Scrolling her grid only made my heart beat faster. We were getting to the high school years. Young Zack as I remembered him. Young me was not in the picture, obviously.
I had to look at something else. I swiped through a few of my friends’ updates, then paused on Theo’s. Based on his outfit, the photo had been taken earlier today. It was a low angle in his car, his leg propped up and sunglasses on. Bold white text printed across the bottom read: People forget your biggest success and focus on your tiniest mistakes.
Wow. What an inspiration. My thumb shook from pressing so hard into my screen. Soliciting other girls was not a tiny mistake. I ought to unfollow and block his ‘misunderstood’ ass, see howhe liked that. But then I wouldn’t be able to seehim. The fallout. The regret. The guilt, assuming he had any. We’d spent two years together. That had to hold some sentiment for him. On the other hand, if I didn’t unfollow, I’d be exposing myself to his Zeezy’s and any new people he was seeing. Not that I’d want him back. But I didn’t want him to move on too easily. What if he proved he never really cared about me? Although I guessed he already had with the Zeezy’s thing.
I closed the app and stuffed my phone in my back pocket.
This dodgeball whipping through my ribcage at the thought of my ex with someone else was probably why he had stormed into Fancee’s. To prove he mattered. Thatwemattered. But I mattered too.
The foot soak timer buzzed against my butt. My hips jumped off the couch. I pulled out my phone and a wrinkled receipt came with it. Zack’s number. I swallowed hard and set it aside. No boyfriend emergencies at the moment: fake or otherwise.
The water wasn’t warm anymore. Toweling off, I recorded video of my feet, then took a pic of my almost-healed pinky to post for my clients.
The anons poured in.
Once I had the client base, making money like this was easy. I could ignore the ‘baby’ and pervy aspects of everything when I knew it didn’t mean anything. Maybe I should give up on modeling. And men. I could also quit my other side gig. Fancee’s discount wasn’tthatamazing. Did I really need health insurance in my twenties?
My phone pinged with a message on my other socials.
I chuckled and gave her a thumbs up. Good for him.
I sat up straighter, accidentally knocking the tub and splashing water on the floor. Was he there beside her? Liking and looking at my pics?
I mopped up the droplets with the towel and fought the flames rising to my cheeks. Why was he making a point of thanking me again? It was so over-the-top, especially compared to the high school version of him who used to snap at people for not moving fast enough in the halls. Even me. I was not, andamnot an exception for him.
She sent a heart emoji. Not from him, obviously.
My heart lodged in my throat. A winky face? Oh no. It definitely, one-hundred percent did not mean anything from someone bubbly like Shelby.
I tossed my phone aside and scooted under a throw blanket, determined to watch some trashy TV. No overthinking. I needed research and relaxation. Flashy outfits adorned characters–well, people who’d become personalities. They operated successful brands, even amid drama. They had glam teams, entourages, and elite charities. Some were even former models. A cast member dished on her upcoming party drama and winked at the camera in the confessional.
I glanced at my phone. Shelby used a lot of emojis. The wink was nothing. He probably didn't even want to say anything beyond a gruff 'thanks.'
Still, I dragged my phone closer and sent a text to the number written on the back of the receipt.
I groaned and tossed my phone again. I had to remember we weren’t really friends.
18
The Fancee Family
