Page 68 of The Beach Trap

If Chelsea’s rainbow nails make her happy, then she should wear them that way. Happiness matters more than what someone else—influencer or not—decides is beautiful. Besides, there’s more to life than looking good on the outside. Especially if you’re just using makeup and clothes to cover up how broken you are on the inside.

My eyes well up with tears and I blink them away as I look down at my own nails. I get them done every two weeks, but I can’t remember the last time they brought me happiness.

“Hand me that To Infinity and Blue-Yond,” I tell Chelsea.

She hands me the bottle of blue polish. I twist the cap off and carefully paint over the Cajun Shrimp on my pinky finger. I haven’t painted my own nails since that summer at camp. I have a fuzzy memory of sitting on the dock with Blake, giving each other manis and pedis. I don’t think she’d ever had hers painted before. And maybe not since.

I paint every other nail blue, leaving the coral ones in between. It’s not me, but it is fun. When I finish the first hand, I hold it up for Chelsea to see. “What do you think?”

“I love it,” Chelsea says, blushing.

“But what doyouthink, Miss Kat?” Jackie teases, a smirk in her eye.

“I love it, too,” I tell her as I keep going on my right hand. It’s a little more difficult since I’m right-handed. Seeing me struggle, LaTasha takes the brush from my hand and finishes the job for me. It’s not perfect and there are a few places where the polish gets on my skin, but I decide to embrace the imperfections.

“This is what we call a teachable moment, ladies,” Luna says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “She’s probably going to take it off as soon as she gets home.”

“No, I’m not,” I tell her.

Luna smirks as she holds her hand up to her face and pretends to talk into a phone. “Hello, nail lady,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “I’ve got me a nail emergency!”

The girls all laugh, except for Chelsea, who’s looking down at her rainbow nails with apprehension. I reach for my phone and carefully pick it up, handing it to Chelsea.

“Take a picture for me?” I ask. I position my hands artfully on the table, with my right hand on top of the left, so all ten nails are visible within the square frame.

“She’s not actually going to post it,” Luna says, watching with a critical stare. “It won’t go with her grid.”

I eye Luna, impressed and a little surprised that she seems to know what she’s talking about. Both the language and the strategy. It’s true the clashing, bright colors don’t match my carefully curated feed, and I’m not scheduled to post again until tomorrow—but screw it. This is more important. I want the girls to know I mean what I’m telling them. That life doesn’t have to be beautiful to be worthwhile.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to answer that damn “what’s your why” question on the Worthington application. Maybe my “why” is changing. Maybe I am, too.

•••

Three days later,I’m on the road to Destin, staring at my hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The nail polish colors are starting to grow on me, but I haven’t gotten any closer to figuring out my “why.” It feels like the right answer is hovering just below the surface, and all I have to do is dig deep. Which terrifies me.

I’m hoping something will come to me this week while I’m at the beach house. If not, I might have a bigger problem on my hands. The application is due in less than three weeks.

I’ve been binge-listening to influencer podcasts, trying to pick up any tips and tricks. They’ve had some good ideas, but I’m worried that everyone else is listening to the exact same advice, and I want to stand out, not blend in.

As soon as I get past the traffic on 75 South, I trade my driving playlist for a podcast calledCrushing Your Comfort Zonethat showed up on my “recommended” list.

“Hey, friends,” the woman says with a slight Southern drawl. “I hope y’all are having a good day today, wherever you are. And if you’re having a shitty day... well, I hope tomorrow is a little less shitty.”

She laughs, and I find myself smiling. I already like her.

“Today we’re talking about finding the right people for the message you’re putting out in the world. And before you go thinking about personality types and all that bullshit—important bullshit, but bullshit all the same—just hear me out.”

I lean in, curious to hear her philosophy. I don’t think it’ll help me with the application, but if my content’s going to evolve, I need my audience to shift, too.

Four hours and episodes later, my head is spinning in the best possible way. The podcaster, “Lou, short for Louise not Loser,”had a lot of insightful tips, not just for my brand, but for my life as well. The thing that stuck out the most was that every person walking the planet has an emotional wound they’re trying to heal.

The quest to become whole is the subtext for everything we do, buy, or try—and for me, as an influencer, it’s the best way to identify “my people.” The way she explained it didn’t sound opportunistic, more like she was pointing out the ways we could all help one another.

She gave several examples, including one of a woman who’d been the victim of a break-in. Her wound might be not feeling safe at home—a home security system or self-defense class might help, but so would a really plush couch or a puppy to make her feel safe and protected, a lighthearted movie or book to help put her at ease.

As I cross the Georgia-Florida line, I wonder what my wound is. I’m aware I’ve lived a privileged life—especially compared to the girls at the center. Even compared to Blake. There was no crime or tragedy in my life other than the obvious “my best friend is really my half sister” thing.

Sure, that’s a wound, but I realize for the first time that it wasn’t Blake’s betrayal that stung the most. If I’m being honest, she was just the one who was easier to blame. And if I’mreallybeing honest, things with my dad weren’t all that great before I knew Blake O’Neill existed.

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