I panicked and ran.
Now I’m here, inhisapartment over the garage, trying to convince my heart rate to return to a normal pace. It’s been almost two hours since that moment and it still hasn’t slowed. Of course it hasn’t, because this is Tucker.
I’ve already convinced myself he’s over it. He’s probably working his shift at the bar right now laughing with the patronsand rolling his eyes at the dramatic influencer who bolted the moment things felt a little too real.
Maybe he’s relieved.
I drag my hands down my face before reaching for the washcloth to wash the mess of the day off. I should probably eat something. I should do anything other than stand here re-living the exact moment his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth like he already knew what it tasted like.
Groaning to myself, I scrub my face enough that it’s red.
As soon as I’m done, my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. The name on the screen makes my stomach drop so hard it feels like it hit the tile. The universe never fails to remind me that peace is only temporary.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, answering the phone reluctantly.
“Scottlyn,” she says, her voice sharp like she’s already annoyed with me for simply existing. “Is this a good time?”
I want to say no.
It’s never a good time when you call.
“Yes,” I say instead, because the truth is a luxury I don’t get with my mom. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Your father and I were just discussing the project. I haven’t seen much content posted from you. Is the production behind?”
I step out of the bathroom and into the small living space, pacing automatically like movement might drain the anxiety out of me. “I’ve been very busy with the house and filming,” I say carefully. “But we did have some minor delays with the weather.”
It’s not a lie. My social media accounts have taken a backseat during this project. Not to mention, I can’t share too much online until the show airs on TV. They gave me the go-ahead to share very little behind the scenes, but I can’t share videos or things of me renovating the house yet. I’ve focused on just sharing pictures here and there to keep the account alive.
“And how is that going?” she asks. “Are they showcasing the right things? This is very important for your image.”
My image.
The version of me my mom can quietly measure against my cousin. Against what she thinks a successful life is supposed to look like. The version that makes me…enough in her eyes.
“I know.” I sigh, but keep my voice as bright as possible.
“Hmm,” my mom hums, unconvinced. “So, how is the house coming along anyway? It’s going to be a success when all is said and done, right?”
And there it is.
Nothow are you? Orare you okay?
It’s the same question she always asks dressed up in different words: Are you succeeding in a way that reflects well on us?
“It’s going really good,” I lie smoothly. “We’re even ahead of schedule.”
“I knew she could do it,” I hear my father in the background, making my gut churn. If there’s anyone I don’t want to disappoint with this, it’s him. As much as I tend to resent how easily he believes in me the way my mom never could, it also means I carry that belief around like something fragile. Like it’s mine to protect.
“That’s great, honey,” my mother says. “I just worry this is a lot for you. You know that failure isn’t an option here. Not with the world watching you.”
My fingers grip my phone so tight that I almost snap it in half.
“I got this,” I say, forcing a laugh to ease the tension. “Everything is going fine.”
I allow my mom to talk for another minute about timelines. She tells me how I need to make sure I stay polished and to keep my posture during filming until my head feels like it’s filled with cotton and my throat aches from holding in everything I want to scream.
“Okay, I have to go,” I finally say. “We’re starting early in the living room in a few days.”
