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“Can’t we have groceries delivered?” I ask, staring at the unappetizing options.
“No.”
I groan, shutting the pantry door and reaching for my camera. Though I’m not as presentable as I normally am, it’s fitting for the vlog. While I can’t upload anything, I can film some content for when I’m allowed to post again.
Smiling wide, I hit the record button. “Hey guys! Welcome back to my channel or welcome if you’re new here. Today I’m giving you the grand tour of the super rustic and cute beach house I’m staying in. I’m not sure when this video will be posted, hopefully really soon, but I just couldn’t wait to take you around. So let’s start with the charming kitchen and dinette. There’s not a lot of food yet, but we just got here, so we’ll stock up soon. In the dining room, there’s this antique table and with all the windows, it brings in a ton of natural light, which of course you know I love.”
Tristan’s staring at me like he wants to comment on everything I’m saying. Even though I’m making everything out to be fine, we both know it’s not. My subscribers don’t want to see some rich girl complaining about slumming it, so I keep things cheerful and optimistic. That’s a part of my brand and what they’re used to seeing. Being Ms. Positivity who loves life is what they know me as.
Next, I walk around to the living room and show off the views of the ocean and palm trees. It really is beautiful outside, which is why I wish I was allowed to go out there.
After I show the downstairs area, I move to my bedroom. I emphasize how it’s charming and quaint, and how fresh air flows through the windows upstairs. It’s nothing like my luxury high rise apartment or anywhere I’d willingly stay, but I can’t complain when my parents demanded Tristan take me somewhere off-grid. There are neighboring homes, but they’re quite a distance away. The property is surrounded by palm trees and the only open space is on the private beach.
But apparently I won’t be seeing that anytime soon.
I smile wide and act like I’m having the time of my life. When this is over, I’ll put a video together explaining why I was hiding out and put the inevitable rumors to rest. I can only imagine what people will think when they hear there was drama at my sister’s wedding and how I escaped then suddenly vanished.
“Are you done filming?” Tristan asks when I walk into the living room. He’s showered and changed now, covering all of his sex appeal.
“For now,” I say, plopping down on the chair.
“Will you be doing that every day?”
“Doing what?” I sneer, grabbing the remote.
“Pretending you love everything when moments before you were complaining about the food and whining about no air-conditioning?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
I turn on the TV, praying there’s cable.
“Understand what exactly?” he asks.
“My life. Sharing things with the public for them to nitpick every single detail. Keeping up appearances,” I ramble off only a few things that most people wouldn’t get.
“Then why do you do it? Why put your life on display like that if you’re just going to fake it? Not like you need the extra attention. Everyone already knows who your family is.”
I snap my gaze to him. “I don’t fake it, I just don’t emphasize the shitty moments. And I film because of what’s known about my family. I want to prove every single tabloid wrong and show them who I am, not just what page six says about us.”
“But you’re not genuine, you do what gets you views. Staged entertainment.”
Tristan’s words hit a nerve. How dare he. It’s bad enough the public judges me, but to have Tristan imply that I’m vapid and fake cuts deeper than the negative comments I get from strangers.
Slamming the remote down, I stand and leave.
I went up to my room and slept for a few hours. With nothing to do, my body has no energy to even stay awake. I’m not used to this much free time, and I don’t like it.
Hearty smells fill the house and I know Tristan is cooking something, so I decide to get out of bed.
“Are you hungry?” Tristan asks as soon as I walk downstairs.
“A little.”
“Take a seat, I’ll bring you some spaghetti.”
I’m surprised he’s even talking to me, but considering my parents pay him, he doesn’t have a choice.
“Would you like parmesan?”
“Sure, thanks.” I pull out a chair and sit, in the mood for some comfort carbs.
The sun is setting, reflecting a gorgeous hue over the water, and I wish I could go out there and relax.
“Garlic bread?”
“Just one.”
Moments later, Tristan brings over a plateful. “Thank you.”
“Hope it’s edible and to your liking.”
There’s his condescending attitude.
“It’s pretty hard to screw up spaghetti but I guess if anyone could, it’d be you,” I sing-song.
