Page 57 of Everyone Is Lying to You

“Not about the dinner. It’s a safe space for everyone, but I’m dying to get you next to me at dinner. I’d love to talk to you about some things.”

“I’ll see you at five.”

“Looking forward to it.” She gives a beauty queen wave and sashays away. She’s even more of an enigma than Olivia Jackson.

***

I study the other women waiting for the dune buggies to take us out to the ominous Devil’s Staircase. What had I expected? All women like Veronica? All of the tradwives? This mix is more eclectic than that. Every single variety of influencer is present. Trads, Hens, Fitness, Bosses.

I see the pregnant panelist who had been onstage that first day, @B0ssBabe$$$.

Her real name is Amy Weisberg, according to her badge, which everyone is still inexplicably wearing. I vaguely remember what she said on the stage: “I am a multi-hyphenate human who goes with the flows of the moon to show up authentically for myself and my community.” I wonder if she always speaks in code, and I sidle up to her and introduce myself.

“When do you head home?” she asks.

“Soon,” I say vaguely.

“It feels like we’re all trapped. Stuck here while we wait for flights back.”

I’d heard this from a few of the women. There had been a big basketball tournament in the city this week, along with some college graduations, so no one has been able to switch to earlier flights. Everyone is in a holding pattern at this hotel. No conference to occupy their time, but still plenty of networking to be done.

“I’m a reporter, actually. I was covering MomBomb and now I’m working on some pieces about Grayson Sommers.” Why lie. Why pretend. Amy flinches at his name.

“Right. You wrote that piece forModern Woman. I read it twice. It’s awful. What he did to her. I can’t get those images of her out of my mind. You were brave for writing that. Wherever Rebecca is…I hope she saw it.”

I don’t say that I hope so too. That itwasthe point, or some of the point at least, of me writing it.

“I thought tonight’s dinner was going to be off the record though,” Amy says nervously, rubbing circles around her belly. “I love talking to press. Don’t get me wrong, always be branding,but I don’t want to be involved in the Grayson Sommers story. I’m sure you can understand…the optics.”

“I’m not working tonight,” I assure her, now afraid that I’ve made a miscalculation coming here at all. “Please don’t worry. I’m here as a guest.” That’s a half-truth. Is anyone ever not working these days? Aren’t we always on? Isn’t she searching for content here in the desert? Someone will probably be live streaming this dune buggy ride. Someone is probably live streaming us right now.

I see Veronica’s sisters, Betty and Skipper. So strange that I feel like I know them intimately despite never speaking to them.

Betty is much less militant than Veronica in her videos. She’s a silly mom who loves pranking her kids and making slime. Making slime seems to be a whole influencer category unto itself. Skipper does mostly unboxing videos where she and her kids open dozens and dozens of boxes of toys a week. Where does she keep it all? The three of them live in massive houses, but still. The Barbies alone look like they’d take up the back of a Mack truck.

I look around for Katie, the easygoing woman I sat next to on day one at the conference, but she’s nowhere to be found. She must have found a way out, must have gotten a flight. Or maybe she’s a local. We hadn’t gotten into too many personal details. I just liked her straightforward, no-bullshit vibe and view on this world, and I wish I’d gotten more of it. She’d make a fun dinner companion and maybe a good source.

Cricket’s still here too. I wonder how Chad feels about that. Chad is probably not very happy. I’ll bet babysitting his kids is driving him crazy. She gives me a wide smile before strappingherself into the first vehicle that arrives to whisk us all away. I’ve never been in one of these. It’s a glorified golf cart with massive wheels and seat belts that go over your head and strap across the chest like on a roller coaster.

“Would you like some goggles?” a hotel employee asks. “To protect your eye makeup.” I see everyone strapping goggles to their faces. Who knows what sand does to false lashes. No one wants to be the first to find out.

“Wait for me,” a voice calls out. Through the sandy haze I see a petite brunette jogging toward us. She’s in jeans and a T-shirt, her face free of makeup. Katie.

I wave for her to take the empty seat next to me. She collapses into it, breathless.

“I haven’t seen you around,” I say. “I thought you’d left.”

“No. Still here. Just busy…I’ve been hunkered down in my room, but then I heard about this dinner.” She shrugs. “I want to talk to as many of these women as possible. My app is going into beta and I want them to try it out.”

“Did Veronica invite you today too?”

“Yeah. At the last minute. I was kind of shocked. Maybe she messed up.”

I doubt Veronica messes anything up. Whoever is here is meant to be here.

The parade of dune buggies sets off in single file across the sand and then up the smooth rocks, across the vast expanse to Devil’s Staircase as the sun winks on the horizon.

Distances are deceptive in the desert. The drive is longer than I expected. It’s dark by the time we arrive nearly an hour later. We’re on a plateau of flat rock on the edge of the spiral. AsVeronica had explained we’re at a midway point. The stairs ascend to the stars and then continue down the rock face into the vast canyon below. Dinner is served on a flat outcropping in between the two. We’re on a plateau of purgatory.

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