Page 13 of First Comes Forever

“Something that’ll make me feel better.”

Alex gives me a reluctant, closed-lip smile. “Then of course there’s hope.”

four

I’m enjoying the momentary silence of being alone in this apartment leasing office. Since my doctor’s appointment yesterday, all I want is silence. Don’t ask me to talk or think, just let me doom scroll.

I shiver in my plastic seat. Despite the fact that it’s almost June in Southern California, this office is chilly. The temperature control is set to 64 degrees, locked behind a plastic container. Clearly the inhabitants of this office like to keep the office frigid.

They also have confusing taste—the desk is modern, structured by thin, iron support beams. In contrast, the enormous bookshelf behind the desk is cherry oak with hand carved embellishments. It looks out of place and oversized for such a small office, but it’s unique, meaning it might work well for the post I need to make today.

I exhale hard, blowing out a loud, anguished breath. It always comes down to this.

All I see is content. Every time I walk into a room, it’s opportunities, angles, and lighting. Every moment of my life has become strategic.

I can’t really appreciate the unique nature of this bookshelf. I’m too busy trying to figure out how I can use it to monetize my brand. This is my life now. Pivoting in my chair, I hold up my phone, ignoring how my stomach twists uncomfortably, the familiar hollow ache in my gut every time I open my camera and try to fabricate a special moment.Why do I feel like such a phony?Perhaps it’s this fake smile I keep slapping on, because like it or not, the show must go on. Mom needs me to perform, now more than ever.

Click.

I review the picture—a selfie with this clunky piece of wood behind me. I’ll caption this “impressively handcrafted.” But I’m not talking about the bookshelf. It’s the lie of the smile I wear and how easy it is to continue to fool the world.

I’m not concerned that my makeup is minimal and the bags under my eyes are noticeable. I’ll fix it with a filter. Sun-touched. My favorite. It tans my skin, brightens my green eyes, and makes my hair a richer shade of red. It even blurs the freckles on my face that I can’t stand. There’s a perfect filter for whatever insecurities I’m pretending not to have.

As I examine the picture, I can’t tell if I like it. Is the bookshelf timeless and elegant, or just ugly? That’s the problem. I’m not sure how to decipher what I do and don’t like anymore. All I know is what will make the internet react. I’m constantly toggling between provoke and prevent. Provoke adoration, prevent their wrath.

My main account—my money-making account—is justAmani, verified. Twenty million likes across multiple platforms, a collective of four million followers, and other random stats that only matter when I’m putting together my package rates for brand sponsorships. That account is strictly cat-eye makeup tutorials, DIY manicures that look better than the salon, and one of my newer obsessions—shapewear.

Lately, that stuff can’t hold my attention.

My secret account—the one on which I actually watch what I like and not what I’m trying to train the algorithm to believe I like—is mostly newborn videos.God, they are so tiny when they are first born.So fragile but with death grips. I still remember when Noa’s son Jonah was born, I was way too scared to hold him. He was a preemie and I was certain if I touched him, he’d fall apart like a sandcastle. So for weeks I just hovered over his bassinet and let him squeeze the life out of my pinky.

I’ll admit, I’ve become a little obsessive. Especially since, until yesterday, I thought I was watching my future.

I love the videos the husbands would post of their wives who look like hell in the hospital. They look feral—wide-eyed and crazed from sleep deprivation, wild hair, blotchy faced, and sweaty, blood on their heinously patterned, unflattering hospital gowns. But the look on their faces when they lean down to kiss their little bundle. And I know that little baby straight out of the womb is covered in gunk that we’re not going to talk about. But I can’t help it.

I watch those videos on repeat. And repeat.

And repeat.

The look on those women’s faces—the relief, mixed with the shock, yet the most absolute assuredness. It’s like someone pulled their entire life purpose out from their stomachs, bundled it in a blanket, and handed it to them like—here. Now, you belong. Now itmakes sense.

That’s all I want for my life… I want to make itmake sense.

“Dear goodness, I’msosorry. You must’ve thought I was a no-show.” A shrill voice interrupts my straying thoughts and I straighten up in my chair. The blond woman in a neat suit arrives in her office, dramatically panting to convey her point:I’m sorry. I know I’m late. I rushed.

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “No one was at the front desk, so I called the after-hours number and your assistant told me you were on the way and to just wait in your office. I hope that’s okay.”

“I hate being late,” she murmurs as she hangs up her purse. She pauses in front of me to smile. “I’m Jessie. I’m the community manager and I normally don’t have resident appointments. But we have leasing agents out on vacation, and we had an issue with the pool,” she grumbles before clearing her throat. “Bottom line, I didn’t realize they added an appointment until after I’d already gone to lunch. But I’m here and ready to help,” she says as she sucks the air between her teeth, trying to remove the evidence of whatever she was eating.

“It’s really not a problem. I’ve been here less than ten minutes.” I point to the bookshelf behind the desk. “That’s really pretty.”

To my surprise, Jessie rolls her eyes. “After my big promotion to community manager, my dad spent like two months making this for me.” She laughs to herself as she pats the giant bookshelf. “It’s an eyesore. Beautiful by itself but matches nothing, but every time he stops by for lunch, he’s so happy to see it.” She shrugs in defeat. “So it stays.”

God, that’s so sweet.It’s moments like this when I face the sour reality of growing up without a dad.

“It’s beautiful. He’s very talented, and he sounds like an incredible dad.”

“He’s the best.” A warm smile takes over her face before she continues, “Okay, well, thank you for waiting.” She plops down in her office chair on the opposite side of the desk and powers up her computer. “Ms. Rogers, right?”

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