I glance at her. “I don’t know how much Viv has told you.”
To her credit, Rachel understands right away what I’m asking and doesn’t bother beating around the bush. “Yes, she told us your friend died. And that you need the money because you lost your job.”
“Jobs, plural,” I correct her. “Sage’s death fucked me up pretty bad.”
Rachel folds into herself, hugging her torso. “I’m sorry. It’s so hard to lose someone. Especially a friend.”
“It was a…complicated relationship.” I chew my lip, not sure if I want to elaborate.
The only person who knows the truth about what happened with Sage is Emily. And I only felt comfortable telling my sister because I knew she didn’t really understand or care about the worldof book publishing, despite our mother’s love of novels.
Writing was Mom’s dream when she was younger. But then she got pregnant with me her first year of college and her plans changed—she knew she needed a reliable job, one that could actually bring money in. She switched her major to premed and set her sights on anesthesiology. But apparently, she and her boyfriend hadn’t learned their lesson, because a little over a year later, Emily came along.
If I was the reason Mom didn’t become an author, Emily was the reason Mom didn’t get her romantic fairy-tale ending. Our “father” drew the line at a second baby. The man who helped create us said he was moving to California, and our mother never heard from him again.
Our grandparents helped raise us while Mom finished school. By the time we entered high school, Mom was working as an anesthesiologist. She had the career she needed for her family, but not the career she originally wanted. I think she always secretly hoped one of us would become an author, but Emily never showed any interest, which left me.
“You have such a vivid imagination,” my mother said after I described my imaginary friend, a massive pink spider that lived on the ceiling of our bathroom. Ani, as I called her, would talk to me when I took baths. “It’s going to make you an excellent author.”
Ani the Spider lasted longer than most children’s imaginary friends. It wasn’t until I was eleven that Ani finally faded away.
“Don’t worry,” Mom told me when I cried over my spider’sdisappearance. “You’ll see things again. When you write.”
She always gave me money for books, was thrilled when I announced I wanted to major in English at UW–Milwaukee, and frequently texted me about what she was reading before she passed away.
I always wanted to make her proud. After she died, I imagined dedicating my debut novel to her. Now I’m glad my mother wasn’t around to see what happened with Sage and me. It would have broken her heart.
“What happened right now at the party?” Rachel asks, pulling my attention back to her. “When you came up to me, you looked like you had seen a ghost.”
I run my fingers through my short hair, heaving out a sigh. “I started thinking about her. Sage. She would have loved this. She is—was—a social butterfly.”
Sage would have forced me to have fun at this party, and I would have thanked her for it. She was like a rock—Sage prided herself on being grounded, able to compartmentalize, independent enough to not need any “emotional coddling” like I did. But also like a rock, Sage could be stern and cold—if you tripped on her and fell, well, that’s not the rock’s fault. You should have been watching your feet.
Rachel doesn’t offer advice or pat my hand or do any of the other condescending things people have done since Sage’s death. She says, “I get it. It’s rough.”
I don’t want to think about Sage anymore. I don’t want to talkabout her. It’s too much in too short a time span. I cast around the room for a change of subject, eyes landing on the yoga accessories. “Are those Ashley’s?”
Rachel glances over, a wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “No, they’re mine. We both love yoga. BeforeEmpress, we shared an account. But when Viv recruited us, she said we’d do better separately, as different niches. That way we could cross-post.”
“So you were studying nutrition?” I ask, eager to know about everyone’s past so I can forget my own.
Rachel looks slightly uncomfortable. “Not exactly. I was a five-hundred-hour certified yoga teacher.”
“Wait. What? So why is Ashley the yoga influencer?”
Rachel’s frown grows more pronounced. “Viv thought she had a more ‘interesting’ look. Ashley is also incredibly flexible. She can get into poses like King Dancer and King Pigeon easily, while my body is a little tighter. I focused more on accessible practices. Chair yoga, wall yoga, that kind of thing. Ashley’s poses got more attention online.”
“So Ashley’s an instructor too?” I scanned the girls’ accounts before my shower. Nothing intense, no real deep dives, but Ashley markets herself as a Vinyasa yoga teacher. She even teaches expensive virtual classes once a week that she films on the main deck, offering her students envious views of her luxury lifestyle and the tropical background.
“No.” Rachel glances around, lowers her voice. “She’s…she’s noteven certified. She was a bottle girl at a club before we were hired forEmpress. She would go to all my yoga classes, but she didn’t teach herself. We were doing social media together on the side—a twin account. Partner yoga, wellness tips, stuff like that. Just having fun, at first. But then our mom got sick and got slammed with a huge medical bill. We had to help pay for it. It would have taken forever if we didn’t end up here.Empresspays so well; it changed our lives.”
“Wow,” I murmur. “I’m sorry about your mother, but…” I don’t finish my sentence.
Ashley isn’t qualified to teach? This is fairly egregious, and Ashley’s followers would likely riot if they knew. So why is Rachel telling me this so openly and casually?
Rachel examines my expression and, once again, displays a remarkably quick assessment of whatever my face must be conveying. “All the other girls know. You’re going to be one of us. You deserve to know too. We all have our secrets. Social media is mostly fake. Right?”
I squirm internally, thinking of the conversation I overheard earlier. She has no idea how much I’m half-assing it, even if Ashley suspects. How much I dislike what we do. “Then why do we do it? If it’s all fake?”
