Page 55 of Omega Artist
Thoughtful, my index finger approaches my mouth to bite the corner of my nail, but I stop myself right before I ruin my expensive manicure. While the fabricated life comment irks me, there’s not a trace of judgment in her cheerful voice, and she’s right. Alie G has never been anything but healthy, addicted to fitness, and a meditation guru. Alie G is an influencer, not a student forced to put her education on hold due to a lump in her breast. Alie G doesn’t need actual friends or family, because she has tons of virtual followers. She’s ageless and... fabricated.
I shrug, thinking that Tig’s online persona doesn’t match what I’ve witnessed from him so far. Unless it’s the other way around. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
“You know, social media’s my part-time job.”
“Oh, really? Please, do tell…” She waits, nursing her beer.
“I’m on sabbatical and getting more sponsors than ever.” I retrieve my phone from my purse and show Eileen my numerous accounts, concentrating on the Instagram and YouTube ones that I’m particularly proud of.
She glances at the videos. “Oh, female empowerment. I dig that, too!”
“Yup, that’s one of the messages I preach. I’m all for equity between men and women.” Yes, I’m bragging, but I’m proud of my achievements. Potential sponsors offer me a fair amount of money to advertise their products. However, I only accept those that I truly believe in, and partnerships are always mentioned so that I don’t cheat.
“Nice,” my unlikely friend approves.
“Most of all, I’m trying to help people live a healthier lifestyle.” I scroll down to my latest videos. “I mean, I offer fitness advice, have friends demonstrate, give nutritional info… I’m a certified fitness nutrition specialist!”
“Wow, you’re incredibly driven for a girl your age,” she encourages. Her linking my aspirations to my youth doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen countless adults lacking motivation.
Deep down, I’m well aware of what fuels my ambition. My family’s privileged pedigree. My mother’s painful death. My father’s endless expectations. My shoulders slump, and my right foot kicks the chair next to Eileen.
“Alie, what’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
I ignore her worried expression and carry on with my explanation. “The idea is to provide tools to prevent some…” I struggle to find the right words and run my fingers along the arm of the chair. “Some illnesses or reduce some risks… It doesn’t have to do with weight; it has everything to do with—” I abruptly stop, swallowing the painful memories related to my mom’s health issues in addition to my own. I hate being weak and vulnerable, so I scan my surroundings in haste. It’s mid-afternoon, and the place is pretty empty. Thankfully, there are no patrons nearby to eavesdrop. My shoulders crumple, and my kicking accelerates… I didn’t expect it to affect me so much. Fuck!
Eileen’s pointer finger lifts my chin again. We stare at each other wordlessly for what seems like hours.
“That bad, huh?” Her thumb reaches for my cheek, and I realize that silent tears ruined my light makeup. Tears that I couldn’t allow myself to shed when my mom died, when Catherine left, or when I got sick. Tears that I wished nobody would ever witness. Tears that I buried so deep that I forgot they were waiting for the right moment to well up. I’m so caught-up in my pity party that I barely hear the scraping noise of Eileen’s chair. I barely register that she’s moved next to me. I barely notice her arm hugging me. “Ohhh, child. Whatever happened to you, my only advice is for you to let it out. Keeping it bottled up will make it worse. Trust me, I speak from experience.”
Her words move me to welcome her comforting hug. Her words move me to embrace her motherly presence. Her words move me to take advantage of the support she’s offering. My tears swell into nonstop sobs until my eyes are so dry, they itch.
“Here.” I thank her for the tissue that she produces to blow my stuffy nose.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never…” And now that I can breathe, hiccups start. Today’s not my day! My dad wouldn’t be proud, I’m sure. My misery makes me giggle, but she doesn’t join in.
She juts her chin towards a tall glass of water that magically appeared during my breakdown. “Drink this. Then I suggest that now that the tears are out, you let the words do the same. I guarantee you’ll feel better afterwards.” She rubs my back for a while, waiting for the hiccupping to cease.
Grabbing the glass, I guzzle it, then lean my head on her shoulder while working on my breathing. Once I’ve regained my composure, I follow her advice and spit some of my story out… Intimate details about how cancer affected my family and how, years later, I was diagnosed. I’ll be honest, talking about what my mom and I have been through is liberating. The entire time, she listens quietly, only interrupting to move the conversation forward and encourage my confession.
I heave a sigh when I’m finally done and she releases me from her embrace and suddenly asks, “Have you ever tried yoga? I’m sure it would do you good.”
“I’ve tried a couple of times on my own, but the group thing doesn’t do it for me.”
“Is that because you’re afraid to lose some of your precious control in front of an audience?”
I laugh at her accurate assumption. “On the nose!”
“Oh, that reminds me of something!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “Have you ever tried goat yoga? It’s a big thing now.”
“Goat yoga? Are you serious?”
“Indeed. You should definitely check it out. They have retreats and everything… It’s a fun way to practice yoga and might help you take the edge off.”
“Okay, I’ll Google it.”
“Now,” she starts with a broad smile as she scoots back in her seat, her hand firmly grasping mine, “let’s get back to the romance. The moment I mentioned your online man, you moved on to your social media skills. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fascinating, but let’s talk about sex, shall we?”
I’m no prude by any means, but my face turns beet red at her blunt suggestion. “Excuse me?”
