Amonth and a half later
Fuck this shit.
Playing dress-up was fun when I started doing it ten weeks ago, but now it’s tedious and altogether fucking awful.
“I need to know what exactly you’re sacrificing and to which deity,” Joyce garbles around a mouthful of cereal. There’s a pile of dishes behind her because our stupid dishwasher shit the bed a month ago, and we can’t figure out why.
I grumble under my breath, shoving twenty pieces of clothing back into various bags so I can get a refund now that I’ve taken pictures in them. This stupid account is doing a hell of a lot better than I ever anticipated.
I hate it.
Why isn’t my writing this successful?
Even Joyce started piggybacking off my account by editing the photos to add some sort of artistic spin to them with her drawing. It’s going so well that a mega-million-dollar clothingcompany reached out to her to collaborate, and we’ve made five thousand dollars this week alone. I didn’t realize how lucrative this industry is.
It’s paying the bills, but it’s not what I want to do with my life. Hell, it’s not even what I want to do with my week. It feels more like prolonging the inevitable because even though I can pay off my credit cards, a dead fish flops less than my chosen career.
I throw a bag across the room and grind my teeth.
“If you hate it so much, why are you doing it?” Joyce pauses like she’s having a lightbulb moment. “Actually, I retract my question. You should keep doing it regardless. My wallet loves you right now.”
I give her a deadpan stare. “It sounded like a good project when I first started posting.” It’s not a lie. My entire life revolves around having little passion projects, and I wanted to do something like this long before I knew the Duvals existed. This was fun for about two weeks.
Now I have no love for this particular endeavor. It’s turned into more of a business than a plot to sink my nails into Leo.
I’m bored, I’m tired, and I’m ready to shut this down so I can go back to focusing on my book, which means I’ve been easing off the gas a bit. And since I don’t want to tell Joyce about my plans with Sabrina, I’ve claimed that money and spontaneity are my sole motivators for this project.
My writing has paid the ultimate price for it, but I’m telling myself that I’m replenishing my creative juices. I managed to complete the hellish manuscript I was struggling with, and now I’m slowly wading through the edits that are making me lose the will to live. My mojo is still nowhere to be found. The book releases in a month and a half, and I’ve done next to nothing to prepare for it. So, I’m completely fucked.
Admittedly, my phone has been blowing up all day because I did my cover reveal, and it’s weirding me out a little that it’sgetting so much traction. Even my preorders are doing scarily well when the link has only been up for a couple of days. Like,reallywell. With no marketing.
My phone vibrates beside me.
Sabrina: Did you see that new 90s tech-themed cafe that opened last week? We have to go.
My initial assessment of the younger Duval remains: Sabrina is lovely.
Would I choose to be her friend if we met organically and in person? Probably not, but that’s because in-person interactions scare me.
The only real friend I’ve had since kindergarten is the woman sitting cross-legged on our kitchen bench, eating Lucky Charms with a teaspoon—the gravest sin.
I have internet friends as well—if those count. But the beauty of those people is that they understand the meaning of “low-maintenance friendships.” Sometimes being connected with Sabrina feels like a part-time job since we have to meet up often, and her social battery is always on full charge.
I’m a cranky old soul who needs a break from peopling. Whereas she needs to people to remain friends. It’s exhausting. I know she’d ease off if I told her I need to disappear every once in a while for no real reason, but I’m worried that would translate to Leo backing off as well.
Mina: I’m in. We can go once you’re back from LA. Don’t forget that you owe me an embarrassing T-shirt.
Then to Leo, I say:
Mina: Good luck tonight. I’ll be rooting for the other side.
“Look at you. A couple of lovebirds.” Joyce smirks. My cheeks heat under her attention, and I dip my head to hide behind my hair. “I can’t believe you’re texting each other after all the fretting you did. Have you told him that you have a shrine of him next to your bed?”
My jaw drops. “I do not. His face just happens to appear on my mood board.” Many, many times.
Joyce has no idea that Leo is talking toJas, not Mina.
Or that I’m texting his sister.
