“You do?” I don’t know why it feels like a jab in my chest. What the hell does she have against influencers?
“Yeah, so often influencers are taking modeling jobs and it’s only because of their follower count. It’s ridiculous, I don’t wanna spend twelve hours a day attached to my phone and make posts about everything I do,” Ava says in the most disgusted tone, like someone’s asking her to drink water from the sewer.
“I see.” My tone is more clipped than I mean it to be.
She has a point, before Cari I had the same thoughts about influencers. It’s easy to think they don’t do much and you can’tmake a career out of it, but in this day and age, you’d be wrong. Not all of them are like that, and not all of them are attached to their phones.
In fact, I’d argue Cari is one of the least attached people I know. She rarely has her phone in her hand, and if she does, it’s brief.
On the rare occasions she’s on her phone, it’s usually to reply to a brand email, or she has to post at a certain time. More often than not, she was in the present with me.
“It’s just, whatever happened to people having real jobs? Like, how is taking videos of my life a job now? It’s just a joke,” Ava goes on rolling her eyes.
“I mean, that’s not all they do.” I straighten my back, feeling a bit defensive.
“You know I don’t mean you! Photography is a great profession and a lot more than just the click of a button. I just meant, like, those people who claim to be an influencer,” Ava says, thinking she was offending me.
“It’s just not an accurate description. I know someone who’s gotten several hundred-thousand-dollar contracts for their social media accounts and posts. Not everyone is out here like a child taking pictures of their food,” I say sharply.
“Alright, geez.” Ava sighs.
“I should go, I have a photoshoot to get to,” I lie, standing abruptly not waiting for a response.
I head toward home, silently fuming. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to start with someone new. Not only was Ava the complete opposite of Cari, but she also made me think about how much I miss her. I couldn’t sit by and let someone bash her job that I personally saw her work so hard for.
It’s stupid. I know I’m not going to be with her, but I don’t want anyone saying bad things about her either.
My phone lights up with a text from an unrecognizable number. It only says: ‘hey.’
I’m about to ask who it is, thinking maybe it’s a new client, when I see they’re still typing. I usually give clients my email, but once in a while, they’ll find my number somewhere and text me. It’s not my favorite thing but I don’t often know how they are finding my number.
I’m waiting for the person to stop typing when their other message finally pops up: ‘can we talk?’
My stomach is filled with nerves as if the person on the other end is about to tell me they’re pregnant. Which would obviously be impossible. Did Cari really get a new number just so she could text me?
It’s creepy as hell and feels stalkerish. I’m about to block the number when another text from them comes in; this time, my stomach drops as my phone almost falls from my hands: ‘it’s Chelsea.’
Chapter Fifteen
CARI
It took almost two months and three different types of meds to figure out which one would work for me. The lithium made me too sleepy; in the first two weeks, I couldn’t tell if they were actually doing anything.
I didn’t want to get out of bed or go anywhere or even shower.
Then came the Abilify, which just made me eternally angry. I still didn’t want to do anything, but I had to because Hazel came to check on me once a day.
I didn’t ask her to; in fact, I routinely asked her not to. But she insisted it was her or she had to call River and Aspen back over, so I pretended to be okay until she’d eventually leave me alone. She doesn’t know me well enough yet to see through my lies.
Finally, about three weeks ago, they put me on some generic Effexor, and it’s the first time I’ve felt like myself. Instead of everything feeling so heavy and tough, things feel like I can handle them again.
I still have days where I’m exhausted, but for the most part, at least I don’t have to bribe myself to get out of bed.
Which brings me to today. I’m standing outside of River’s apartment with a peace offering. Her favorite sushi and flowers are in one hand while I ring the doorbell with the other.
River answers the door in her pjs, a fresh tattoo on her thigh taped up. I want to ask what it is, but it isn’t the time; apologies first.
“Come in,” she says through a sigh, smiling at me. “It’s good to see you looking like yourself again.”
