Page 15 of The Emerson Effect
Have I been watching Emerson’s margarita video on repeat, reading every comment, and clicking to every other account the viewers guess is the woman he’s toasting? Yes.
Have the other accounts gained an uptick in followers and views because of it just like I have? Also yes.
If one ambiguous video can help boost several accounts this much, what would happen to my numbers if I agreed to Emerson’s plan and acted out the full cycle of an actual relationship?God.I hate to admit it, even to myself, but he’s right. The push and pull of a public romance could blast us into space, figuratively speaking.
But the only thing worse than admitting this to myself would be admitting it tohim, which is why five days have passed, and I still haven’t given him an answer. I don’t know why I’m so averse to telling Emerson he was right. That it’s a good idea despite the risks. Even if people try to accuse us of faking it, it would onlybe speculation. No one would ever be able to prove it if Emerson and I do it right and leave no evidence.
Of course, we’d have to trust each other implicitly to take that chance.
I take a sip of my lemon drop martini and frown. I really wanted a margarita tonight despite my personal ban on tequila, but I shied away from my favorite drink because I knew it would make me think of Emerson. Of course, here I am. Obsessing anyway. Just like I have been for the last five days.
Sighing, I set down my lemon drop and pick up my phone. Opening BingBang, I navigate to Emerson’s page and scroll through his recent videos. He’s gone back to posting reaction videos, tacks and duos with other creators, including one with me.
It’s the video I made as I tried out a new spinning face scrubber. Even though I hope to work with the beauty company at some point, this wasn’t a sponsored video. It was for fun, and as if Emerson somehow knew that, he posted a duo with me. Side-by-side, we scrub our faces, but as I talk about how deep the clean feels, Emerson gets the foaming soap into his mouth, nose, and eyes.
The high-pitched squeal of a scream that erupts from his mouth almost makes me laugh. Almost. Instead, I shake my head.
“I can’t believe he makes a living with this shit,” I mumble, then freeze.
I’m being a judgmental asshole. I make a living doing this shit, too. And my videos aren’t nearly as fun as Emerson’s are.
Biting my lip, I tap the icon to open our thread and reread the messages from Sunday. He seemed eager and confident we could make this work. My own responses seemed guarded and, honestly,negativecompared to his positive energy.
And then, when I finally conceded and agreed to think about it, he complimented me.
Because you’re a smart woman.
It didn’t feel contrived then and it still doesn’t now. I believe that he honestly thinks I’m an intelligent person. A good businesswoman. Someone he really wants to work with. To give this crazy idea a real shot.
My lips twitch as I read his words again, then I stiffen my spine and start typing a new message.
So, how, exactly, would this work?
A couple of seconds after I send it, the green dot appears next to his profile picture, indicating he’s in the app. Then a response pops up, and I can’t curb my smile.
YES! You won’t regret this, Twila. I promise.
I squint my eyes as I tap out a reply.
Don’t get too excited. We are just having a conversation. I haven’t agreed to anything.
He replies back just as quickly as before.
Oh, you will. Here’s my number. Let’s do a video call so we can really talk about it.
I’m uncertain and quite honestly, shocked at his willingness to toss out his personal number like that. I’m also wary of giving my nemesis a direct line to me by calling him.
But is he really my nemesis? If you’d have asked me last week, the answer would’ve been an unequivocal “yes.” But now…now I see him as a real person trying to get a foothold in this industry just like I am. He’s had a decent––okay, fine––agreatidea, and he wants me to be a part of it.
The least I can do is call him and hear him out.
Jumping up, I run into the bathroom and check my reflection in the mirror. I’m not wearing any makeup, my hair is up in a messy bun, and I have on a simple t-shirt. I close my eyes andtake a deep breath before forcing myself to walk back to the couch and not upstairs to fix my face and hair.
I refuse to worry about my appearance with him. This is a possible business transaction. Nothing more.
Copying the number he sent, I paste it into my contacts and add him as “The Emerson Effect.” Hell, I don’t even know his last name.
This is crazy.
