Page 25 of Between Now and Always

I walk over and give her a hug. “I believe in you. And you already know all of this. It’s always so much easier to give advice than to take it. Show yourself the same grace you show me, okay

She’s working on her Master’s at CUNY, but applying for her Ph.D. in Psychology at Columbia. She’s brilliant, but after flunking out of medical school in her home country of Ghana, her self-confidence is shot.

“I know Americans love hugging, but I’m still getting used to it,” she says dryly. But her eyes are bright with affection as we pull apart.

“I believe in you, too. I know you started that account as a fuck you to your crazy ass family, but it’s amazing what you’ve done.”

I nudge her shoulder with mine. “You’re a sweet talker,” I tease her. But my smile is proud and wide at her praise.

“Does that mean you’ll whip me up some of those pancakes for breakfast before I go?”

I roll my eyes, but grin and hop down from the barstool and walk around the counter into the kitchen.

The pancake recipe is one Carter taught me. I make them almost every morning. They are delicious. But, it’s mainly so I can enjoy the flood of memories that assail me when I’m whipping this up.

I hoped that having exposure to new people and experiences, and the group therapy would help me make sense of my feelings for Carter so I could start to get over him.

It’s been the exact opposite.

Three months ago, I landed at LaGuardia with the Trip Advisor app as my only guide. I knew I wanted to paint. But that was it. I also wanted to play a little.

I got in my taxi and gave the name of the Times Square Hotel I’d booked. It was the dog days of summer and the height of the tourist season, so the rates were astronomical, but decided I deserved a splurge.

Less than sixteen hours early, I had been in a wedding dress, about to put my life into the hands of the man who orchestrated the events that led to my brother’s death.

It felt like a real near death experience and I was exhausted, relieved and scared.

That night I slept in a strange bed, in a new city, without a single soul to answer to and it had been the best sleep I’d had since the last nigh I spent with Carter.

And at $800 a night, it was also the most expensive. I stayed a week and left poorer of pocket, but much richer in spirit.

I stepped out of my hotel every day and life swept me away. New York City was the place I should have been born. I felt in my bones.

There was no avoiding the stares and double takes at my port wine stain, but no one asked me questions about it. No one hesitated to hire me, no one frowned. I covered it with make up on the days I was feeling less than confident, but most days, I went out just as I was. And if people still stared, I stopped noticing.

I was still looking over my shoulder, though.

Not just for my family, but for the other shoe to drop. I’d never had so much freedom before. But I was well aware of how fragile the peace I’ve carved out for myself was. I was waiting for my father to find me and try to force me to do his bidding. So, I was careful to lay low and I didn’t tell anyone, except for the realtor I rented my first place from, my real name.

A month after I moved in, Porsha sent me a text with link to an Instagram profile with a note that said “Is this you????”

I scrolled through each perfectly styled and filtered picture on the account and with each swipe of my fingers, my dread grew.

I didn’t know how they’d explained my absence at the wedding. But I could see now. My profile was full of pictures of a woman whose face was never turned toward the camera. She was blonde, dressed the way I used to. Her profile proclaimed

“This account the official account for Liz Wolfe, daughter of candidate for Governor @TheRealDrewWolfe. I want to inspire women all over the world who feel inadequate to the challenges they face. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t have it all I’m living proof of that lie.”

I felt sick as I scrolled to the first picture, one of “me” standing on a beach arms outstretched and the wind blowing my hair all over my head. The caption said, “I’m moving on. I walked away from a man who broke his promises. With the support of my family, I’m making the most of my new life. Follow me for daily inspiration.”

Post of after post was full of images of “Liz” living her best life in Austin. I understand the appeal of the image they’re selling.

The Liz Wolfe in those pictures lived a charmed life. She lived in a beautiful home, wore beautiful clothes. She gardened, did yoga without sweating. Sat behind a desk and wrote in a gold filigreed journal with a gold pen held in her perfectly manicured hands.

Every meal she ate looked delicious and decadent but was balanced and healthy. Her lips were painted the same shade of pink in each picture, her blond hair, thick and lustrous, flowed over her shoulders in shining, fraudulent waves.

Nothing about her was real. But the most destructive part of the profile - the thing that made me feel ill were the comments from the profiles almost 100,000 followers.

They call themselves #LuckyCharms because apparently that’s what @LizWolfeOfficial calls them. When I search the hashtag, the pictures make my blood run cold.

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