“Maybe the engagement isn’t high enough. I can adjust my posting schedule to hit the algorithm sweet spots. I can focus more on the aesthetics. Or less on the aesthetics.”
“The numbers are great, I’m sure. Victoria can be particular. Just because something is successful doesn’t mean …” Maya paused, considering her words carefully.
“Doesn’t mean what?”
“Doesn’t mean it’s what she had in mind.” Maya stopped to take a breath, forcing me to take one too. She pointed across the hall to a section of the resort that was clearly mid-renovation, though they’d attempted to disguise it with temporary walls painted to match the rest of the decor.
“See that room there?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the third time we’re redoing it.”
The partitioned barricade couldn’t fully conceal the sounds of construction, drills whirring, hammers pounding, men shouting instructions. I caught a glimpse of a massive stone fireplace being dismantled piece by piece.
“Part of the original lodge,” said Maya when she saw the question on my face. “Victoria thought it was too rustic.” She paused, but only for a moment, watching through the break in the barricade as more workers unceremoniously stacked decades-old woodwork like discarded kindling. “God forbid LuxeLife preserves any bit of the history of this place.” Maya seemed to catch herself. “Sorry,” she blurted. “It’s just … sometimes things are never good enough.”
“Yeah, I know how that is.” No matter how great I thought a post was, some people always had to be critics. “Did you work here before?” I asked. “I mean before LuxeLife took over.”
“No,” said Maya. “But I grew up just outside Denver. My parents used to take my brother and I here when we were kids.” A distant look settled in her eyes. “But now my parents are gone, and, well, my brother is a tax attorney who lives in Miami with his wife and kids. So that’s that.”
Maya blinked her eyes and shuddered, as if waking from a trance. “The new space will be a champagne and caviar bar. This time with ice sculptures and ceiling lights meant to evoke the Northern Lights.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. “Because nothing says authentic Colorado mountain experience like imported fish eggs and artificial auroras.”
Maya chuckled before catching herself.
“I just thought of something,” I said. “If I’m going to defend myself and my content to Marcus and Victoria, I need to be both camera ready and articulate. Do I have time to grab a quick coffee?”
Maya checked her watch. “I’ll cover for you. But just promise you won’t abandon me, okay? I need all the friends I can get.”
“Never.” I smiled. Maya smiled back. “You want me to get you anything?”
“I could really use another Mountain Sunset Martini, but that would probably be a bad idea. Just get me whatever you’re having. I trust you.”
Following Maya’s directions, I wandered past a collection of curated boutique shops toward the main atrium, each more expensive than the last.
I scrolled through my recent posts as I walked, frantically searching for anything that might have rubbed Victoria the wrong way. The rational part of my brain knew my content was solid, better than solid, exceptional. But the perfectionist in me was already mentally rehearsing how I’d defend my creative choices without sounding defensive.
The coffee shop came into view, along with the aroma of freshly ground artisanal beans. The scent drew me forward like a cartoon character floating on visible tendrils of fragrance.
I squared my shoulders and marched through the cafe doors, ready to order whatever concoction would best fortify both me and my new ally Maya for the impending Zoom call of doom.
The interior design of “Alpine Brews” was a masterclass inrustic-luxe. Antler chandeliers cast a honeyed glow over leather armchairs, artfully distressed to look vintage. A mounted elk head watched from above the fireplace, wearing what looked like a hand-knitted scarf. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to the rest of it. Probably transformed into elk burgers.
The menu board, written in chalk calligraphy, listed drinks like “Mountain Mocha”, “Powder Day Pour-Over,” and “Wilderness Cold Brew.” A handwritten sign proclaimed that all the beans were single-origin and ethically sourced.
“Two Alpine Peak Lattes to go, please.”
“Excellent choice,” said the barista, as if I’d selected a fine wine rather than an overpriced coffee.
She turned to the gleaming copper espresso machine that looked like it belonged in a steampunk laboratory. As she worked her barista magic, I surveyed the room, taking in the cafe’s clientele, the type of people Victoria hiredmeto impress.
A couple in matching Patagonia fleece cuddled on the loveseat. The woman wore a diamond ring so massive it nearly blinded me. Another pair in brand new hiking gear pored over a trail map. A woman browsed a novel with a cover featuring a shirtless cowboy.
The seeds of doubt planted during Marcus’s surprise Zoom call took root and bloomed. Maybe it wasn’t the content I was posting that Victoria had concerns about. Maybe it was me. Looking around, it was clear I didn’t belong there. I didn’t fit in.
“It feels like I walked into a Norman Rockwell painting,” I mumbled to myself. At any moment, someone was going to turn around, spot the impostor, and an angry mob would chase me away with locally forged pitchforks.
