Page 12 of The Beach Trap

She shakes her head again.

The knotted ball of grief I’ve been carrying around since the day he died twists, morphing into anger and frustration. “How could he have been so stupid?”

I expect my mom to agree with me—after all, she’s the one left holding the empty purse—but her face hardens as if I’d just insulted her.

“Kina hora,” she says, a throwback to her great-great-grandmother and the Yiddish phrase that’s the Jewish equivalent of knocking on wood to ward off evil. “I will not have you speaking ill of your father.”

I lean back in my chair and stare at the woman across from me. She’s obviously grieving the loss of her husband, but I imagine her feelings are as complicated as mine are. Maybe even more so.

It seems the theoretical water is still too cold, and I retreat from the conversation. If she’s not willing to talk about the money problems, there’s no chance in hell she’ll be willing to discuss the whole illegitimate-child-by-another-woman situation.

Before I can think of a safe topic to change the subject to, the waitress approaches, her smile matching my mother’s.

“Are y’all doing the buffet?” she asks.

“Yes,” my mother says, pushing her chair back and standing up, officially ending our conversation. “Come now, Kat. You know what they say, calories don’t count on Mother’s Day!”

The waitress and my mother both laugh and turn to look at me. But I can’t bring myself to pretend there’s anything funny about this day. Or my life.

•••

Monday morning, thingsare looking up as I settle into my desk with an oat-milk latte at half past ten—a benefit of being my own boss.

I open Instagram and check my insights for the previous week. Engagement is up—but not as much as it had been the week before. I frown and flip back to my feed, wondering what it was that improved my visibility in the algorithm two weeks ago.

This is the unglamorous side of my job that my parents don’t see or appreciate. I do more than post pretty pictures with witty captions. There’s a science to the art: strategy and research, testing with trial and error.

My grid is bright and airy by design. Every fourth picture is of me, since I am my brand. Two posts a week are videos where I’m doing my signature #KatWalk, turning ordinary places into a fashion runway. The fish market last week—a sponsored post with Frye boots, Alice + Olivia short-shorts, and a plain white tank from H&M—got crazy engagement; people love seeing beauty in unexpected places.

The rest of my grid is full of artful shots of products or beautiful things I eat, drink, and discover throughout my day. Avocado toast is always a guaranteed spike in numbers, and so are before-and-after cosmetic product demos—my top post of all time is a Sephora-sponsored series that compared Too Faced Better Than Sex mascara to Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk Push Up Lashes.

When my head starts spinning from all the insights and data, I close Instagram and bring up the email I haven’t stopped thinking about since I got it last Friday.

The email is from the head of marketing and publicity for Rachel Worthington, former child star turned national treasure. Once she conquered the big screen, she went behind the camera and started producing, then created her own book club before expanding her brand to a modern/Southern fashion line and, rumor has it, a soon-to-be-announced home décor line.

A few months ago, I did a sponsored post for her clothing line about gingham making a long-overdue comeback. The deal hadn’t been for much money, but I took it with the hope it could turn into something more.

Another gamble that looks like it’s paid off. The company is looking for three influencers to do a year-long partnership with events, social media posts, giveaways, and more—and I have been personally invited to apply.

I know it’s still a long shot; everyone who is anyone is throwing their virtual hat in the ring. Not only is it for Rachel Worthington,thetrendsetter herself, but it’s a six-figure deal that would be sure to take a modest account like mine and skyrocket it to fame.

Even though I have the short email memorized, I read it again:

Kat darling,

Wanted to make sure this was on your radar. Loved your take on gingham, and hope you’ll consider applying.

xx

Brenda

Brenda Jenkins

Senior Vice President, Marketing and Publicity

Rachel Worthington, Inc.

I wonder how it feels when a person gets to a point where they have to incorporate themselves. And if that would ever be possible for someone like me.

---