She smiles. “Genius!”
We head to the couch with our phones. She shows me the Stories I posted this morning and says, “You should post some of the party. It’ll make you more likable.”
I ignore her. I can’t water down my image online. I’ll lose respect.
“I’ll tag you,” she says.
“I’m not reposting,” I sing.
She gawks at me as I add Oreos and junk food to the cart.
“I have sponsorships and people watching me. It’s more than being well-rounded. I’m a business. You can tag my personal, and I don’t mind reposting it there.”
“Whatever you say,” she mocks.
I submit the store order and have it rushed delivery before we pass out on my couch. I won’t be reposting the party on my personal account either. It’s not my thing.
Harry Potter is always our go-to, so I play it while we scroll on our phones. When the groceries arrive, Alix devours an entire bag of Skittles and a bag of Funyuns. Then she crashes on my couch halfway through the movie.
I leave it on while I shower and do my nightly routine. I can’t stop thinking about what I’ll wear next weekend when Dane comes to the party.
The next day, Alix gets out of the shower and walks to the kitchen.
“I thought we could walk ten thousand steps today, but it’s pouring.”
I glance out the window. “Yeah, such a bummer.”
“I think I’m just gonna head home if that’s okay?” she says, brushing her hair.
I nod. “Yeah, totally understandable.”
“I just did your morning routine. I literally put your reel on and followed step by step using your shit.”
I laugh. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “I loved it. Hopefully, my skin does. Do I look dewy?”
I look at her glistening face. “Very.”
“Okay. I’m getting dressed and leaving.” She walks off and then pops her head back in. “Can’t freaking wait for this weekend.”
I squeal. “Me too!”
“Ah!” she screams.“Ah!” I squeal, running my feet in place.
She gets dressed and walks back, accepting my avocado toast for breakfast. I hand her a green juice shot to cure any hangover she might have. She takes it and then eats the toast. “So, Rocky is really hot,” she murmurs.
I nod.
She asks, “Is he a fuck boy?”
I hum. “I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I shrug. “I don’t really know him.”
She eats half of the toast and says, “Sorry. I can’t finish this.” She kisses my cheek and says, “I’ll see you this weekend.”
