Page 23 of The Beach Trap

I walk into the room. Sure enough, it’s Beary, the old teddy bear I gave Blake on that last morning at camp, making her promise she’d give him back to me in person.

“You still have Beary?” I ask, my voice wavering with emotion.

“Here,” she says, tossing him toward me. “I was planning to leave him here for you.”

I catch Beary and look down at his discolored fur, the missing eye and worn button nose. He’s clearly been well-loved over the years, when she could have easily thrown him away.

I look back up at Blake, her blond hair hanging in front of her face, her expression still fiery. “I don’t have anything else of yours,” she says. “Search my bag if you want.”

She turns away, folding and refolding the same clothes she’d already placed in her bag. I can tell I’m making her uncomfortable, so I leave her to pack in peace.

After dropping my bag in my room—the pink-and-purple floral wallpaper I picked out in second grade really hasn’t aged well—I head back downstairs and sit on what used to be my spot on the couch.

The cushions have lost their fluff and I can feel the braids of wicker under my butt, and I add a new couch and love seat to my mental list of potential sponsored deals to secure once I’m back in Atlanta. They may not pay for the placement, but it’s a good way for me to break into the home décor content stream, and it could help give me the edge I need to score the Worthington sponsorship.

I shift on the couch, trying to find a comfortable positionwhile I wait for Blake to leave. If she doesn’t hurry, it’ll be dark by the time she gets to the Rooneys’.

At the sound of steps on the carpeted stairs, I pretend to look engrossed in something on my phone. There are a few hundred likes and comments I might as well respond to while I’m waiting.

I try to reply to individual comments when I can. It’s good for engagement, and it helps my followers feel like they know me—even though they have no idea what’s really going on in my life. Especially now. I haven’t even posted anything about my dad dying.

The day of the funeral, I recycled some old content that I’d saved for a rainy day—a picture of a recent manicure and a question about nail polish colors.

While I stood silently next to my mother at the temple and then at the graveside, my followers were debating whether or not it was better for the nail polish on your hands to match the polish on your feet, or if different colors were better.

The post performed well—different colors came out on top even though I’m still a fan of matching or at least complementary colors—but instead of making me feel proud, the high numbers just made me feel more alone.

After that, I thought about sharing the news about my dad. I went as far as pulling photos together, but when I went to write something, I couldn’t find the right words. It’s probably for the best; I prefer it when people look at me with admiration, not pity.

Blake walks into the room, sounding out of breath. I look up and realize it’s not her; it’s the dog. I accidentally make eye contact and the big, dopey fur ball lopes toward me.

“Down, boy,” I say, even though I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.

The dog mistakes my outstretched hand as an invitation to come closer. He nuzzles his fuzzy head underneath my hand,trying to get me to pat or rub him. The gesture reminds me of several men I’ve dated, so I assume my instincts were right and the dog is a boy.

He tries again, nudging his head between my lap and my arm, looking up at me with those puppy dog eyes, and suddenly I understand the root of that phrase. But his canine charm won’t work on me.

As I pull my hand away, I swear the dog frowns before flopping in a big, furry ball at my feet.

A few minutes later, Blake comes downstairs, duffel bag in hand. Her eyes go wide when she sees the dog cuddled up near me, which gives me a sudden fondness for the animal.

“Come here!” she says to the dog, as if he’s in trouble.

The dog lifts his head lazily before laying it back down on top of my feet.

“Come herenow,” she says, putting extra emphasis on the last word.

This time, the dog doesn’t react at all.

Blake huffs in frustration and stomps over to the couch. She grabs the dog by its collar and tugs. The dog reluctantly follows her and looks back at me in the most human way, like he’s begging me to let him stay. Part of me wants to, even though I don’t know the first thing about taking care of pets. I’m not even good with plants—all the ones at my apartment are fake. I call it my faux forest.

Blake is clearly struggling to hold the bag, the door, and the dog. Before I can decide whether or not to offer my help, she says, “Want a treat?”

The dog sits up straight, tongue and tail wagging. Blake releases her hold on his collar, grabs the duffel bag, and opens the door, and the dog obediently trots outside.

“Let me know if you have any trouble getting in the house,” I tell her.

She turns and glares at me as if I insulted her outfit (which isn’t great) instead of offering my help.

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