User1234sqwerty has no posts, zero followers, and follows only one person. Tristan Martinelli. Marine biologist. Ocean photographer. He has over half a million followers, and I am officially his online stalker. Probably not the only one.
Not that he would know. Or care. I glance over his grid. The past two weeks have been too hectic for me to check in. And for two months before that, I was seeing someone, sooo…I haven’t been here for a while.
There are new posts, but essentially nothing has changed. Tristan is standing by a boat railing, the deep blue sea in the background, a beer in hand, his wetsuit stripped to his hips. Lording over a six-pack. Broad, muscled shoulders. Biceps. Pecs. Dark wavy hair still wet from the sea and brushed back from his high forehead. He smiles, revealing perfect teeth between those lickable lips set off by a golden Caribbean tan.
Next to him, the ever-present bikini babe. All thin straps, boobs, and bronzed skin. Highlights in her hair. Basically, woman on Instaroids. Her wetsuit is down to her curvy hips too, and they are raising their drinks in a toast. She, of course, is having water or a spritzer or a zero-calorie cooler. Whatever is girly.
There aren’t many photos of him. Most are underwater photography shots and reels, depicting schools of fish and whales and magic. But when you go to where people have tagged him in their posts, every single one features a female by his side.
Enough torture for one day. I close the app and stand, gathering my stuff. Time to go home and break the news to Tessa. She’ll be there, packing.
By the time I take the stairs to our third-floor shoebox, I’m on the verge of a meltdown. I’m not a fan of change, especially not when it’s forced on me. I’ve been through that too many times. Now, my life in the city has been upended in two short weeks.
I unlock the door and toss my stuff to the floor as soon as I’m inside.
“Lexi?” Tessa’s voice sounds from her room, uncertain and cautious.
“It’s me.”
Tessa appears in her bedroom doorway, eyes wide. “What’re you doing here?”
“I got fired.”
“What?” Her voice spikes in disbelief and she rushes toward me, her long, ink-black hair bobbing on her head in a messy bun. “Fired for what?”
“The video.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Yeah. Turns out the hackers got hold of the clip and are trying to extort money out of Mia Reed.” I’ve already said too much, but this is Tessa, my bestie since our first stint that summer when we both were only fourteen and worked as runners at the breakfast buffet, clearing and setting tables at the St Chalamet in Miami.
Tessa claps her hands to her mouth, her eyes saucers. “What? Oh my gawd!”
“I know. My timing always sucks.” But this time, the universe went that extra mile. I hold out the letter-sized envelope to her, now a bit wrinkled where my anxious grip has dented the paper. “The details are all in here.”
Tessa shakes her head as she leads me to our worn sofa. “Come sit. I’ll make us tea.”
I don’t sit down. Everything is suddenly too tight. “I’m going to take my uniform off.”
“Yes. Do that. Those assholes.”
In my bedroom, I glance over the life I’ve patched together in the two years I’ve been in New York. It’s sparse, but neat and clean. It won’t take long to box up everything, and I’m happy for Tessa to have our shared belongings, as it’s mostly kitchen stuff we bought together. Living costs in LA are cheaper than in New York, but she’s going to have to find her feet. As for the bigger pieces of furniture, some of them came with the apartment, and most of it we could let go.
I unclasp my hotel pin and name badge and, as habit dictates, put them in the little bowl on my bedside table. Relics of wasted dreams. Note to self: never sell your soul to a company again.They don’t fucking care. I strip and hang up my uniform, which I normally would have left at the hotel. Old habits die hard, and the St Chalamet management uniforms may only be dry cleaned, a service the hotel offers its staff because pay in the industry isn’t exactly fabulous.
I put on some sweatpants and a tank top and push my feet into the ridiculous monster Minion slippers Tessa got me for Christmas two years ago. Now they only remind me that I’m a cog in someone else’s machine and got spat out for being caught on camera walking in on my ex making a meal of a celebrity’s pussy.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt that insignificant before. Maybe once, that night on the roof… I fist my hands, my nails cutting into my palms. I can’t let this get to me.
Brush it off, Lexi. I’m Miss Sunshine on most days. For all I know, this is the beginning of something bigger and better.
Right.
Tears are streaming down my cheeks by the time I drop onto the sofa and rip open the St Chalamet envelope. I pull out the stack of papers as Tessa comes into the living room from our small kitchen, the perfume of jasmine tea scenting the air.
“Here.” She puts down the tray and sits next to me with a soft squeeze to my shoulder. “What does it say?”
I’m glancing through the pages but can’t make sense of it, as my mind is all over the place. “I dunno.” I hand her the stack and reach for a cup of tea. I slouch back with a sigh and sip quietly.
