I’d love to grow a following for the shop and my original pet clothes designs.
“How’s that challenge going?” Kenna asks.
I groan. “Uggggghhh.”
It hasn’t been going great, actually. In fact, it’s been a month since I started, and Cookie’s Instagram account is still struggling to get follower numbers beyond the double digits. Part of me wonders why I’m bothering. It’s embarrassing, especially considering the wholly organic, viral success of my mega-influential little brother.
I have stubbornly refused to ask him for help. I don’t want to grow a following via pity follows from his adoring fans.
“I just don’t think I’m cut out for social media success.”
“You could just ask …” I know Kenna is about to say Xander, but she holds her tongue when I turn my head to glare at her. She sighs. “Fine, then. If you hate it so much, I don’t understand why you don’t just drop it. Nobody would blame you for tabling that challenge for now. You have enough on your plate, don’t you?”
She’s right, of course, but I can’t quit. Because it’s not just my account at stake. The moderators assigned us all buddies, and if I fail, so does Oliver. The ridiculous cat. I can’t let that furball down.
I resist the urge to check if I have any messages from him. Texting daily has become part of our routine.
“So, what about you guys? Will the rent hike hurt the diner?” I attempt to steer the conversation away from myself.
“We’ll be all right,” Kenna says. “The uncles are going to have to raise prices some, but they said they think they’ll be okay. Especially if the renovations bring more foot traffic. They’re really looking forward to the building being upgraded.” She looks almost apologetic. “You know, my photography side hustle pays for my drinks, and I earn good tips at the diner. I could probably kick in some cash for you if you need it, Georgia.”
“No, stop it. You’re already donating all your free time to take pictures of the animals. I don’t need your tips. It’s going to be fine. I’ve got this,” I lie.
It won’t be fine. The money I borrowed against the house is barely going to cover the shelter’s moving and renovation expenses. I was counting on the shop’s income to bridge the gap and guarantee that Angie still gets paid.
Poor Angie.She’s not getting any younger. I’m sure she relies on that meager salary.
The bartender, a rangy, forty-something guy with a graying soul patch, places our drinks in front of us. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” he asks.
“Chili fries,” we both say, almost, but not quite, in unison. The bartender nods his approval before sending the order ticket on to the kitchen.
“Back to that Petfluencer Challenge,” Kenna says. “You need any help with the photos?”
“No, it’s all gotta be me. They want organic images. Simple stuff.”
I take a sip of my drink, enjoying the way the salt, spice, and acid feel in my nearly empty stomach. Tomato juice, lime, and beer. Whoever came up with this recipe is a genius.
“Most of the prompts have been pretty casual so far. But if you’ve got the time, I could use a favor. That reporter who’s doing a story on Celestial Pets asked for a few shots of the shop and my pet costumes. I’ll pay you, of course.”
“You got it.” Kenna nods. “And your money is no good with me. Are you excited about the press?”
I’ve been trying not to put too much stock in it, but my one and only bright spot right now is that a nationally distributed pet magazine is doing a story on the shop, my designs, and the way we support local artists while funding our sister shelter.
“I guess. We’ll see. Hopefully, it will help move the needle.” Honestly, I’m not sure what to expect, and I don’t want to get my hopes up.
Kenna nods and gives my arm a fast squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, G. We’ll figure something out.”
I wish I had her confidence. I know she means well and genuinely wants to help, but it isn’t her problem. It’s mine. The weight of it all—the promise I made to the shelter, the commitment to keep up my mother’s legacy, and ultimately, the duty to make sure none of those animals end up in a kill facility—sits squarely on my shoulders.
I take another long sip of my drink and scan the bar for a distraction.
“So, this challenge …” I tap the flyer in front of me. “Want to hear the craziest part about it?” I ask.
“Yes, please!” Kenna replies, leaning forward and taking a big swig of her drink.
“Since it’s online and we don’t have any IRL interaction, we were assigned buddies. It’s supposed to get us to engage more. We leave comments on each other’s posts, and we help each other with the prompts.”
I pull up my buddy’s account on my phone and hand it to her. “Check out my buddy. He’s the weirdest cat. His personality is like a stuffy, old-fashioned butler. Like this really proper little old man.”
