Page 51 of The Beach Trap

I have so many wonderful memories of the holiday weekend here—golf cart parades down Old 98, my grandma’s famous Jell-O salad, watching fireworks on the beach. I hate to miss it all, especially knowing there’s a chance—albeit a very small one—that this might be the last summer the beach house will be in the Steiner family.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t already down here, but since I am, I don’t want to leave. If Blake had half a heart, she’d invite me to stay for the holiday. It’s not like I’d be putting her out—she could just stay at the Rooneys’ casita a few more days.

I sigh, wishing there was a way I could tell her that I want to stay without telling her I want to stay. We’ve been texting a bit about house stuff, but nothing beyond that. But I do know she’s following me on Instagram.

I noticed her name the other day when I was scrolling throughthe votes for the shade of blue we’re going to use for the tiled backsplash in the kitchen.

Her handle is just her name and birthday—not very original, although neither is her content. There’s no rhyme or reason to her grid; she’s got unfiltered pictures of food, photos of herself without a drop of makeup on, and a few scenic shots around Destin. I’m pretty sure she’s been going around town with some guy.

Not that I was snooping. When I looked at her feed, I noticed a picture of the food trucks in Seaside, and I scrolled to see where else she went—the bookstore and the beach. At sunset, the most romantic and photogenic time of day. In the corner of her picture of the sun going down, you can see a man’s legs stretched out in the sand beside her, feet crossed at the ankles.

The composition would’ve been better if she’d cropped him out, but maybe she included him on purpose, a subtle way to let the world know she’s getting laid.

That gives me an idea—since I know she’s following me, I can post something about how much the holiday down here means to me, and when she sees it, she’ll feel guilty and let me stay.

I’m not supposed to post until tomorrow morning, but this is worth going off-grid. I pull a chair over to the porch railing and rest my feet on the ledge. My signature OPI Cajun Shrimp polish looks perfect against the backdrop of the beach.

I take a photo and put my preset filter on it, then post it with a subtle SOS to Blake.

Kicking up my feet and taking in this gorge view. There is seriously no better place to #KatWalk than the white-sand beaches of Destin, Florida. Growing up, I used to spend every Fourth of July here with the fam. I’m supposed to beheading back to Atlanta on Sunday, but part of me wishes I could stay and watch the fireworks over the beach.

What do you think, pretty people? Should I stay or should I go?

Three hours after I posted my plea, there are five thousand hearts and more than eleven thousand accounts reached, but I can’t tell if Blake was one of them. With literally no other choice, I pull up my text thread with Blake.

Kat:Hey! Any chance I can stay at the house for a few more days? Just until after the Fourth?

If she says no, it doesn’t mean I have to go back to Atlanta. I could get a room at the Henderson—except I’m sure the rates will be astronomical on a holiday weekend—and I want to stay atmyhouse. This is where all my memories are. It’s where I feel close to my dad.

I look down at my phone, where Blake’s three dots appear momentarily before disappearing. They do that another two times before a text finally pops up.

Blake:Fine with me, but I’ll be there, too

“Ugh.” I give the phone a dirty look. I don’t get why it matters if she stays here or at the casita. She’s probably just being difficult because she knows I want to be here.

Blake said herself she doesn’t care about the house—and it’s not like she has any special memories here she’s trying to hold on to—but beggars can’t be choosers, so I text her back.

Kat:okay

Blake replies with a thumbs-up emoji. I like having the last word, so I react to her thumbs-up with a thumbs-up of my own.

With that settled, I feel better. It might even be good for me to be here while Blake is doing work on the house. If I get creative with angles, I might be able to pass off pictures of her manual laboring like it’s me, although her unmanicured hands would be a dead giveaway.

It’s not like Ineedthe photos—I’ve got a decent amount of content samples for the Worthington application, but what I still need is an answer to “what’s your why?”

In the beginning, my brand was all about treating life like a runway—looking good, feeling good, and letting the world see it. But after the last few months, I feel like there has to be more to me than that. Because it definitely won’t be enough to stand out from all the other applicants.

And I don’t just want that contract. I have to have it if there’s any hope of keeping the beach house.

•••

The day beforethe Fourth, I’m getting some much-needed sun on the back deck and reading the latest Rachel Worthington book club pick. I’ve got a post planned for it—and I’m hoping my followers won’t point out that this is the first book I’ve ever shared in my feed.

Blake is inside, banging around doing something constructive. For a quiet person, she makes an awful lot of noise.

It hasn’t been as bad as I thought, being here together. We mostly stay out of each other’s way—and when we are in the same room, either she’s busy tearing something apart or puttingsomething back together, or she has her nose buried in her phone.

I assume she’s texting Hairy Legs from her Seaside photo. I’m curious about why her mystery man hasn’t been over to the house, but she doesn’t know I know about him, so it’s not like I can just ask.

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