Page 7 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

We play our roles well. Portia is more high-class than all of us and the only one that actually came from money. She carries an air of regality with her gorgeous bone structure, long neck, and flawless dark brown skin; even now, at our casual brunch, she handles her glass with poise. I've always admired Portia. Not because she's posh but because she has a dark sense of humor and a hefty appreciation for sarcasm, and it's so unexpected, given her polished upbringing and newest season Birkin bags.

Cara squeals excitedly and drops her phone on the table next to her half-eaten, gluten-free, vegan pancakes. "I don't know yet, maybe Mark, remember that guy with the—" she hooks her finger suggestively, "but I don't even care if I go alone. I'm thinking about doing this whole piece on solo dating, you know? Like, date yourself for a while, right? Anyway, they're putting me up in this like cabana thing. The front steps areliterallyon thebeach. Like, I can wake up and just like, walk out into the water in the morning, the water comes right up to the bedroom."

Mary-Anne tilts her head thoughtfully. "Wouldn't they worry about hurricanes being that close to the water?"

Cara rolls her eyes, exasperated, "No, dummy. They're all built with these sustainable materials or whatever, so if it gets blown down by a storm, it all, like, goes back to nature. They're supposed to be a part of the Earth or something."

Portia frowns. "That makes zero sense. Are you sure you're getting that right?"

Cara shakes her head like we're the idiots. She continues to tell us all about the company sponsoring her trip, an eco-focused organization that's been snatching up cheap property worldwide for the last few years, building resorts, and edging out locals. We've heard it a million times, but when you finally get enough followers online to get advertisers that send you on these all-inclusive trips, it's hard not to brag, so I get it. But right now, it just makes me cringe, thinking about displaced people and environmental disasters and climate change and the state of the world, and suddenly, it feels like everything is closing in around me.

Delaney watches me. I can see her from the corner of my eye, but as Cara prattles on and Mary-Anne and Portia pipe in with their opinions, the pressure becomes too much. There's a burning in my chest, wrapping a heated fist around my heart.

This isn't like me. I love brunch. Ilivefor brunch. Normally, I'd have taken a hundred pictures by now—of myself, my friends, and the food in front of me, artfully arranged with and without a single bite missing. I'd be editing them already, ignoring the twenty-dollar avocado and egg sprouted-grain toast and focusing more on posting pictures.

But the idea of picking up my phone repulses me. Ever since last night, since that picture came in.

The reminder propels my attention to Delaney, who's arrogantly smirking.

We stare at each other, and everything feelswrong. Delaney's always been pretty, but as I take her in, shamelessly staring at my supposed friend while she stares back at me, I notice little details. More puzzle pieces. Her chestnut brown curls look unwashed and overly styled, her light brown skin looks pale and dry, barely perceptible bags under her eyes. Yesterday, I would have chided myself for being so judgemental. Today, it's ammunition.

"Lucy!"

"Huh?" I tear my gaze away from Delaney, my other friends at the table watching me with concern. I don't know how long I zoned out or what they're talking about.

"Are you okay, hun? You seem…" Mary-Anne hedges. They all knew something was off the moment I walked in this morning, my hair a ratty mess since I fell asleep with it wet from the pool. My makeup sweated off sometime through the night, and when I showed up, Portia grimaced, plucking a single false eyelash off my cheek that had come unglued.

"I'm fine. Sorry. What were you sayin'?"

"She wassaying," Portia interjects with a dramatic eye roll, "we saw you crested 1.2 this morning. Congratulations." She raises her glass. It's funny. I didn't even notice. When I woke up, I went out by the pool, picked up my phone without looking at it, and stuck it in my purse. Haven't touched it since.

"Oh. Right. Thanks." I grab my mimosa and down the drink. It's my first one. I'm at least a glass behind everyone else.

I should give a shit that I hit my next goal. 1.2 million followers is a lot. It was my goal six months ago, and last night, when I was only a couple hundred followers away, it was all I could think about. But now… Now all I can think about is why Cara isn't using her fame for climate change. And why I thoughtgetting validation through followers would actually fill a hole inside me.

If it did, then I wouldn't feel so gutted right now.

I suspected something was off, didn't I? How could I be so blind?

The mimosa I just drank in three gulps burns in my stomach, the sour taste of orange juice bubbles up my esophagus. I need to get out of here.

"Well, I think I'll hit one million by the end of this month. And Lucy, don't forget, you promised to do that shoot at the park with me later today." I nod in agreement at Portia, but it's an empty gesture. Usually, I'd be more engaged, trying to help my friends build their platforms. I really want them to succeed, too. Not that Portia needs it. The only reason she isn't the most famous of the five of us is that she doesn't hustle. She doesn't need to, not like the rest of us. Not like Delaney and me.

"Okay, Lu, what is going on with you today? Are you on the rag or something? Oh my god, you're not pregnant, are you?" Cara snorts into her glass.

Delaney whips her head toward me, but I shake my head. "No, I'm not pregnant. I just drank the mimosa too fast. I'm fine." Suddenly I'm feeling overheated. I'm definitely not pregnant, but if I was, what terrible timing. "Is it hot in here?" I look around at my friends, half of whom are back on their phones. "It feels hot in here," I whisper to myself.

Cara picks at her plate with a fork, giving me an annoyed look. Out of sheer curiosity, maybe a sense of masochistic punishment, I look to Delaney. I can't even explain why, only that her attention used to feel like the sun, and we've been friends for years. She leans in close to you when she talks, like she's conspiring or sharing a secret only for the two of you. She's a force of nature.

For some reason, as hard as she works, she's never reached even close to my online numbers, and I know it bothers her, but still… She's always been my staunch cheerleader; supportive, fun, always down. Only the moment I look at her face, I feel sick again. I lift my shirt away from my chest to fan my overheating neck.

Delaney's still giving me that knowing smile. It's her signature look, this kind of devil-may-care half-smirk that keeps people guessing. It's charming, arrogant. She had that same smile in the picture that anonymous number texted me last night—the one where she was fucking Mateo in the backseat of her car.

Delaney lifts one eyebrow, daring me to accuse her. I open my mouth to do just that, but I can't. My throat practically closes around the unformed words.

The sounds around the room feel like they're growing and pulsing. The cacophony of phone alerts, my friend's voices discussing how to get more followers, chewing, silverware, glasses, servers, cash registers. The champagne in my stomach churns, but all of it fades when Delaney folds her arms on the white fabric linens on the table, giving me that half-smirk, leans in close and, in a voice a little too cavalier, asks, "What's the matter, Lucy-bear?"

What am I even doing here? When I left the apartment this morning, my one formulated plan was that I would come here and confront her. But even that was half-assed. I knew I wouldn't. It's not in my nature. I'm the sweet one, the southern girl with the thick accent, polite to a fault. Portia would say something. Cara too. I would get here, see Delaney, and shout, "How could you?" Then I'd storm Mateo's office and throw something messy, like a thick green smoothie, in his face. Something sticky that stains his perfect clothes.

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