Patience wasn’t one of my virtues, I’d admit.
The baggage carousel hummed to life once again, and I surged forward, hoping mine would appear. I was afraid I’d missed it. After my flight from Los Angeles, I had to stop by the airport lounge to collect the credit card I had forgotten a few days earlier.
A familiar head of blonde hair also crept closer to the carousel. Of course Macey Monroe would be one of the few people still waiting for her luggage.
We’d attended a few of the same events in the past—restaurant openings, local festivals, holiday celebrations—and the way she looked at me each time was painfully familiar. It was the same way people look at someone they don’t respect.
Macey’s attitude represented all the assumptions the world made about me: that someone with good looks fell into being an influencer and never learned how to exercise their brain.
They were right about the first half.
I hated social media. Hated the anonymity it gave bullies, hated the insecurity issues it gave everyone, and hated the way it turned life into a game of competition. But I had fallen into it, and it was challenging to claw your way out of a lucrative opportunity when someone in your life depended on you.
Macey lifted a blue-and-yellow suitcase off the carousel.Fuck.Not that this was a competition, but she had definitely just won.
Before I could berate myself for taking too long in the lounge, causing me to miss my luggage, I saw my black suitcase making its lap around the carousel. By the time I grabbed it, Macey had disappeared.
Outside, the sky had gone full Chicago February—gray, growling, and cold enough to slap. The wind sliced through my jacket like it had a personal vendetta. A few sunny days in LA had nearly tricked me into forgetting just how rude winter could be back home.
I stopped by the taxi stand and pulled out my phone, because apparently staring into the void is frowned upon in public. Scrolling felt like the lesser evil. Yeah, I hated social media, but it still paid the bills. I uploaded a story announcing my safe landing, then watched it struggle to post over the airport’s sad excuse for Wi-Fi.
Honestly, a small part of me missed airplane mode. Something about being unreachable at 30,000 feet made it easier to imagine a version of my life where I didn’t chronicle every second of it for strangers online. If I left this path behind, though, what was left? Who would I even be? A college dropout with a skincare routine strong enough to carry a personality?
The ironic part was I had options. Too many. My savings bought me freedom, sure, but also paralysis. It was like being handed a menu with a hundred items, none of which looked appetizing. Damned if you do, damned if you scroll through joblistings at 2:00 a.m. wondering if goat yoga instructor could be a real career.
Only a few photos on my feed updated. A picture of my little sister, Daphne, studying at the library with her friends. A gym workout routine from another Chicago influencer I followed. And a shared post of a whale.
Wait, what?
I squinted. It wasn’t just a whale—it wasMacey’sphoto of a whale. Shared by a lifestyle influencer I vaguely knew. Of course it had the perfect golden-hour lighting, that moody travel-blogger filter, and just the right amount of poetic nonsense in the caption. I had to give her credit: the girl knew how to take a photo.
Too bad she only posted them to her personal accounts instead of pairing them with the snooze-fest articles she wrote forRoamer’s Digest. Then again, maybe I was the only one who found them boring. Not that I read them often. Just sometimes. When I couldn’t sleep.
“I knew I should’ve taken Kira up on her offer,” a voice grumbled behind me. “Stupid Chicago taxis.”
I recognized that voice. My eyes shut as I sighed.
Macey. Of course.
She stood behind me in the taxi queue, her breath puffing out in annoyed little clouds.
“If you hate them so much, call an Uber,” I said, not bothering to turn around.
She made an exasperated sound. “I would, if there were any available.”
“Then walk.”
“Do you want me to get frostbite?”
I turned around to look at her. Macey’s long, icy blonde hair was tied into a braid down her back. That was where the Elsa cosplay ended, considering she wore a pink sweater and blacksweatpants. Definitely not warm enough for a night like tonight. Two notebooks stuck out of her purse, and she shoved them back in.
“I don’tnotwant you to get frostbite.” I shrugged.
Macey rolled her eyes and ignored me, scrolling through her phone instead. I should go back to minding my own business, but this was more entertaining. Instead of filtering through Instagram, she was favoriting photos in her album. Whales, whales, and—a whale-themed 5K?
A laugh bubbled out of me, and I reached for her phone. Ignoring her “Hey!” of protest, I zoomed in to the photo.
“So you really spent your weekend playing with whales?” I chuckled.
