"Sell them a story, Elowen. Whatever idea or narrative you need to craft,craft it," she continues, her tone brisk and efficient, like she’s reciting instructions for baking a cake.
"I will," I say, though the words feel hollow in my mouth.
"We also got an offer from Belle’s team," Edna adds, her tone softening ever so slightly. "They want to do a collab."
I frown, unlocking my car door as I process her words. "What’s the angle?"
"Southern roots and cooking," she replies. "Seems fun. Authentic. I’ll send over the details."
"Great," I mutter, forcing enthusiasm I don’t feel. "I’ll look at it."
Edna doesn’t waste time with goodbyes. The line goes dead, leaving me standing beside my car, staring at the darkened screen in my hand. A collaboration. A story. A cover.
Craft it.
The words linger like a warning. Or a curse.
I’ll have to come up with some easy videos to record in my childhood bedroom. Maybe something nostalgic. Heartfelt.
But as I climb into the driver’s seat and rest my forehead against the steering wheel, I can’t stop the question from bubbling to the surface.Is this job—this life—really worth it?The stress. The constant performance. The endless grind to stay relevant.
I close my eyes, the steady hum of the hospital fading into the background. If I’m not careful, I’ll lose myself in the very story I’m trying to sell.
***
When I finally get home, I find myself in front of the pink vanity I haven’t sat at since high school. The one that once held dreams of escaping this town. Now it’s holding up my phone, and I’m about to sell a different dream entirely.
"Hi guys!" I chirp into the camera, forcing a bright smile. The faded mirror wobbles slightly in its frame, and the chipped paint on the edges seems to mock my perfectly polished tone. "You’re probably wondering why the background looks so different. Well, I was homesick! It’s been three years since I’ve been back here, so I hopped on a plane to Arkansas. You ever feel like youjust need to go home? Anyway, let’s get ready for my first night back. I’m grabbing dinner with some of my childhood friends."
Lies. Every word of it. But Edna told me to sell a narrative, and I know better than to ignore her advice. The truth is messy, complicated. It doesn’t get likes. People don’t want honesty. They want the illusion—the carefully curated version of a life they can envy. So here I am, feeding them the fairy tale. Fake optimism and positivity always wins over authenticity.
I used to sit here dreaming about leaving this town, about being someone bigger, brighter, and louder. I got everything I wanted. So, why do I feel like I’m losing it all?
"First, I’m going in with my—"
A low laugh cuts through the air, startling me mid-sentence. My heart lurches as I twist on the wobbly pink stool, finding Brooks leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s watching me with that infuriating smirk, one eyebrow raised like he’s caught me red-handed.
"What do you want?" I snap, my tone icy.
"Dinner with your childhood friends?" he repeats, scoffing. "Other than Leandra and Audrey, you didn’t have any friends."
My cheeks burn, but I keep my expression steady, narrowing my eyes into slits. "Not that it’s any of your business," I bite back, "but I’m not exactly ready to tell the world that my dad might be dying. I had to come up with a story."
Brooks tilts his head, his smirk fading into something more unreadable. "So you lied."
I bristle at his bluntness. "It’s not lying. It’s storytelling. There’s a difference."
"Oh, really?" he says, pushing off the doorframe and taking a step closer. "And what’s the difference, Ellie? One makes you feel better about it?"
I glare at him, my fists tightening in my lap. "You wouldn’t understand. This is my job. My livelihood. I can’t just disappear."
He crosses his arms, his gaze unrelenting. "Sure, I get it. Gotta keep up appearances, right? Doesn’t matter if it’s true just as long as it looks good."
"Why are you even here?" I seethe, my voice rising. "Do you just enjoy making me feel worse?"
He shrugs, his expression maddeningly calm. "No. I just think it’s funny that you spend all this time selling people a perfect life when you’re sitting in a room with peeling paint and a mirror you haven’t looked into in three years."
The words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I can’t think of a single retort. My eyes flick to the mirror, catching my own reflection. The carefully applied makeup. The forced smile that’s starting to crack around the edges.
