Page 4 of Undisputed Chaos
The lie was easy, comfortable. No need to tell her I'd spent forty minutes choosing the right combination of pieces that would photograph well but still look effortless.
"It's very cute." Her eyes caught on my wrist. "Is that paint? Use the bathroom sink, please. The hand towels in the kitchen are new."
I bit back a smile at Crew's knowing look as he trudged upstairs. Some things never changed, no matter how old we got.
Dad abandoned his sauce to wrap me in a bear hug, his tall frame dwarfing mine. "There's my girl. How's the painting coming along?"
"Good. I'm finishing a skyline one tomorrow."
I’d gotten my painting skills from him.
"That's my little Picasso." He ruffled my hair, undoing the careful styling I'd spent extra time on earlier. I didn't mind since I wasn’t going anywhere.
"How's the internet treating you? Still getting paid to be pretty?"
It was his running joke about my social media career, one that had evolved from genuine confusion to teasing.
He still didn't quite understand how I made a living from posting videos of myself trying on clothes or painting my nails, but he'd stopped suggesting I apply for "real jobs" about a year ago when my bank account had proven the viability of my chosen path.
"The internet likes me," I smiled, moving to the bathroom to scrub the paint from my wrist.
"I'm also getting paid to be artistic, thank you very much."
Dinner was a noisy affair, as it always was with my family.
Crew dominated the conversation with soccer tales, Mom fretted about Dad's cholesterol despite serving him seconds of cheese-laden pasta and meatballs, and Dad tried to convince us all to join him for a weekend fishing trip that we tried to make excuses for.
I soaked it all in; the comfort of family was so different from the curated quiet of my apartment.
"How's the love life, Isla?" Mom asked during a lull in Crew's monologue about penalty kicks. "Any nice boys sliding into your—what do you call it? DMs?"
Crew snorted into his water glass. "Mom, please never say that again."
I ignored him, focusing on twirling pasta around my fork. "No one special."
Another comfortable half-lie. Plenty of men were in my messages, but most were interested in the filtered, perfectly lit version of me that existed online.
The version that never had paint on her wrists or revealed her secrets that would scar them.
"Well, you know my friend’s son just moved back after finishing his master’s..." Mom began, the familiar start to a setup attempt.
"Mom, please," I groaned. "Not tonight."
She held up her hands in surrender, but I could see the gleam in her eye that promised this wouldn't be the last I heard of her friend’s son and his degree.
Later, I drove home with a container of leftover food and a promise to come over more often.
I thought about the version of me that existed in other people's minds. To my followers, I was a dreamy, aesthetic girl who lived in pastels and perfect lighting.
To my parents, I was still their little girl, needing guidance. To Crew, I was his sometimes annoying, sometimes cool older sister who bought him good presents.
None of them saw all of me, the full picture with its shadows and highlights alike.
Sometimes I wondered if anyone ever would, or if I'd spend my life being different, fragmented versions of myself depending on who was looking.
The thought followed me up the stairs to my apartment, lingering as I carefully hung up my outfit and washed my face clean of the makeup I'd applied for my video.
In the mirror, bare-faced and in my oversized sleep shirt, I looked softer somehow without the careful contours I'd mastered for the camera.
