Page 18 of You Will Never Be Me

There’s another long silence, then Liv finally cries, “I’m so sorry! I’ve just been so overwhelmed. There are so many of them, and it’s so mentally and emotionally exhausting to have to go through them.”

My stomach churns with the idea of just how many trolls there are coming for me. Why do they hate me so much? “I understand, but we really, really need to stay on top of them. Is that doable?”

Liv releases a shaky breath. “I guess. I’m sorry. Are you going to fire me?”

“No.” Despite everything, I genuinely like Liv. And more than that, I trust her. It’s hard to find someone I can trust. “I get that this stuff can be overwhelming. You don’t even need to read them,just scan quickly and if it sounds like it’s going to be a mean comment, hit Delete.”

“Okay. But…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What is it?” I press, grinding my teeth. “Look, whatever it is, you can tell me. You know I’m not the kind to shoot the messenger.”

“Well, um. It’s just—maybe you should think about why people are coming for you?” Liv says, her voice scratchy with hesitation.

I squeeze the phone so hard I wonder if it’ll shatter in my hand. Keep. Voice. Calm. “Why do you think they’re coming for me?”

“Well.” I can practically see Liv mulling over the words before she spits them out like they’re poison. “Um, well, a lot of them are saying you’re sort of, you know, a little bit fake?” Then she quickly adds, “I disagree, obviously, but uh. You know. I’m just saying, that’s what a lot of the comments are saying. Uh. Yeah.”

It’s a struggle to not fling my phone at the windshield. Fake? Me? Of course I’m fake. And whose fault is that? When I first started, I thought what it took was to share the real me online. I avoided trends and focused on staying true to myself. None of my posts were curated; all of them were achingly real, no filters. And what did that get me? Five thousand measly followers, most of whom couldn’t even be bothered to Like or comment on any of my posts. Most of them were probably just bots.

Nobody wants real. They are hungry for the fantasy. They want to believe that an average person like me can have the dream life—can find the perfect man and be suddenly whisked awayfrom mundanity and find herself in a fairy tale. They don’t want real Aspen; real Aspen is boring as shit. You meet real Aspens every day, dressed in saggy sweatpants at the supermarket, gasping for breath in sweat-stained oversized shirts at Zumba class, and sitting with a defeated, dead-eyed stare while her kids run wild at the playground. They want Instagram Aspen who makes it all look easy, who assures you that things will get better, who is proof that you can have it all.

But twenty-six-year-old Liv isn’t going to understand any of that. She’s too young to see why my brand is so successful. She still thinks that authenticity can be found by scrolling through her For You Page on TikTok. Sometimes, I look at Liv and I hate her because the world hasn’t broken her yet.

“Thank you for letting me know,” I say after a while. “I appreciate your honesty.”

I can almost hear Liv’s sigh of relief.

“I’ll think about it. What they’re saying.” I won’t. “But in the meantime, please stay on top of the comments, okay?”

“Okay, Aspen.” I’m about to hang up when she says, “How come you’re calling me now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the pediatrician? Sabine’s due for her MMR shot today, right?”

“What? No, I was supposed to meet with—” Belatedly, I remember that I wasn’t supposed to meet with Sunflower Cheeks today. There had been that whole mix-up. “Oh god. Sabine’s MMR? You’re sure it’s today?”

“Yeah, you texted me to help you make the appointment months ago, and I put it in my calendar so I wouldn’t forget to book it. I would’ve sent you a reminder, but you told me not to beinvolved with your calendar anymore.” Am I just imagining it, or is there the slightest tone of reproach in her voice? “Let me see…yeah, it’s—oh, it’s supposed to be twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, bye!” I don’t wait for a reply before hanging up. As I drive out of the parking lot, I ask Siri to dial Dr.Rensburg’s office. It rings and rings, but no one picks up the phone. I drive five miles over the speed limit, even though I’m dying to floor the gas pedal. But no, Sabine’s in the car, and I’m a responsible mom now. A responsible mom who’s just forgotten her baby’s vaccine appointment. Oh my god. I am the worst mom. And how the hell did this mix-up happen? I don’t understand it. Worry and fear crawl up my spine like spiders’ legs, and the whole time, a little voice whispers at the back of my neck:Why does this keep happening? Why? Someone knows something.

By the time I get to the clinic, my chest feels like it’s being crushed by a giant hand, and I’ve sweated through my bra. Sabine has fallen asleep in her car seat, and I’m in such a hurry to get her out that I don’t bother to be gentle. I pluck her out, jerking her awake, and she starts wailing. I rush through the parking lot, into the blessedly cool, air-conditioned clinic.

“Hi, I’m Aspen, this is Sabine Palmer, we’re here to see Dr.Rensburg for her vaccine shot,” I call out at the receptionist before I’m even at her desk.

She glances up and taps at her computer. “Ah, Sabine Palmer. Sorry, you missed your appointment.”

“But—” I give her my best smile, even as Sabine shrieks right into my ear. “Could you slot us in, please? I mean, it shouldn’t take any time at all, right? Just a quick jab.”

This receptionist is a tad more sympathetic than the one at Sunflower Cheeks, but that doesn’t count for jack. She shrugs andsays, “Sorry, today’s schedule’s full. We can book you in for another slot later this month.”

“I can’t—” My mind scrambles for something, anything, and pounces on the first story it can think of. “She’s in day care and they need to have her up-to-date with all of her shots. Can you do tomorrow?” I say, bouncing Sabine on my hip as she grabs a chunk of my carefully styled waves and yanks.

“Nope. This whole week and the next are all fully booked.”

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