Page 2 of Rough Daddy
A month ago, my plan was to reclaim my life. Post whatIwanted. Say things I wanted to say.
I was finally feeling like a woman instead of a product.
I’d turned the corner on official adulthood. I was going full-on Miley after Hannah.
"Are you sure about this? Really?" Kit asks, eyes soft. "Maybe you can talk to your mom—"
"I'm not going back," I snap.
My parents aren't parents. They're brand managers. They’re already trying to push my little brother into the same ring of fire.
The already crumbling empire that was Tessa Quinn has turned into a napalm dumpster fire, which only made them double down on pushing Ethan’s content as I imploded.
Only, with him. It’s a thousand times worse. They’re making him the poster child for a cute, teenage neurodivergent effigy. Flying his autism flag like it’s his best interests they have in mind. His coping skills are a fraction of mine, and look where I am.
Okay, so I got an OnlyFans account and posted a video of my new bathing suit. I showed a little skin.
I got in the pool at my house. Nary a nipple was in sight. I demonstrated no sex toys, no requests for used panties were fulfilled. It was just me, being me. Inmyhome. Sure, it wasn’t fuzzy slippers and sippy cups, although that might have earned me more money, but it wasn’t porn either.
God forbid the chubby-cheeked sweetheart of the internet grew up. I opened my mouth, spoke my truth, and the world shoved a ball gag in it.
As soon as I had my car packed and hit the freeway, I messaged our group chat, letting my friends know I was on thermal meltdown.
And, like the wagons circling the camp under attack, we picked a central point on my route and booked the best AirbnbColdwater, Michigan, had to offer. Which turned out to be a more than reasonable log cabin set back on twenty acres of pines with a pond as calm as Loch Ness.
Kit drove up from Cincinnati. Marla flew in from LA. Eliana drove from her new brand headquarters in Chicago.
But our little impromptu get-together is coming to an end. We've been in this booth for an hour, the period at the end of our little graveyard reunion before we all splinter back in four directions.
No cameras. No hashtags. Just the four of us and the wreckage of growing up as a child influencer.
Last night, they helped me cut and dye my hair. Kit picked the color at the local drugstore. Onyx black, of course.
Eliana held the towel. And Marla wielded the scissors like a weapon, turning my oh-so-Instagram-friendly highlighted blonde beach waves into goth princess meets Morticia Addams.
We laughed too hard and cried too much. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone new. Someone I might want to be.
None of us ask for a take-out box. We lay out far more cash on the table than Kit says is necessary, and head out the door into the late morning of nowhere, Michigan.
"Hey, should I take my Denali to the shop?" Kit asks, turning to me as we walk. “It shakes when I’m sitting at a stoplight.”
I’ve been told all my life that nobody wants to hear about engines and transmission ratios from a girl whose whole life revolves around a carefully-curated lifestyle image. But these three women know me better than anyone, and they know that if it’s engineering-related, I’ve probably read about it.
"It’s not going to blow up on you." I take in the clouds that look like white cotton candy. "But def take it in. It’s probably a worn spark plug or dirty throttle body."
“Damn, what I wouldn’t do for a dirty body throttle right now,” Marla snorts with a cock of her dark eyebrow, earning a giggle from all of us.
I stare at my Tesla. Why couldn’t my parents have gotten me something with an engine, instead of a brand deal?
The hug before we leave is long. Like we're trying to stitch ourselves back together with our arms.
Then I walk away, heels too high, back too straight. Into the fire I go.
Wildfire, that is.
Two
Tessa
