The Instagram post from The Ashwood Café has 127,000 likes and counting. My follower count jumped by 15,000 in thirty-six hours. Brand deals are rolling in. My Q1 revenue projections just went from "maybe I can afford ramen" to "maybe I can afford the fancy ramen."
I should be ecstatic. This is exactly what I needed. Proof that my career isn't over, that I can rebuild, that Chad and Melissa didn't destroy everything I worked for.
I pull up the Instagram post again. 127,000 likes. Fifteen brand deals. Enough validation to prove I'm still marketable.
I close the app without responding to any of them.
Through my window, smoke rises from Ryder's chimney. Steady. Real. Nothing like the performance I've built my life around.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text in a group chat I don't recognize.
Patrice: So the new girl IS real. Tessa owes me twenty bucks.
Tessa: I never said she wasn't real! I said she might be a figment of Dotty's imagination because Dotty kept talking about her like she was a character in a romance novel.
Patrice: Fair point. Dotty does that.
Tessa: Anyway, Piper—yes, we added you to this chat without asking because that's how we do things here. Girls' night at my place Thursday. 7pm. Bring wine and your best Ryder stories.
I stare at my phone, a weird flutter in my chest. Tessa and Patrice. After the ice fishing intervention where they called me out on my rage-posting tree photos, I wasn't sure they'd want to hang out with me again. Apparently I was wrong.
They're inviting me to girls' night. Like I actually belong here.
Me: I don't have any good Ryder stories. We've only been dating for like five minutes.
Patrice: Girl, you deleted an entire day's worth of content because watching him play hockey felt too personal to post. That's a STORY.
Tessa: How does Patrice know that?
Patrice: Jax told Trace who told me. Small town, big gossip network. Keep up.
Tessa: Remind me why we're friends with you again?
Patrice: Because I'm delightful and I bring the good wine. Speaking of which, Piper, you're coming Thursday. No arguments.
Tessa: Fair warning, I haven't slept more than three hours straight since Grayson was born. If I fall asleep mid-gossip, just keep talking. I'll catch up.
I find myself smiling at my phone like an idiot. These women don't know me. Don't know about my past, my failures, thespectacular public humiliation that sent me running to Alaska. They just... invited me anyway.
Me: I'll be there.
My laptop pings with a new notification. I switch tabs to find my analytics dashboard showing another spike. Someone's sharing the coffee shop post again, and I click through to see?—
Oh.
Oh no.
It's Chad. My ex. The one who dumped me on a livestream and immediately started dating my former best friend. He's posted an Instagram story, and someone's screenshotted it and tagged me.
The image loads slowly, probably because my cabin's internet runs on hope and prayer, but when it does, my stomach drops.
Chad and Melissa. Professionally photographed, her hand extended to show off a massive diamond ring. The caption reads: "She said yes! Can't wait to spend forever with my best friend. #Engaged #LoveWins #NewBeginnings"
The screenshot has 47,000 shares. It's trending on three different platforms. Entertainment blogs are already running stories: "Influencer Chad Announces Engagement to Ex-Best Friend After Viral Breakup."
My phone explodes with notifications. DMs from people I haven't talked to in months, all wanting to know if I'm okay, if I've seen it, what I think. Like my opinion on my ex's engagement matters. Like I'm supposed to have some public reaction to his happiness.
The worst part? I don't even care. Three months ago, this would have destroyed me. I would've posted some cryptic storyabout moving on, maybe cried into my phone camera for sympathy engagement. Classic influencer breakup playbook.
