Page 4 of Love at First Sighting
Two months ago, Becca was trying to break into the young Christian mom influencer circles for some reason. But on account of having no kids and claiming no particular religion, it didn’t go so well. So, she did what any wealthy influencer does when they’re in a crisis, and went to Europe. She hopped on a plane to London and came back with a new brand and the most horrifically fake British accent I have ever heard, and insisted she was no longer Becca, but Bex.
Apparently, a few weeks experiencing another culture shifted her entire perspective, and her time in the UK made her feel seen. Adopting the accent was inevitable when she heard it nonstop for three weeks. She’s currently clad in a checkered skirt, a pair of Oxford shoes, and a Union Jack croptop and smells like her new signature scent. It smells like Earl Grey tea, so I can’t complain, but she insists we call the tea “cuppa,” which I’d rather get canceled on the internet than do. Time has yet to tell if the British gimmick is actually working for her.
If I had to pick two roommates to bring to Houdini House with me, I would take Lea twice just so I didn’t have to take Bex.
“We gotta ’ave a chat.”
“Right now?” I try to hide the fact that my hands are still shaking.
“What the bloody hell isthis?” Bex raises her phone, showing the glaring black void of my shared live video.
“Did you watch it?”
“Offookincourse I did. So did ’alf a million people. And ’alf a million people watched you throw a wobbly on the telly—”
“It was Instagram.”
“You know what I mean.” Bex’s overplucked eyebrows raise. I know her goal is to be as British as possible, but day by day, she’s morphing into a sixth Spice Girl named Desperate Spice. “If we’re going to keep sponsorships comin’ out our arse, we can’t have you acting off your trolley.”
I bite my lip. “Pretty sure that’s still ableist even if you say it as British slang.”
“You’re right, sorry. I can’t do two Notes app apologies in a month. But your profile looks like shite now. Are you eventhinkin’about your brand? You’re putting all our reputations on the line.”
I can’tstopthinking about my brand and all the ways I’m tarnishing it. I’m breaking my own content rules, breaking the laws of Influencerdom. This feels different from any of myother vulnerable posts. For a girl with a picture-perfect life, I can’t let people know it’s not. I can offer mild candid shots on a few select topics and reveal I get periods (only if I’m selling expensive au naturel menstrual products). I have to confess my hair gets greasy in order to sell shampoo. I post one makeup-less photo a month to prove I do have a face under all the sponsored foundations and blushes.
But I want everyone to see what happened tonight. I want them to see it more than my yoga pants photos or anything I’ve ever posted before.
None of this is smart. But it’s the first real thing to happen to me in years.
“No,” I push back. “I was trying to make sure that if Idied, someone knew about it.”
“Okay, well, you’re safe now, love. Delete it.”
Anger furls in my stomach. I don’twantto delete it.
“No. If you don’t mind, get out of my way. I want to go upstairs and shower.”
I push past her and up the stairs. I lock my bedroom door and strip out of my athleisure. When I turn on the shower, the faucet vibrates and lets out a bellowing moan. I slam it off before it can make any more noise. I live it all over again. The noise. The lights.
I sit down on the cold tile for a minute and watch the video again. And again. Each time, I think I pull some new detail out of the darkness. And the comments keep piling up. I can already envision the headlines that’ll emerge out of this by morning. Within hours, my mom will have seen it and asked if it’ll impact my finances. By the time I finally muster the courage to shower, I’ve hit another fifty thousand views. I try to scrub off my fear with several freebie shower gels I’ve beengiven, customized shampoo I promoted six months ago, and a loofah infused with Icelandic volcanic ash and charcoal.
My entire life is a facade of my own crafting. No one really knows me. No one really knows the truth.
Now I need them to.
I’ve wrapped a towel around myself and stepped back into my room when there’s a knock on my door. I stand on the other side of it but do not open it.
“What?”
“Thank you!” Bex shouts.
“Forwhat?”
“For deleting the video!”
Deleting…I didn’t…
All it takes is a quick scroll through my page to realize my live video is gone. There’s no notification of it being taken down for violating guidelines or anything. It’s like it was never there.
