But I look around my little empty condo and remind myself that this is my life. Smog, launch parties, and traffic, with my parents a short drive away. I’m wearing a cute jumper and sandals that I would never wear in the desert sand because they cost more than The Hulk is worth. Per my mother’s orders, I’ll eat nothing but salads and lean protein to counteract the damage I did on vacation. In an hour or so I’ll show up at her house ready to smile for the camera. We’ll try on dresses to wear to the launch party and crowdsource our choices. And in a few days we’ll attend a launch party where we’ll pose for pictures and act like my meltdown never happened. This is my life. I can do this.
I climbinto the black SUV my mother ordered to drive us to the beach property where the Skinnybee launch party is happening. I have to move carefully so I don’t bust out of my tight dress like the dough from a tube of refrigerated biscuits. My mother had insisted that I ride with her so we’ll arrive together, and her assistant is ahead of us in The Hulk. I snicker when I picture Ashley navigating I-5 behind the wheel of that rig.
“Oh! That cut is so good on you!” My mother is piling on the praise because she knows I don’t love the dress that thousands of our followers chose after multiple rounds of voting.
The dress isn’t all bad. I couldn’t love the bright pink color more—in fact, after posting a sneak peek of the hot pink workout set that my mother hated, thousands of positive comments came in. The people love Indigo in pink. I want to cry when I think about it because wearing pink reminds me of Joe, plus there’s the whole tube of biscuits situation. I can admit that the cut of the gown is flattering. It makes me look curvaceous in a healthy way, and not like I’ve been living on cookies and cheeseburgers for a few weeks.
The problem is that the dress is quite literally sewn on. Stitches were placed strategically to enhance my assets, but the result is that I have a fraction of my usual range of motion. I secretly wonder if my mother approves of the dress because of how difficult it would be for me to run away.If this dress isn’t a microcosm of my life…
“Thanks, Mom.” I settle in beside her and buckle my seatbelt, literally and figuratively. It’s going to be a long night. I downed a can of cherry Coke before I left my condo in preparation. It wasn’t about the caffeine or the sugar. Weirdly, I needed the reminder of the person I was when I was in Utah. I’m someone who can light fires and hike in the cliffs. I can handle this. If I owned a flask, I would’ve topped it off with cherry Coke to get me through the night.
When we’re a few minutes away from our destination, I spot The Hulk parked on the side of the road—a misfit in a row of luxury sedans—and smile to myself. That pile of junk will always have a special place in my heart. I feel a strange sadness over it, like I dropped my dog off at the pound.
We pull into the long, circular driveway that leads to the party. It’s bumper to bumper. Our car is surrounded by clusters of people walking into the party, so it’s slow going. The entrance to the beachfront mansion is flanked on both sides with dark hedges that make it difficult to see inside. There’s a step-and-repeat displaying the Skinnybee logo that is crowded with photographers, people posing for pictures, and onlookers. That’s where we’re headed—to step, pose, and repeat. I don’t want to do any of it. I would give anything for a quiet night by a campfire.
I take a few deep breaths in through my nose when our SUV gets closer. I’ve had a few less-disastrous interactions on social media in the past few days, so I’m not terrified. But I’m not looking forward to this.
My mother places a hand over mine. “You look gorgeous. You can do this.” The way she phrases it sounds like she thinks I can do this because I’m gorgeous. I’m sure that’s not what she meant, so I don’t roll my eyes. But just barely.
I inhale, counting to ten.Happy thoughts, Indigo. Cherry Coke, campfires, and crimson cliffs.I exhale.
Our SUV rolls to a stop. We exit from my mother’s side, make our way to the walkway, and the torture begins. There’s a buzzing in my ears that won’t stop as we take five steps and pose. There are a lot more important and interesting people than Kara and Indigo Fox here, so I’m hoping for minimal questions and photography. No such luck.
It turns out, having a recent public meltdown makes a gal popular. I field question after question about my stay in Utah, and evenmore about the Undie-gate photo. I was sure that dumb picture was in our rear view mirror, but no. I’m doing my level best to maintain the Indigo Fox facade that has been painstakingly cultivated by my mother and her team this week. My face freezes in a smile that I hope is alluring and yet mysterious. I’m trying to pull off “spiritually grounded and full of wisdom after my solitary weeks hiking in the desert.” I’m demure. I’m radiant. And by the time we reach the mansion and the end of the step-and-repeat, I’m barely holding it together. There isn’t enough cherry Coke in the world to help me. I wish Joe was here.
