Give me an Alabama back road. Or a Texas highway. Anything but this.
I amnotcut out for this city.
Someone flips me off as I whip out into traffic, and I cringe. I’m pretty sure LA drivers operate on a shared delusion of immortality. On the surface, everyone’s chill and juice-cleansed and yoga-toned, but put them behind a wheel and it’s Mad Max with Priuses.
And here I am in a Texas-sized truck.
My heart throbs with homesickness, and there’s a part of me that wants to hop on the interstate and not take my foot off the gas untilI’m back in the South. Maybe I’m not cut out for this city. Maybe I belong where the trucks are bigger and the people are nicer…
And my nerves are much, much smaller.
I take a deep breath and am instantly reminded of my shoes.
Please let this practice go okay… Please.
I might be all bristle on the outside, but inside, I’m shaking in my boots. This isn’t Alabama, where a slow start didn’t cost you everything. Here, one bad stretch can bench you, trade you, or worse …eraseyou.
And I’m starting it with urine-soaked shoes.
Thatcan’tbe a good omen.
Chapter Two
Nicole
“Hey, guys!” I say to my phone’s camera, attempting my best influencer smile, squinting into the sun as a strand of my blonde hair sticks to the gloss on my lips. “It’s Nicole with your Friday dose of sunshine and—Cocoa,no!”
My dog launches into the frame, all four paws off the ground, a tornado of fur aimed directly at the seagull that’s just landed on the beach a few feet away from us.
“Ugh! No!” I lunge, half-catch him, knees buckling as I lose my balance, and watch as my ring light collapses with the world’s saddest little splat intothe sand.
This wasnoton the storyboard.
“Why am I still trying to sell this stuff?” I let out a sigh as Cocoa licks my face and then sniffs at the bottle of Glow Girl moisturizer. “No one even wants to buy it.” My eyes flicker to the label of my skincare line.
Myfailedskincare line.
The one everyone assumes is just a hobby because my last name comes with commas.
I set Cocoa back down and then take a deep, diaphragmatic breath. I brush off the sand, pick up the tripod, smooth out my hair, and plaster on another smile.
I can do this.
I just need to break out of the red for once. And social media is supposed to be the best for ads. Never mind that I hate everything about it.
I glance around to see if anyone has noticed me, and I sigh. The backdrop is literal perfection. There are palm trees at golden hour, ocean waves, and LA looks abuzz with the stuff dreams are made of.
Let’s try this again.
I clear my throat and use my little hidden remote to start recording again. “Hey, Sunshines!” My cheeks start to hurt. “It’s Nicole. I wanted to show you how I get a full-body glow with my—”
Cocoa’s gone again, but this time, his leash catches my ankle, causing me to plop down in the sand with a thud that rattles my brain.
I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a frustrated groan.
Cocoa turns back to look at me, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Whatever got his attention has since left the vicinity.
My shoulders slump in defeat. “Why can’t we make the perfect Instagram reel?”
