Page 7 of Hard to Fake

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“What happened to you?!” Nova gasps as I trip into the café.

I drop into the seat opposite her and fluff my still-damp hair. “A little outdoor swim."

“In October?”

“The pool at the Four Seasons is closed for renovations.”

It’s Sunday night, and the place is full of decaf-drinking hipsters in mountain chic. This café became Nova’s favorite and mine when she lived with me, and it’s still not too far from the art studio she rents downtown.

I told Miles I had a date tonight. I didn’t say whom it was with.

“This seems like an act of rebellion.” My friend pushes a coffee cup matching hers across the table.

Nova is petite and wearing leggings, her hair tugged up in a ponytail that brushes her shoulders. We’re the same age but she seems younger, probably thanks to the big blue eyes that reveal exactly what she’s feeling at any moment.

“Not even. I was assisting on this editorial shoot, but they were too narrow-minded for my ideas.”

She frowns. “Assisting,” she echoes. “You were helping with a shoot instead of being at the center of it? What’s going on?”

When Miles asked me, I couldn’t imagine sharing the truth with him, especially because he’d turn around and tell my brother.

But Nova’s discreet and the kind of friend who makes you want to let your guard down. I’ve never once felt judged or less than.

“I’m broke,” I say bluntly.

Her gaze drops to my designer outfit before lifting again. “Back up. Explain.”

“My mom’s always helped with… you know.”

“Money,” she supplies with a nod.

“Yup. It made sense. After high school, I would have been happy to go to a junior college, but she wanted me to go to this expensive private school, pledge a traditional sorority, fit the image of a senator’s daughter. I told her I didn’t need all of that or the debt that went with it. So, to convince me, she said she’d help.”

“Okay.”

“Well, after graduation, I guess she decided my image was important to her politically and didn’t want me living on ramen with four roommates. So, she kept helping.” I inspect my nails for damage. No casualties from my little Swan Lake impression earlier. “For the last three years, she’s helped… until last week. She decided to stop.”

“Why?”

I lift a shoulder. “Her polling team saw a post on my social that showed nine percent too much side boob for her constituents.”

As one of a handful of Black female senators, my mom feels a lot of pressure to lead by example. She’s nearing the end of her second term and coming up on reelection.

The thing is, if Mom had asked me herself to take down a picture, I would have done it.

Probably.

Maybe.

I started building my social media back in college with what society would now call fashion and lifestyle content, though I never thought of it that way. To me, it was just me living my life.

A styled, curated life.

It was as genuine as it could be with the addition of thoughtful outfits, lighting, and captions. But lately, my mom has been more concerned about what I post and say, which might not be a problem except that I’ve gotten less concerned.

I post hiking pics, moments on the street that make me pause and think, blurry nights out with my friends.

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