Page 69 of The Beach Trap

Even as a kid, I remember thinking I wasn’t good or smart enough for my dad. I always tried so hard to impress him, like when I joined the Future Business Leaders of America group freshman year in high school, even though I would have rather joined the yearbook committee. I was like a puppy, greedy for attention or praise. When it didn’t come—and it almost never did—my mom would try to make up for it with a trip to the mall.

No wonder I’ve spent my life trying to self-soothe with retail therapy. I learned from the best. Although, at the end of the day, I don’t think my mom is actually happy. And I know I’m not.

I think about all the things my parents bought me over the years, the things I’ve bought for myself. None of my “valuable” things really bring me joy.

The things that do make me happy aren’t the most fancy or expensive, but they have the most meaning. Like the throw pillow I made from one of my grandpa’s old sweaters, the brooch from my grandmother, the friendship bracelet from camp that I could never bring myself to throw away.

As I cross the Mid-Bay Bridge into Destin, I realize there’s a difference between being materialistic and finding meaning in certain objects—maybe that’s what my brand has been missing.

I’ve been focusing on the physical beauty of things—from makeup to clothes and, more recently, home décor—without acknowledging their emotional impact. Some things are beautiful because of the memories they hold from the past, or the way they make you feel.

In a way, I’ve already started incorporating that idea in my photos. And if the engagement on my multicolored mani post tells me anything, it’s that my followers connect with content that’s honest and real, even if it’s not classically beautiful.

That post was the first time that I’d mentioned volunteering because I didn’t want it to look like I was doing it for the likes—but I couldn’t explain the off-brand mani without saying what it was inspired by.

Pulling up in front of the beach house, I realize this is my most valuable possession. Not just for what it’s meant to me in the past, but for its future potential.

•••

Blake has madea lot of progress in the week since I’ve been gone. The floors seem to be finished, because the new furniture I got through sponsorships back in Atlanta is no longer hiding under sheets in the garage. It’s set up just the way I had pictured it, with the soft gray deep-set couch facing the wall, a matching love seat to its left, the driftwood coffee table in the middle, and a blue-and-white rug anchoring it all together.

I wonder if Blake’s mystery man-friend helped her carry it all inside. Or maybe Henry? I try to squash the flare of jealousy that comes with the thought of the two of them hanging out without me.

I know I have no right to be jealous—Henry and I are just friends—besides, I’m the one who introduced them for the benefit of the beach house. Which, from the looks of it, was clearly the right decision. Blake has said more than once that Henry’s been a lifesaver.

Looking around the transformed room, I’m grateful Blake was so adamant about moving forward with the renovation. There’s still work to do upstairs and with the exterior of the house, but the living room is a work of art. With its cozy, classic beachy vibe, it’s a far cry from the outdated, retro style it had before.

But it’s not just the look of the room that I appreciate, or the fact that the house will be worth more thanks to the updates. What I love about this room is that it feels like a comfortable place where I can see myself spending time, a place to create new memories, not just reflect on the old ones.

For the first time in weeks, I’m feeling hopeful and dare I say confident about the Worthington application. I think this new worldview might be the thing to set me apart. Not to mention, itfeels more authentically me. And Rachel Worthington is all about authenticity.

Walking into the kitchen, I notice the sea-glass backsplash I picked out is up, too. And just like I thought it would, the color perfectly complements the emerald-green Gulf water right outside the window.

As I run my hand along the counter, a sense of sadness comes over me. For the life of me, I can’t put my finger on what could possibly be missing from this moment. The construction tools and gadgets are no longer strewn in piles around the room, but I certainly don’t miss the clutter.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and the noise that’s supposed to be “silent” seems loud in the still room. Maybe that’s what feels so off. This beach house wasn’t meant to be a solitary escape for one. It was made for family and friends to enjoy together.

Like last week. Having Henry and Sunny around filled the house with so much energy and laughter and noise. I realize that’s what’s missing. It had even been nice having Blake around—we’d started to get somewhere after the whole dog incident, until I opened my big, dumb mouth.

I didn’t realize how insensitive my comment about Blake not missing out on much had been until I heard that podcast earlier today. When I started to imagine what Blake’s wound might be, I thought for the first time about her experience. She didn’t just miss out on having my dad in her life—she had to live with the knowledge that he’d abandoned her. I can’t believe he walked away from his nine-year-old daughter who had just lost her mother.

Every time I’ve thought back to that summer over the last fifteen years, I’ve seen it from my perspective. I hadn’t thoughtabout it from Blake’s point of view, having her father look her in the face, then drive away—never to reach out to her again. All these years, I’ve been holding on to my own hurt, never stopping to consider that she was hurting, too.

I feel a desperate need to connect with Blake and let her know I understand. While we both lost the same person, our experience was deeply different. But maybe our loss can be a common ground. I reach for my phone and open our text thread.

I look through the messages between us; the brief back-and-forth reads like a conversation between strangers. Almost every message is about the house, updates on the progress, lists of things to buy, questions about decisions that have to be made, and the occasional message that Henry asked either me or Blake to pass along to the other—even though he has both our phone numbers. The man has not been subtle in his attempts to speed up our reconciliation. But some things can’t be rushed.

I stare down at the screen, the blank message field practically daring me to make a move. Maybe it’s been long enough. And the house really is too quiet.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out a quick message and hit send.

Kat:Hey! Just got to the house, the kitchen looks soooo good! Was thinking about testing it out tonight, free for dinner?

The three dots appear and I hold my breath, hoping that I didn’t misread the moment between us on the Fourth of July. She might have been thinking about the holiday as a brief cease-fire like I originally had. If she says no...

Blake:Sure, that sounds great

The message appears and I exhale, relieved and looking forward to what I hope will be a fun night, maybe even a memory in the making.

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