Page 7 of Heartbeats and Hashtags
“Um, Everly, I like have this emergency back home.” Her voice catches, and she clears the throat roughly. “I am going to have to resign and leave town for a while to go to the west coast. I’m not sure for how long.” The words seem yanked from her.
“Surely you can just take some time off?” I blurt out. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just surprised. Is everything OK? What's going on?”
She stands abruptly, papers sliding off her lap onto the hardwood. I reach out a hand to steady her, but she recoils from my touch, wild eyes taking in the room like she’s seeking an escape.
“Nope! Just out-of-the-blue family stuff. My mom has been sick for a while, and… I’m so sorry.” A hysterical edge strains her voice now. She attempts to sweep items haphazardly into her bag. “I’m gonna miss you.”
I gently catch her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there. “Kirra, stop. Breathe. Just talk to me. We’ll handle this. I’ll be by your side. I’m so sorry your mom’s sick. If you need some time off, that’s OK. I’ll be here for you,” I reassure softly.
She looks down to my hand holding her and pulls away quickly as though my hand is a flame. Tears are pooling in her eyes.Shit, how did I not notice something was going on with her? How long has her mom been sick?
She hesitates for a moment. Then with a slow head shake she turns and disappears out the front door without another word. The roar of her engine cuts off my calls down the driveway.
I stare after her fading taillights, stunned into silence. I keep wracking my brain for clues I might’ve missed. Yeah, Kirra had some off moments recently. Did I miss shadows haunting her eyes whenever she wiped her cheeks and muttered about allergies? My pulse pounds anxiously. Maybe her downward gaze and personal phone calls had nothing to do with a busy lifestyle. Guilt churns in my stomach as I recall the moments she spaced out when I vented about work stuff and the pressures of keeping up my online persona. Oh God, have I been so self-absorbed I’ve missed the signs my friend is struggling with a sick mother?
I sink slowly onto the step outside my house, feeling the cold air brush my cheeks.What am I going to do now without my right-hand woman?I shoot her a text asking if she’s okay, though I have a strong feeling that I wont get an answer.
Habitually, I swipe and switch to my social media page, scrolling through the comments of my latest post. My chest tightens with wrongness as I reply straight-faced to a fan comment, “Haha! LMAO, so true, girl.”
My phone chimes with a notification reminder for the sponsored “Best Night of Your Life!” event tonight. Fingers clench around my phone tight to resist hurling it away. Taking a breath, I check the time. I groan out loud, hoping no neighbors are watching me.Shit. To make matters worse, I only have thirty minutes to get ready for this event, and my hair is at least two days past its wash-me-now due date. I amreallynot in the mood to socialize tonight.
EVERLY
“It’s, like, so embarrassing,” the blonde model comments, flipping her hair across her shoulder and wrinkling her nose. We’d only met tonight. Her name is Charlotte, I think, and she is already acting like we are best friends. Conveniently, that is onlyaftershe asked how many followers I had.
“Don’t you think, Everly?” I open my mouth, but she barrels on without a pause.
“I mean, seriously? Youweren'tinvited, Mia. Stop trying to be famous.” An unattractive snort punctuates her words. With a second hair flip that seriously threatens to dislodge her extensions, she looks at me expectantly.
I blink slowly and shrug.
“I mean, she is technically invited because she’s here as Jade’s plus one.” I’m not sure why I’m defending Mia, who notoriously hates me and has aimed snarky jabs my way online. Mia is trying to make it as a fitness influencer but can’t seem to catch a break.
“Some people are born with it, and others…are not, and you can't change that. That's just the way it is.” Charlotte raises her chin loftily as though that isthe mostprofound statement ever uttered.
I force a polite nod, choking back true thoughts with my drink instead while scanning the lively room for an escape. The entire area is buzzing with activity. The sound of laughter and conversation fill the air as people mingle and sample the brand’s various offerings. Waiters weave in and out of the crowd, delivering trays of the signature health drink to everyone. I wish one of my girls was here.
At least then I might have the confidence to call out this girl for her unfairness.Or, more likely, Tanya would do it for me. But I know it would only create an enemy, so I clench my jaw and go with the fake nod and polite smile before excusing myself.
In a flurry of kitten-heeled footsteps, I make my way outside onto the wooden decking. I welcome the breeze and the fresh air as it wraps around me as my eyes register the breathtaking view of the South Beach sunset. Rays from the sun stretch and reflect across the surface of the Atlantic. My anxiety reduces a little as I sip on a delicious concoction of pineapple and coconut while gazing out over the ocean.This drink is actually really freakin' good, and it’s low calories? I am into this.
I usually attend these brand events with the same enthusiasm as everyone else, delighted by the aesthetic and luxury atmosphere created by the brands. All these events are curated to encourage you to take photos of yourself having a good time. There are flower walls for photo ops and plenty of free food and booze all around to entice all the influencers to attend and stick around.
Attending these events isn’t for nothing though; there are often unspoken or contractual agreements to post about the event and promote the brand on your socials. That is typically fine with me. I only ever partner with brands that I actually like, and my followers trust me for that.
But tonight I feel off balance. And I know why: it is the messages. I’d seen a request earlier from a new account. I haven’t opened it yet because Iknowwho it’s going to be from. I feel a tingle down my spine seeing the unopened message, my intuition is telling me its from that creepy guy again, EvBear. I can’t let this control my life though. I am strong, and I wont let someone intimidate me. I will just check the message then block the account like I do every time.But you know they’ll just make a new one tomorrow.My stomach drops as I scan the words.
“Everly! Stop ignoring me, please. It hurts my feelings ?. You looked so lovely this morning in those pink leggings. You should wear them more. I don’t know why you switched - Yours Eternally - EvBear”
My throat tightens immediately. I check my page to see if I had posted anything this morning where you could see my pink leggings before I put on my blue pair. My heart drops to my stomach.I hadn’t.
Hands trembling, I swiftly block the account. I can’t look up from my phone yet. While I’m online, I decide to fulfill my obligations and post a few photos to my stories. I shoot up an artsy shot of my drink overlooking the view. I robotically type out a bubbly caption about the “B.E.S.T. night ever with @VitamineDrank!” to show thesuperhappy times. I tap to check the post actually uploaded without glitching. Standard protocol.
I compulsively scan the replies already rushing in about life goals and how jealous people are. I read them mechanically, retaining nothing. The familiar hollow pang gnaws at my composure.
I frown down at the screen. I’m aware that I’m putting on an act for my followers right now, but I have to post about tonight. And I do actually really like the drink, and if I wasn’t being cyber-harassed, Imightbe having a good night. The justification does nothing to stop the uneasiness washing over me. I take a breath. Now isn’t the time to be questioning the morals of posting a photo of a drink, I reason.
Closing my phone with aclick, my skin crawls as my thoughts drift back to the messages. I’m wondering if it’s time to do something about this. This latest message shows they are close by. They’rewatchingme. And, being down an assistant and up a stalker, everything is beginning to feel overwhelming.
