Page 1 of Acquiring Ainsley
When you’re twenty-seven, life centers on three major things: who’s getting engaged, who has a decent job, and who’s picking up the tab during happy hour on a Thursday night. Everyone I know is like that. Everyone. Life gets measured in little victories, and the competition is constant—and an endless little marathon about things like whose vacation looked better on Instagram, and how many people bothered to wish you a happy birthday. And if you’re lucky, when you’re twenty-seven, you get to enjoy the prime of your life. You don’t have to work too hard to make it appear easy.
At least, I didn’t.
Some people might say that I won the birth lottery, and that meant my life wasn’t hard. Or, rather, it meant people’sperceptionof my life was that it wasn’t hard. They had no idea how much I worked to keep up appearances. In the last few years, social media maintenance had become a full-time job of its own. Hours spent planning photo shoots and coordinating outfits. Stolen moments scouring other accounts. Posing practice every day in front of the full-length mirror across from my bed.
And on… and on…
“Ainsley, seriously, you have to upload that one onto Instagram. It’s perfect,” laughed Brooke, my closest friend, just before she downed the last of her vodka and soda. Brooke almost never drank anything with more than a hundred calories in it, but on that night, she’d allowed herself three cocktails instead of her usual one. I smelled the alcohol on her breath and heard the slur of it as she drew out the last syllable in the word “perfect.” She grinned at me. “I freaking love it.”
“You’re right. We finally took a decent selfie. After no less than a thousand takes.”
I punched a few buttons on my phone and uploaded the latest photo, which showed us seated against the tall back of a large velvet couch, drinks in hand, smiles plastered on our still Botox-free faces. We could have been twins, and that had been by design—both of us wore tight, black dresses with gold jewelry strategically placed to show off our natural cleavage, and each of us had styled our blonde tresses in loose, flowing curls. “That’s going to get atonof likes.”
“I hope so.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to likes and love this new year.”
I clinked her glass with mine. “Pfft.” I flashed her a quick smile—one where I intended the compressed curve of my lips and narrowing of my eyes to reveal the skepticism that gnawed at my ego. “Youmight find love, but I doubt I will.”
“Anything could happen. We’re only three weeks into January.” She sipped her drink, then pouted at me over the rim of her glass. “So, don’t be so pessimistic already.”
“I’m not. Just realistic.” I unlocked my phone and scanned through Instagram. Just in the last few minutes, more than forty-five people had liked the photo of us. Excellent. “It’s one of our best photos. Seriously, look at this.” I flipped the screen in her direction.
Brooke nodded in approval. “You’re right. We’ll easily get a hundred fifty likes. Especially on your account.”
“Hopefully more than that. I think my best was almost 450.” I locked the phone, placed it on the low table in front of us, and turned my attention back to my friend. “And by the way, thank goodness you aren’t doing a ‘dry January’ like everyone else we know in Palm Beach and New York City. It always takes the fun out of happy hours during this time of year.”
“I know.”Brooke eyed her phone. “I can’t imagine how anyone can live without champagne. Hmm… maybe I should upload a different version of that photo to my account.”
“Do it. Why not?”
Just like me, Brooke tracked her Instagram following the way some people tracked stock prices and IPOs. She had 7,345 followers. I had 15,435. But, of course, I had the bigger name, and that alone gave me the upper hand. Because I was a Ross, I had more social credit, and that came with better invites to parties and more exclusive events. Also, I had a knack for taking just the right photos. Angles counted for everything in the Instagram game.
“Are we done here?” I asked a few minutes later, after I finished my final drink. When Brooke nodded, I signaled for the waitress. She dropped a leather-encased check off, and I slipped my AmEx Platinum inside the front cover without even a glance at the bill. “It’s on me,” I told Brooke. “You’re the one who had a shitty week.”
“You don’t have to.” Brooke reached for her blue clutch, and her sculpted nails caught on the long rows of fringe that rimmed the top. “I can—”
I closed my hand over hers before she could dig out her wallet. “No, you’re not paying for this. Let me get it,” I insisted, and gave the check to the waitress when she passed by again. “Besides, what are friends for?”
I hadn’t glanced at the price of the drinks. The AmEx had a $35,000 limit, and I hadn’t come close to touching that number. Four rounds at Bar 365 in downtown West Palm Beach wouldn’t cost much of anything.
“I’m so glad we did this.” Brooke placed her purse in her lap and gave me an easy grin. “I mean, I have the boss from hell, and this week was the worst.”
“I don’t know how you keep working there.”
“Hopefully, not for long.”
“If I had a boss who threw things—” I cleared my throat. I didn’t have a boss. In fact, I didn’t have a job. Well, not a job that people would consider a “real” one. I had a line of scarves “in development” and a book about entertaining for millennials “in the works.” One more major difference between Brooke and me. The Rosses didn’t work.
We lived.
Lately, though, I’d started to wonder if that wasn’t enough—if I needed to do something more meaningful. Maybe I could take on a larger role at Ross Publishing, the family business; I had a job there if I wanted one. If. When. Whatever. That would mean a move back to New York, and I considered Palm Beach my home now, not The Big Apple.
I also had a secret project down here that I hadn’t told anyone about, not even Brooke. For the last few years, I’d been skimming money off the top of my monthly trust-fund distribution checks just so that I could fund it and leaving town might mean giving it up before it really flourished. But even if that did well, I didn’t plan on revealing it to anyone else. Some things were better left in the background of life, and that counted as one.
“You could come work for me,” I said, halfway joking. “I could make you my personal assistant.”
Brooke folded her arms. “You can’t afford me.”
“You don’t know that.” I shrugged. “Besides, I’m building a decent amount of buzz for this fall’s launch. I wasn’t going to share this because it’s not official, but,Palm Beach Todaycalled this morning. They want to feature me.”
