“You were dating a professional athlete, Poppy.” Dad pinches his nose, shutting his eyes briefly. “And even if you weren’t, your little social media thing draws a lot of eyes. Anything you do in public is bound to have consequences.”
I don’t bother pointing out the dissonance of calling my career as an influencer “little” while at the same time acknowledging that my accounts are popular. My parents barely believe I’m making money from it, even when I’ve shown them contracts. It’s not a real career to them, not in the way Julia is a lawyer or Mom is a magazine editor.
“It was an accident,” I say instead.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“All of—Poppy, this could affect the restaurant’s reputation. Did you think about that before causing a scene? Storming out?”
“Obviously not,” I snap. “And what about Jack? What he did was worse, technically, reputation-wise—”
“This isn’t about Jack Hartman.”
I chew on my lip. Mom rubs her temples with her thumbs, something that she does only when a migraine is coming on, or I’ve exasperated her beyond belief. Naturally, the latter is more frequent.
“Should we issue a statement on behalf of the Winfield Group?” Julia asks as she breezes back into the room, a plate and mug in hand. She sets it down on the nearest end table before retreating back to Caroline’s side.
I snort as I take the aspirin. “A statement? Why? No one got hurt. Well, except Ryan’s pants. And his ego.”
Dad looks like he’s close to having a coronary. He shakes his head again, silver-gray hair glinting underneath the overhead light. He glances at my mother, who gives him a sympathetic grimace and squeezes his hand.
I realize something abruptly. Something that makes my stomach squirm.
He looks old. Both of them do. They look weary, and absolutely done with me.
They’ve come close, over the years. When I flunked out of high school for the second time, and when I nearly dropped out of college, and countless small moments in between. I’ve always been a step behind my family, struggling to catch up. Struggling to find a way to prove myself. My parents love me—that’s never been in question—but I think they expect more of their future grandchildren. (Which is saying a lot, because Julia and Caroline haven’t even mentioned kids yet.)
“I just don’t know what to do with you,” he says. “I really don’t.”
“Douglas,” Mom murmurs.
“It’s been one thing after another. Maybe we haven’t pushed you enough. Maybe we let your diagnosis get in the way.”
I squirm uncomfortably. After years of horrible grades, overwhelmed meltdowns, and disorganization, we finally realized inhigh school that I have ADHD. So many things slotted into place after that, and I slowly brought order to my life through medication and therapy—but it didn’t magically turn me into my big sister. The only thing I’ve ever been remotely good at is putting on my influencer face for Instagram and TikTok, and it’s obvious that to my family, it’s nothing more than a glorified hobby.
It’s been easier, since my accounts took off, to look for validation from strangers on the internet. People who see a slice of me, @itspoppywinfield, and praise my beauty, my aesthetic, the life they think I’m so happy to have. It’s a hollow victory, but at least it’s better than waiting around for my family to take me seriously.
My lip starts to wobble. I know Dad can tell, because he pauses whatever he’s going to say next. Mom jumps in.
“I think what your dad is saying, honey, is that we’ve been worried about you. Even before the breakup, you know?”
“What does that mean?” I ask warily.
“Not that we don’t love having you at home,” Dad says, an uncharacteristically careful note in his voice, “but you haven’t made any plans to move back out.”
“And when was the last time you did something with friends?” Julia asks. She moves to sit by me, her hazel eyes wide with concern. She got Mom’s eyes, I got Dad’s. “Something that didn’t end up on social media immediately?”
“If I’m invited to an event, I need to post about it. That’s how it works.”
“What about your friends from college?”
I flinch away. Molly is living in Edinburgh; she’s going to grad school. Michelle is married with a baby on the way. Lisa is in residency for dermatology. The more established their lives have become, the further they’ve drifted from me. I saw a post a few weeks ago of Lisa and Michelle out to dinner together in Astoria and realized with a pit in my stomach that they never even texted to ask if I wanted to join them.
“We’ve been really busy. You know how it is.” I reach for the mug, holding it between my hands. The smell of coffee and cream wafts to my nose. A small comfort.
“We’d really like to see you buckle down and figure out a career,” Dad says. Beside him, Mom nods. “The influencer stuff can’t last forever. I’m sure it’s been a fun distraction, but—”
