Page 4 of You Will Never Be Me

It is carnage. By the time I’ve changed Sabine into a clean diaper and clean clothes, I am drenched in sweat. My makeup isn’t just running, it’s speeding away from my face. I try to salvage it as best as I can, but it’s next to impossible with one arm keeping a squirmy Sabine on my hip, and the other shaky after all the stress.Don’t fall apart now, I scold myself.It’ll all be okay. You always land on your feet.

“We’re so late,” I moan to Sabine as I speed walk back to the car. “Goddamn it!” I cry when I see her car seat. Somehow, I’d managed to forget that I still needed to clean it. Again, I try my best, one-handed, Sabine fussing, twisting, arching her back, and shouting right in my ear. People looking, always looking. I could’ve sworn I saw a glimpse of someone’s camera phone aimed at me. And I roll with it. I always roll with it. I give them my bestoh god, it’s one of those dayssmiles and wave. The woman taking a photo smiles back and puts her phone in her purse before coming toward me.

“Do you need a hand?” she says.

“Oh, thank you so much. It has been…” I gesture at the mess and give a harried smile. “One of those days.”

“I know those days,” the woman laughs. “My life is nothing but ‘those days.’ Want me to carry her while you clean up?”

I almost hand Sabine over to her, but catch myself in time. I can just see the uproar online:Aspen Palmer gave her baby to a STRANGER!I force another smile and say, “I think I’ve got most of it out, though thank you so much.” I haven’t gotten most of it out. Most of it has been absorbed into the car seat, and no amount of baby wipes, no matter how savagely I scrub, is going to get it out. I shake out a baby blanket and drape it over the car seat before putting Sabine back inside. “Thank yousomuch,” I say again over my shoulder to the woman as I wrestle Sabine into the car seat. Not that she has done anything to help, but I am always nice. Always.

I can’t speed the rest of the way to the meeting (Aspen Palmer SPEEDING with a baby in her car!). By the time we get there, we’re twenty-seven minutes late, and both Sabine and I look like shit. We also smell like it—something I realize as the receptionist’s nose wrinkles when I get to her desk.

“Hi, I’m Aspen Palmer, and this is Sabine. I’m here to see Michelle Reyes.”

Recognition dawns on her face. “Oh my gosh, you’re All Day Aspen!” The disgusted nose wrinkle is instantly gone, replaced by an expression I’m more familiar with: admiration.

“That’s me,” I say cheerfully, resisting the urge to apologize for the way we look and smell. I learned long ago to stop apologizing so much for everything. It doesn’t endear you to people. I do, however, apologize for being late, because that’s common courtesy.

“Hmm, let’s see…Ms.Reyes is supposed to have a meeting in three minutes’ time. Your slot is almost over,” the receptionist says apologetically. My stomach drops. But then she adds, “You know what? That meeting is actually flexible, so let me just move it…Okay, you have twenty minutes with Ms.Reyes now.”

“Thank you so much!”

“Of course. I’m such a huge fan,” the receptionist says. “My little sister has diabetes, and I really appreciate you raising awareness about juvenile diabetes.”

I give a sympathetic “Aww” and nod, and she smiles as she leads me into the main office space. Bodacious Babies is a modeling agency for babies, and the walls are adorned with framed photos of their clients, all of them plump and cherubic with chunky thigh rolls. None of them holds a candle to my beautiful Sabine. Of course, you wouldn’t know it from looking at her now. Sweaty, cranky, still whimpering in my arms.

The receptionist knocks at the corner office door. “Come in,” Michelle calls out.

“Good luck,” the receptionist says.

“Thank you.” I take a deep breath and enter with a confident smile. I’ve got this. How many of these meetings have I taken? She should be glad that I’ve taken the time to come and see her. She’ll grasp my hand warmly and fall in love with Sabine, because how can anyone not?

Instead, the first thing Michelle Reyes does when I walk in is to give a very pointed, very calculated glance at the clock.

“I’m sorry we’re late. Poor Sabine had a diaper blowout,” I say with an apologetic laugh. I hadn’t planned on telling her about the blowout, but it’s something I’m betting that, as a mother, Michelle would empathize with.

Except Michelle turns out to be a sociopath, because the mention of a blowout doesn’t make her sympathetic, it only disgusts her. God, how have I misjudged this so badly? I try to recover. “But I’ve cleaned her up now!”

Michelle still wears the look of distaste as she regards Sabine, and I get a sudden urge to take off Sabine’s diaper and smack it into Michelle’s face. I fight it off and settle into the seat opposite Michelle’s desk. “We’re both so excited to be here today.”

A fake smile appears on Michelle’s face. “Yes, so am I.”

“Sabine loves the camera. You can tell she grew up with it.” Sabine writhes in my arms and shrieks, and I jump back to my feet and bounce her on my hip. “Sorry, like I said, we had a difficult morning. She’s usually really easy. The easiest! She hardly ever cries.” At this, Sabine screams even louder. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck.Come on, Sabine. Please don’t do this right now.“Sorry, just—” I rummage through the diaper bag and locate a bottle of formula. “Freshly pumped,” I sing to Sabine as I put the rubber nipple in her mouth. I pray that Michelle can’t tell the difference between breast milk and formula. With the twins, I managed to breastfeed them until they were a year old. But with Sabine, my breasts gave up three months in, and ever since then, she’s been on formula. But try telling any other momfluencer that. I’d be stoned for being a terrible mom. Thankfully, Sabine settles down. “See? Easy.” I smile at Michelle.

She gives a terse nod, looking far from convinced. “The thing is, Aspen, as much as we love your brand, we’re very concerned about the number of trolls you’ve attracted.”

My gut twists. Anger flickers, searing hot. Goddamn Liv. How many times do I have to tell her to take care of the hateful comments that plague my accounts? I’m going to fire that uselessmoron. I force a laugh. “Isn’t it a mark of success to have trolls? I think every influencer—the ones who are big enough, anyway—has them.”

“Yes, but you have more than an acceptable number of them. It’s actually quite worrying. Aren’t you concerned about your family’s safety?”

And now I’m not just angry, I’m furious. How dare this smug, condescending bitch sit there and accuse me of not caring for my family’s safety? It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “My family’s health and safety is my top priority. Ben and I have made damn sure to do everything to keep our kids safe.”

Michelle leans back, clearly unconvinced. “See, the thing is, your trolls seem more…personal. My team has combed your accounts, and these comments…” She picks up her iPad and scrolls, sucking in a breath. “ ‘Fake bitch,’ ‘fake,’ ‘fake,’ —we don’t like these, because your brand is all about authenticity, but at least they’re not alarming. But these ones: ‘I know where her kids go to school and trust me when I say they are total brats,’ and, ‘The twins are so beautiful, especially in those little skirts I saw them wearing on Monday on the way to ballet.’ They’re not…typical, Aspen. I don’t think it’s a good time for you to be getting more exposure. We don’t want to further endanger your family.”

The rage is almost blinding. My whole body is so hot that I’m surprised I haven’t burned a hole right through the chair. “Every influencer has them,” is all I manage to say, and I know I’m just repeating myself. I know there is no changing her mind. “Why did you—why set up this meeting if you were just going to reject us?”

Michelle shrugs. “I wasn’t aware of the magnitude of the troll accounts when we set up this meeting. It was brought to my attention only recently.”

---