Page 6 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

"Hey, y'all! It's me, ZenInTheCity, you're with Lucy! Now, I know what you're thinkin', why do I keep pushin' swimming? Well, it's one of the best exercises you can do. It's good for the joints, low impact, and works out the entire body. Keep an eye out this week, I'm gonna be workin' my way around Port City, sharing with you the best and easiest ways out there to get your swim on!"

I dive into the pool dramatically, then swim back to the phone to stop and edit the recording. I'm so close to 1.2 million followers I can taste it, but I won't count my chickens till they hatch. I already have half the locations for my swim-focused content tagged and ready to post. It'll give me two weeks worth of content, but it never hurts to have more ready.

I get anxious if my accounts dip too low in backup, ready to post content, so over-preparing has become my mantra. Because of my constant need to hustle, a possible by-product of my childhood, I have the most followers and advertising revenue amongst my friends, all influencers to some degree. It should make me happy, and Ishouldgive myself a break, but honest to god, the higher my numbers climb and the more famous I get, the more stressed it all makes me. With all the effort I put in, it feels like a failure every time my numbers drop, even though they always come back higher. That's the nature of this work, though; it fluctuates.

I record a few more shots of me exercising in the pool, but it becomes too challenging with the lighting warring with the night sky. It would be easier in an indoor public pool, but I am, after all, on a private balcony penthouse overlooking the city. Leaningover the pool's edge, I post a few teaser shots and schedule the video to go live first thing tomorrow.

Letting my phone drop onto the towel, I swim back to the center of the pool, my body floating to the surface like a starfish. It's chilly out, late springtime, and there's a breeze this high in the sky, but the pool is heated and the cool air feels good. I'm not afraid of heights, but I can't bring myself to look around much when I'm out here, or I start questioning the feats of human engineering.

It's only been a few minutes, but I'm already itching to check my phone and see how many likes I've got. But I make myself wait. Before the anxiety can crawl out of my skin and take over, I force myself to swim laps, to stay active, and focus on something else. Movement always helps.

Somewhere around the fifth lap, the anticipation takes over. My skin itches, and it becomes a physical thing, denying the urge to check my phone. But I keep swimming, letting the warm water slide over my skin. At the end of the tenth lap, I feel calmer and even force myself to take another few breaths, like I earned it, before swimming back to the edge to check my phone.

To my delight, I've already got three thousand likes, but only a few new followers. That's okay. Those shots were throwaways, and it's only been a few minutes. Refusing to let myself feel too down, a text alert comes through from an unknown number. I tap the text, but nearly drop the phone once it opens.

The world around me becomes so quiet, all I can hear is a faint ringing in my ears. A tingling sensation creeps into my hands, a pit weighs in my stomach. I don't know how long I stare at the image.

Eventually, the late-night cool breeze and my wet hair pull my attention back to my surroundings, and the sound of the lapping pool water wakes me from the trance.

My pruney fingers tremble. I throw my phone on the ground with more force than necessary, cringing when it bounces off the ground, and climb out of the pool, feeling dizzy and sick.

Standing on shaky legs, my racing heart feels like it's overheating, unaffected by the cool night air that suddenly freezes my skin, goosebumps erupting along my bare flesh.

I glance around like someone will pop up and tell me what to do to help me with this nausea and fiery rage and heartbreak, but when help doesn't come, I grab hold of the towel with shaking hands and wrap it around my body.

Sucking in a deep breath, it's fast and sharp, burning my throat, and I know I need to calm down. I try to recall all those techniques I'm constantly posting to help control my heartbeats. They feel so fast and loud in my chest. What do I do again?

The slow-count breathing doesn't do shit. Inhale, count to four. Hold, count to seven. Exhale, count to eight. And repeat. Again and again, I try it. But it doesn't work; each inhale somehow feels empty of oxygen. I glance down at where my phone rests on the ground, trying to assemble the pieces of a puzzle I didn't know existed.

Grateful Mateo isn't coming home tonight, wrapped in a towel, I head to the bedroom and crawl under the covers, letting my wet hair drape over my pillow. I contemplate showering to rinse off the pool water, wash the makeup off, and maybe even brush and braid my hair, but I can't move.

The heavy weighted blanket provides little comfort, and I stare blankly at the wall. Numbness wins over, and rather than process my feelings and make a plan, I wait—for sheer exhaustion, confusion, and sadness to pull me into sleep or for the sun to rise—whichever comes first.

Chapter 3

Lucy

My attention wavers. Indistinct chatter weaves around me, though I keep catching glimpses of conversation. I try to listen, but it's nebulous, their words slipping in and out of focus, floating around me like ash.

"Lucy. Lucy!" A foot nudges mine from under the table, and I shake my head clear.

"Huh?" Turning to face Cara, the sounds of brunch rush back full force, forks scraping, glasses clinking, laughter, and chatter echoing around our table. Cara bugs her giant blue eyes out at me, giving me a tight, admonishing smile. I must have missed something.

With a huff, she shakes her head, tosses her tight blonde curls over her shoulder, cheeks flushed in annoyance against her pale pink skin, and turns back to our group, her attitude shifting on a dime.

"Delaney, youhaveto tell me where you got that hat," Cara yells.

Cara sits to my left, and next to her, across from me, is Mary-Anne. Next to Mary-Anne sits Portia, and between Portia and me sits Delaney.

But I can't bring myself to look at her, even when she responds to Cara.

"No chance in hell, bitch! I got this sucker at this adorable little haberdashery. I'm gonna feature him next month, you can find out then like everyone else." Delaney taps the brim of her brown suede fedora, complete with ornate feathers, and lifts her mimosa, her hand shaking just a touch, but it's subtle. With all the clinking silver bracelets adorning her thin wrist, you'd barely notice it, but I do. Delaney's been drinking a lot lately.

Mimosas at Sunday brunch have been our ritual for nearly two years, but lately, it seems like an excuse for her to get plastered before noon. I cared about that yesterday. That was yesterday.

"Whatever, it's not like I'm gonna steal your tag," Cara scoffs, picking up her phone, sulking like a bratty teenager.

"So, who are you taking to Belize?" Portia changes the subject, offering Cara a small kindness, reminding her she has her own success to celebrate. Portia's pink acrylic-tipped fingers wrap primly around her mimosa flute.

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