Cocoa tilts his head at me, tail thumping like he’s proud of himself.
“I know,” I mutter. “You didn’t exactly sign up to be an influencer dog.”
When I moved to Los Angeles six months ago, I told myself I didn’t need any distractions. Just me, my apartment, and Glow Girl finally taking off.
That lasted about three weeks.
Somewhere between declining sales and unanswered emails, I saw Cocoa’s face on the Fur-Ever Homes USA Facebook page and brought him home a few days later, right when LA started to feel unbearably lonely.
He’s sweet, loyal, and occasionally wakes up choosing chaos—which is why I usually end up on the Fur-Ever Homes Forum when things go sideways. It’s part advice board, part group therapy.
Apparently, today counts.
“Don’t give me that look. You already used the bathroom on Dominic Neelson’s shoes,” I say, running my hands over my face. I’m certain I just smeared my mascara, but at this point…
It doesn’t even matter.
My phone beeps from the stand, and I squint at the screen from where I’m sitting.
Low Storage Warning.
“Of course.” I untangle the leash from where it’s tied to my ankle and stand. The back of my leggings are covered in sand, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I can do to save this video shoot.
Some people are born with a gift for this kind of thing—being watched, being liked, being effortless. But I was raised to build things, not perform them.
The only reason I keep showing up on Instagram is because my social media manager insisted I be the face of the brand. But considering my product launch was a complete disaster, I’m pretty sure my face has become synonymous withfailure.
“Let’s just call it a day.” I start to clean up, breaking down my tripod and putting it away in my beach bag. I grab my iced matcha and take a desperate gulp before leading Cocoa to the nearby trash can. After tossing the drink, I dig my phone out of my bag.
I squint at my reflection staring back at me on my darkened phone screen. There’s a streak of mascara halfway down my left cheek. My tank top—white, ribbed,theoreticallysweat-proof—is transparent with nervous sweat.
I’m a mess. A hot, freaking mess.
“I don’t know how people make influencing seem so effortless,” I say to Cocoa, who’s more concerned about sniffing around the bottom of the trash can. Just once, I want to look like one of the girls on the explore page on social media. All dewy and glowing inthe sunset with a dog that smiles on cue. Instead, I get a blooper reel at best.
Just as I’m about to head toward the sidewalk to make my way back to my apartment, I hear a small voice.
“Doggie!”
I turn to see a little boy, no older than three, running toward us, his eyes wide with wonder. I brace for my dog’s reaction, but…
Cocoa suddenly sits obediently and lets the child bury his face in his fur. The kid squeals with happiness, and I can’t help but smile, crouching lower so I’m eye-level with him.
“He’s a good boy,” I tell the little kid as his mom comes running.
“Yes!” He pats Cocoa’s head, a grin across his face. “I love him.”
“Me, too.” I giggle, just as the toddler darts back to his mom, who offers me an apologetic look.
I give her a small wave and watch the two of them head back to their spot on the crowded beach.
Maybe this day isn’t totally lost.
But still, I’m going home.
I lead Cocoa toward the sidewalk, tugging my sandy leggings straight and pushing my hair into a messy knot that won’t stay put. My phone vibrates in my hand, causing my dog and me to jump scare simultaneously. My eyes drop to the device, and my heart skips a beat as I answer.
“Hey, Mom.” I yank Cocoa’s leash as he tries to drag us toward a hot dog cart parked just off the boardwalk. For such a small dog, he has the strength of a lion.
