Page 17 of Ripped & Shipped
Yes. I’ve got eight hours to kill until we meet at Frisch’s Big Boy. But that’s not idle time, I’m going to the salon for a style, then I’ll take my time getting dressed and doing my makeup. After an afternoon green drink, I’ll recite my affirmations, answer comments, and finally, I’ll hit the road with time to spare. My drive to Columbus should take under an hour.
Meg walks up to the kitchen entryway and pauses. She’s dressed for work, looking very professional. Sometimes her traditional line of work, being all nine-to-five, makes me feel like an imposter. But truthfully, we both know I work loads harder than she does. My job as an influencer has no schedule or guaranteed paycheck, so I have to bust my chops far more diligently than she does in so many ways.
Meg mouths, “Is it safe?” to me.
She’s asking if I’m filming. And yes, living with me means you can’t just stroll through the house in your skivvies. You never know when I’ve got a camera on. Meg’s used to our home being the backdrop to my social media presence.
“Coast is clear,” I say, lifting my green drink in a mock toast.
“You’re going to turn green,” Meg jokes.
“I’m only drinking these until tonight when I let loose and eat whatever the followers have chosen for me and Drake. Then I’ll have another green day. After that, you and I are going to celebrate by eating out wherever we like Friday night. My treat!”
“We already had steak and potatoes to celebrate.”
“True. But that was to celebrate me getting invited to do the collab. This is to celebrate us actually filming the first segment.”
“You won’t find me complaining about celebrating your successes anytime soon. But Friday I’m going out with Joe. He said he’s got a surprise for me. I’ll have to take a raincheck. How about Saturday?”
I try not to let my disappointment show. Of course she has a date with Joe—which she deserves and should go on, it just means I’ll be home alone, trying to forget my singleness instead of celebrating with my bestie. I could always pop in on Mom. But more than likely, I ought not take that gamble on a night when I want to feel positive.
“Is it weird that I don’t even know Drake’s last name? I don’t even have his phone number. I’m not sure where he exactly lives in California, except that he’s in Malibu. But I’ve got the confirmation message about this evening from his assistant, Genesis. And he’s been posting on his feed daily about the throwback collabs he’s got planned—including this kick-off to the series with me. So everything’s good, right?”
“It’s a little weird,” Meg agrees. “But this is your world. No one knows anyone else’s last name. And yet, you all seem to connect somehow.”
“You’re right. I just don’t know how I’d reach him if something were to happen. Like, what if I get a flat tire, or get stuck behind an Amish cart somewhere between here and Columbus?”
“Why don’t you message him your number.”
“Hmmm.”
I consider the option. Do I want Drake to have my number? He did invite me to his party in California. Our worlds are going to overlap more completely soon enough. What’s so different between him reaching me through social media and him having my phone number? It’s not like he’s a stalker. He’s DrakesDaMan. If anyone would be considered a stalker in this scenario, it would be me. Besides, it would kind of be cool knowing my number in his phone.
“Yeah. I’ll do that,” I tell Meg.
I pluck my cell out of the tripod on the counter and type a quick message to Genesis and Drake leaving them my number in case they need to reach me for the collab. Genesis answers almost immediately, thanking me.
Drake has been a little quiet this past week. In fact, I haven’t heard from him since the day we connected to confirm everything. But he’s a busy guy, and he told me he’s here in Ohio to catch up with his family. I can’t expect him to stop everything just to reach out to me. This is business. Besides, he’s never met me. I make a good impression—memorable and unique—in person. After we meet, he’ll probably interact with me more.
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Meg says.
“Which look?”
“The one where you’re worrying, but you don’t want to tell anyone you’re worrying, so you hide the expression as soon as I call you out on it.”
I don’t answer her.
“Don’t fret,” Meg says. “I’m not going to force you to admit you’re nervous about tonight. I’m just going to remind you that you’re awesome. The whole world outside Bordeaux knows it too.”
“Not the whole world.”
“Whatever. Details. Eight million people know. And more than that, if you do the math.”
I’m sure she’s doing the math.
“You’ve got to figure for every follower, there are one or two people who know about you, but don’t follow you. You’ve got eight million followers, so probably at least twenty million people are very aware of who you are. And even more know of you in some vague way. It’s just statistics. And, after tonight, more than fifty million will know about you—-just because you ate dinner with Drake.”
“No one would ever guess you’re a math nerd.”