My mother squeezes my hand. “See? We did it. You’re fine,” she says under her breath. Before I can contradict her she tosses out, “I’m going to find a drink,” and sashays in the direction of the bar. I’m feeling abandoned, and frozen in place again by fluorescent fabric.How does this keep happening?
I find a soft seat in a quiet corner to wait out the party. I should be hobnobbing. I should network and make sure I’m in as many pictures as possible. Instead, I’m going to hole up in this spot and try not to think about how much I miss Joe and my new friends. They wouldn’t recognize me tonight under the layers, and I wish they were here to ground me. They’d help me skip the superficiality and show up as my real self. Mercer would head straight for the catering. This gives me an idea:Maybe I can find Bonnie!I start to stand up.
“There’s my Gumdrop!”
I jump, and surprise combined with the tidal wave of his cologne knocks me back to my seat.How did I not smell him coming?
“Miles!” I should’ve known he’d be here. I should’ve prepared for this. “I was just going to look for the ladies room.” I can’t handle making eye contact. I stand and say over my shoulder, “Good to see you!” Because everyone loves running into their ex-boyfriend for the first time in public.
He’s following me. I can smell it. “We need to talk.” He’s using the forced deep voice he used when we started dating. How did I ever think it was sexy?
“Maybe later, okay?” I’m walking faster, but eyes are starting to follow us—a lot of eyes.Where is the bathroom?I need to be somewhere that Miles can’t be. “I can’t talk now. Not here.”
“Gumdrop, I need you. S-stop!” He grabs my arm and swings me around so I’m facing him, and I’m hit by another wave of scent. This time it’s alcohol. Lots of it.
Joe isn’t here to scare off Miles. It’s just me and my drunk ex-boyfriend at this very crowded party. I need a combination of Joe’s confidence, Mercer’s sass, and Sarah’s wisdom to get out of this without becoming another viral mess. I choose my fighter:What would Mercer do?
“Dude.” I pretend to sniff him and stage whisper, “Are you already drunk? Isn’t it only, like, seven o’clock?” I’ve had enough practice pretending to be the Indigo Fox everyone expects that pretending to be Mercer comes pretty easily. I can’t help my smile, and it’s a real one this time, showing all of my freshly-whitened teeth. Miles' eyes turn angry. I yank my arm out of his clammy hand and walk away.
He calls me a nasty word and stomps after me, surprisingly fast for how drunk he is. Heads whip in our direction and I want to run. “We’re going to talk. You can’t keep running away. That’s not what you’re supposed to do. Y-you’re mine.” I can’t outrun those words, and the anger I feel makes me want to do the opposite.
I spin around. “Excuse me? I don’t belong to anyone, least of all you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” The corners of his mouth tip up in a slimy imitation of a smile. “You belong to your little mommy. She watchesss your every move. And you do everything she s-says.” His glassy eyes twinkle and he wiggles his fingers at me. He is beyonddrunk. Maybe he’s on something? “Sh-she gave you to me, but you keep running away.”
Every word is another boulder landing on top of my head, knocking me down. Burying me. The room spins and the music is too loud. All I can smell is alcohol and cologne. The back of my mind registers a few phones pointing our direction.
Suddenly my mother is standing next to me with a glass of something brown in one hand. Her peaceful face is as authentic as the contents of her bra. She hisses like a ventriloquist, “Stop talking, Miles. Now. We have an audience.”
He turns on her, “Why? You love an audience.” His words are loud and exaggerated. “None of this worked. I tried to be a good boyfriend like you said. Well, guess what, Sweetcheeks? Being her boyfriend hasn’t done anything for me. I got the picture, you put it out there, it got her attention, I tried to s-stand by her during her ‘personal crisis’.” He’s ticking things off on his fingers, and his imitation of my mother is terrifyingly spot on. “But she won’t let me! You still owe me, even if your stupid daughter won’t play along!” He lets out a tiny burp that punctuates his words.
I would snicker if I wasn’t entirely focused on my world turning upside down. I’m sure I’m not hearing him right. Miles’ words echo in my ears as I turn to my mother. She’ll straighten out his lies. She’ll fix this. Her voice is low and calm, “My fault.”
