Page 4 of Love, Morgan

I’d posted that first video—carefully wrapping a gift with a pocket for a card and a coordinating bow—as dawn broke and I hadn’t slept, and I’d left it there for months. I didn’t mention it to anyone, I didn’t look at it myself, and I didn’t imagine it was doing anything other than languishing in the forgotten pits of YouTube.

Then, I’d gone to work one morning—a sad, soul-sucking job as a receptionist at a company I’d come to hate in the short time I was there—and one of my colleagues had come over to ask me whether a video they’d seen doing the rounds on social media was me. As they’d pulled the clip up, turning up their volume frighteningly high, I’d felt all of the blood drain from my body.

It had never occurred to me that people in my real life might come across it.

It had never occurred to me thatanyonewould come across it.

But there it was. Doing the rounds, getting the views, the followers, and the comments—not all of them nice, but all of them driving engagement.

“Uh, yeah,” I’d mumbled as I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

I hated attention like that. Now that I was years into being a YouTuber, I still wasn’t sure I liked attention. I’d gotten used to pretending the comments were about someone else. I was their secretary when I engaged with the fans. I lived inside of a persona, and that was the person in the videos—the other person. They were the one answering fans and haters. When I’d somehow, ridiculously, expanded into live events, I shut my anxious, nervous part inside, and put on the show. I put on the person from online. I wasn’tIonain those moments. I gave it as my name during introductions, but I wasThe Pretty Gift. And, any time I could get away with introducing myself as simply that, I would.

I was fairly certain some newer fans didn’t even know my real name. There was something comforting in that.

But, from the beginning—from the moment people in my real life began finding out what I’d done, and it started to become what Ido, I knew it was a gift. No more dead-end jobs. No more scrimping and saving and struggling to get by. No more wondering how I was going to pay my student loans. Now, I had income and stability, and, while I doubted it was going to be feasible forever, it was more than I’d ever dreamed of for now. So, I put parts of myself away, let the gentle folds of the paper soothe me, and I was The Pretty Gift.

The rest, as they say, is history. Only this time, it was my history, and I was proud of it, especially when I came home.

I never wanted to forget those early days when I’d been burning the candle at both ends—filming, editing, and uploading content shot in my dad’s basement, where I was temporarily living again, and keeping up that receptionist job in the day. I’d slept in my single, childhood bed, for a few hours each night, I’d eaten meals with my dad, and felt like a child again, but it had been nice. He and the house had been my respite away from the chaos and grind.

And now, it was the place I escaped from my own home. It was the place I got to just be me.

I wasn’t famous enough to get spotted in the street—it had happened a couple of times, but I wasn’t the kind of famous that changed your life. But, my own apartment was filled with cameras and filming equipment, boxes from companies making sponsorship deals, and so much wrapping paper it looked like I lived in a stationery store. Though, I wasn’t upset about that part at all. I’d always loved stationery stores.

But I loved this quiet home too. The curved, brick walkway that led up to the door always made me feel like Dorothy inThe Wizard of Oz. This was my yellow brick road home—except it wasn’t yellow, but that didn’t matter. Yellow was a state of mind.

The wildflower garden that grew either side of it, and the thatched-roof cottage façade of the house looked every bit like they’d strolled in from a fairytale or fantasy film. The whole thing was just comforting. It was home and I was safe. I wasme.

“Hey, Dad,” I called as I let myself in.

A twenty-pound ball of fluff skittered across the terracotta-tiled hallway and hurled itself at my legs. I laughed, bending down to pick it up, as my dad appeared at the kitchen door.

“Hello, Speckle,” he said, his voice warm as he grinned.

My dad was one of the most genuine people I’d ever met. Salt-and-pepper hair, an easy smile, and the kind of relaxed openness that put people at ease. Rhodri Engle was, I felt convinced, the antidote to everything wrong in life. When the stress or anxiety became too much, I came here, and a smile, a hug, and a fresh-baked cookie later, everything felt a little more manageable.

He was a good one. And I was a lucky one.

“Cerberus,” he chided the tiny dog in my arms as I wandered into the kitchen, “you’re getting the lady covered in fur. Where are your manners?”

Cerberus—a name that never failed to amuse me on a tiny little fluff ball—wriggled delightedly in my arms, undoubtedly shedding more fur on me, and demonstrating how unconcerned he was with such things.

I laughed and cuddled him tight before greeting my dad in a one-armed hug, Cerberus wiggling between us.

“All packed and ready to go?” Dad asked, directing me to a seat.

“Yeah. I think so. My suitcase is in the car. I need my hat from the closet in my room, but, otherwise, I think I’m good to go.”

He looked at me as he stirred the soup he was cooking. I could tell from his expression that he heard the hesitation in my tone. I wished I’d done a better job hiding it. Who got reluctant to take a vacation? Most people I knew were chomping at the bit to get away from it all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gentle as ever.

I let out a heavy breath. “I’m just… nervous I guess. I haven’t taken a vacation since I started the channel, you know? I don’t think I even know how tonotcheck emails and messages and notifications for two weeks. What if something goes wrong? What if someone breaks into my apartment and steals all my stuff? What if I end up on the wrong plane and can’t get out of wherever I end up?”

He breathed a gentle laugh, moving to put a hand on my shoulder. “You haven’t taken a proper break in years, some anxiety and anticipation is inevitable, but, I promise, your business is still going to be there when you get back. And so is your apartment. I’m going to check it frequently, your neighbors are going to keep an eye out, and, if anything happens, the alarm company will be in touch. Everything’s going to be great. You need and deserve a break.”

I chewed my lip, hoping he was right. “And what about the plane?”

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