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“Okaay.” I drag the word out in the least confrontational way possible. While I want her to explain—anything to understand her more—I don’t want to pressure her or force her to reveal something she isn’t ready for. Far too many people make her do things that aren’t her choice.
“I have another account. One only Fallon and Everly know about. Well, and my therapist.” She glances out the window, her usual confident expression nowhere to be seen. “It all started as an outlet for my thoughts. Why I did it online…I’m not really sure.”
Her voice takes on a faraway, almost melancholy tone, and it feels as if she’s talking out loud to herself.
“Maybe because my public account—out there for everyone to read and see—wasn’t the real me. I didn’t choose those topics or half the words, and truthfully, a lot of it—the clothes, the parties, the people—none of it really mattered to me. The funny thing is, I never meant my secret account to become a sort of public journaling, but it kind of did.”
“Public journaling? Like a diary?”
“Yeah. It’s stupid when I say it out loud.”
“No. Don’t do that. It isn’t stupid. Explain it to me.” The news of her other account now makes a lot of sense with her comments about not choosing the life she has.
“I felt imprisoned and stifled. I didn’t know it then but all of that contributed to my sadness and anxiety. Dr. Hemming was the one to suggest writing my feelings down, to get it all out, even if I never said any of those things to another soul. And at first, I thought it was silly and didn’t want to do it, but then I did.”
She twists to look at me, her back now against the car door. When she bends a leg to rest against the console, her shorts creep up her thigh. More of her long, tanned leg is now exposed, taunting me.
“But the idea of writing in a book didn’t feel right, like me. I suppose I wanted to be rebellious, put my thoughts and feelings out there. I was no longer willing to go unnoticed and silenced.”
She shrugs and looks off into the far distance ahead. “Dr. Hemming says maybe a part of me wants to get caught…and I can’t deny there might be some truth to that.”
She shudders, likely at the idea of her father discovering her mutiny. What would he do to her?
“That’s how it all started. I created another account and just posted whatever I was feeling. I thought of it as private, you know, until I had a following. The growth was gradual and then it wasn’t. It’s hard to believe that I have double the followers of my other account.”
Her astonished laughter pours easily from her, although her expression is one of wonder, of not quite accepting something as true. “I don’t know how or why, but people were listening, relating, and through this dialogue, I was healing.”
She cocks her head to one side, eyes fixed on me. “You know, I didn’t really believe I could feel any different, better even, by putting some words down. But it worked for me.”
I have so many questions for her. First and foremost, I’m amazed that she didn’t simply accept her father’s word about no social media posts that could negatively impact the Price name. Instead, she found a solution and never told him. Yet, why am I shocked? Leighton is a fighter, and if I had to guess, that’s most probably what’s got her connecting to so many people.
“Let me see your post about the fries.” I hold out my hand while veering us to the shoulder.
“What? We’re close to Chicago. Don’t stop now. I can show you when we get there.”
I put the car into park and turn on our hazards. “Uh-uh. Hand it over. I want to see it.” My fingers curl in a gimme motion, and I half expect her to argue with me.
Instead, she scrolls and hits her screen a few times before handing me her phone. While I stare at the picture of a plate of golden French fries, she folds her arms over her chest in a protective way and stares out the windshield.
Imjustme:Wanna fry? Sometimes French fries are more than French fries.
Feeling full of gratitude and hope. What about you?
First, I chuckle at the caption, a slow smile blooming, but grow silent as I read the comments. Numerous comments with similar sentiments or others seeking to find a space of gratitude and hope.
Then I click on her handle and nearly swallow my tongue at the number of followers.
“Holy cow, Leighton, you’ve got quite the following.”
“Mm-hmm. I try not to focus on that or it could become too much. You know what I mean?”
I nod and look down at the phone again. “I think so.”
Her account has several recent posts with pictures from stops and moments on our road trip. The urge to scroll through them, read her words and the comments, is consuming. This is a whole other side to this woman, and I want to know her, understand her. All of her.
But I don’t click on any of her other images, not now.
“It’s hard not to focus on the number and what that means, but I won’t let myself. I remind myself why I started this. That account…”—she points her chin at the phone still in my hand—“it’s another reason why Everly would love to have me on board.”
