Her makeup brush clatters onto the counter and I get the impression she doesn’t like my answer. “Remember, we’re light and breezy tonight, like nothing happened. They’ll ask questions which we can give vague answers to, or ignore. Just don’t give them too much. You need to keep the mystery right now to hold their interest.”
So I’m dressed like sewer trash, and I need to be vague because otherwise I’m uninteresting? Check.
“Got it.” I smooth down Sunny’s skirt. “I really don’t want to talk about Miles tonight, okay? I’m not ready to unpack that off-the-cuff in front of thousands of people.”
“Of course, of course,” she says a little too casually. That was too easy.
“We have one minute.” Ashley’s looking down at her phone.
My mother and I sit next to each other on the plush couch. She has notes on the coffee table in front of us that list things we can’t forget to talk about, like product mentions, shout outs, and discount codes. Legs crossed, hands on knees, smiles in place. My heart is racing. I smooth down my skirt with cold hands.I’ve done this hundreds of times. I can do this.
“Ready, y’all?” Ashley asks my mother.
I’m going to lose my dinner.
My mother nods and our faces fill the screen. We’re live.I breathe in deep through my nose for ten counts as my mother talks to the camera. Within seconds, thousands of comments and emoji reactions fly across the screen. I have a secret plan to let my mother keep track of those and respond to them. I’ve fallen off my horse andI’m letting her do all the heavy lifting as I jump back on again. I breathe in and count to ten, and exhale slowly.I’ve got this.
And now Joe’s voice is in my head:None of it is real.
My mother’s long fingernails stab into my leg beneath the view of the camera. I’m sitting here like a cardboard cutout. I need to engage, but I’m frozen.What did my mother just say?
“Huh?” I smile blankly and add, “What did you say?”
“Sorry, everyone. Looks like Indigo is buffering!” Her laugh is hollow and her nails poke deeper. “I said, everyone wants an update on you and Miles.”
I register my face on the screen like I’m watching someone else’s reaction: Her mouth hangs open then slams shut into a frown. Her watery eyes pull together. Mid-level betrayal—that’s what the woman under the frosting makeup on the screen is feeling.
“I don’t want to talk about Miles tonight.” My voice is robotic.
Now the comments and reactions are flying, but I refuse to look. I try hard not to look, anyway. Lucky for me they’re almost too fast to follow. Almost. I catch one.
It says, “Miles was at Seventy-seven this week with someone else!!!” Seventy-seven is exactly the kind of loud, meat market club that I don’t enjoy. It’s also Miles’ favorite spot, so this information tracks.
I feel a glimmer of relief. I hope it’s true and that he’s moving on. That comment gives me the tiny shot of confidence I need to open up about this. I straighten up. “Actually, I’ll say this: Miles and I broke up. I don’t want to talk about it tonight, but yeah.” Phew. It’s out.
Comments and reactions flood the screen. I let my eyes glaze over so I can’t see any words.Focus on the camera. Don’t look down.
My mother jumps in, “Yes, Indigo has requested that her relationship with Miles remain private for the time being. Sorry, but we won’t be answering questions on that topic!”
The cheer in her voice is nauseating. I want to correct her and shout “There is no relationship! It’s over! Let's never talk about it again!” but I accidentally see a comment that lands in the middle of my gut like a punch.
Username “MilesHighClub” says, “She obvs found out he’s the stalker photog.” There’s a yoga emoji tacked on to the end for those who need clarification.
I silently translate the comment into English.Is Miles my stalker photographer? Wouldhehave taken that picture in my parents’ backyard?
There’s no way. He has nothing to gain from my humiliation. Having a girlfriend in mental breakdown mode does nothing for him. And how would some random person watching this live know that? It’s just someone trying to get me to lash out. Sometimes people do that. I’ve gotten good at spotting and blocking the trolls, but I’m rusty and feeling thin-skinned. I can’t believe I agreed to this.
But now the commenters are starting to dogpile, and it’s hard to miss with so many of their caps lock buttons stuck on. They all say a different version of the same thing: Miles is my stalker photographer. I know it’s not true, but my stomach is rolling. Heart pounding. Instant pain behind my eyes.Why didn’t I eat more at dinner?I’m so hungry I feel sick.
My mother fidgets in her seat; there’s no way she isn’t seeing this. She’s dropping hints about our top secret Skinnybee project, trying to redirect their attention, but it’s not working. The next comment that catches my eye starts with: “She’s so nasty, all he did was turn off the filters and she delivered his worst content yet.” This has me jumping out of my seat and running to the bathroom. I’m going to be sick.
As I lean over the toilet, the words I just read flash through my mind. They called me so much more than nasty, and it was laced with profanity and words I would never use to describe anotherhuman being. And in the end they called me an ugly sea witch. Not even a standard sea witch. An ugly one. I retch into the toilet, leaning into my new role of Ugly Sea Witch.
“Don't forget to use the code FOX10 for ten percent off,” my mother’s syrupy voice says as I rinse my mouth under the bathroom faucet. I only hope that the computer microphone is too weak to pick up the sounds that came from this bathroom only moments ago. I’m glad she’s holding it together for us, I guess.
I can’t go back out there. I lower the lid on the toilet and sit with my elbows on my knees and my face buried in my hands. A hundred thoughts circle my mind like a flock of vultures over the carcass of my life:Did Miles take that picture? Why doesn’t my mother care? Why didn’t she shut that down? Why did I ever agree to any of this? I am failing again.I unroll a bunch of toilet paper and blow my nose. I’m sure everyone heard that as well. Lovely.
I have to get out of here. I crack open the bathroom door and see that my mother is still wrapped up in the computer screen and gives no indication that she notices me. Ashley is hovering behind the computer like she does and only offers a pitying look. I swipe my phone off of the table and creep back into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I open my text thread with Joe, which has been pretty sparse until now:
