for their support.
Hopefully, one day soon.
