Page 4 of Wild and Bright

“Will I be famous like Uncle Hunter and Uncle Cam?”

My smile fades at her mention of Camden, and especially his honorary title of uncle. An unpleasant ache tightens my throat. Is this guilt?

If it is, there’s no reason for it. Five years ago, I was certain Cadence was Ryder’s. Or almost certain. And even now, despite my growing suspicion, it’s still much more likely she’s his. What are the odds that a single, fevered encounter with Cam would get me pregnant when I’d had frequent unprotected sex with Ryder up until then?

It’s only been these past few months that my certainty has waned. Sometimes I’ll catch myself daydreaming about Cam, unsure of where the thoughts came from, and then I’ll glance at those intense dark eyes of my little girl, and my whole body grows cold.

Then again, it doesn’t take much to make me think about Camden.

Maybe I’m seeing things.

“No, they’re a lot more famous.” It’s all I can say.

“Well, I’m going to be way more famous than them when I grow up, and my YouTube channel will have a hundred hundred hundred thousand subscribers, and then I’ll give you some, and then you can be more famous, too.”

I gasp out a laugh. “I’ll be too old by then, baby. No one will want to look at my face. My nose will be as big as Grandpa’s. Look at this thing.” I point to the tip of my nose. “It’s already a miracle that I have as many subscribers as I do.”

“Mommy, I love your nose.”

When I shift my gaze from my brush strokes to those sincere brown eyes, my chest aches. God, I never thought I was capable of a love like this until the first time I laid eyes on her. My love for her had broken out like blinding sunshine through my foggy delirium when I was about to collapse from exhaustion and was still slightly high from the fentanyl they gave me before the epidural.

“It’s really big,” she says. “Bigger than Grandpa’s, and I love that it’s so big.”

My hand freezes mid-brushstroke, and I throw my head back and laugh so loud it echoes across the room. “How is it possible to be so sweet and such an asshole at the same time?” I pinch her soft little cheek, and she giggles.

“Did you really call your four-year-old daughter an asshole?”

I clench my teeth as the shrill voice resonates from the hall. I smile, shooting Cadence a knowing look. “Yes,” I say sweetly.

When my mom marches into the living room, I see that familiar frown. The frown of judgment.

She places both hands on her hips. “I know you think there’s some kind of cultural cache from being flippant with your children—calling them assholes and…” Her pale-green eyes drift from my tripod to Cadence and then back to me, her expression growing more irate by the second. “Are you putting her in one of your videos?” Her voice is soft and menacing, which makes my stomach flutter.

What if I let her think that I am?

The thought alone makes my whole belly flip over.

God, why does no one ever talk about the malicious joy of living up to people’s worst expectations? It’s like a drug, it feels so good.

With effort, I keep my lips from twitching upward. “She’s been asking me to do it for a long time. I think she’s old enough now.” I turn to Cadence, winking dramatically.

“You think four is old enough to decide if she wants to have her face plastered all over the internet?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s such an old person thing to say.”

Like clockwork, her jaw ticks, and it makes me want to laugh. How absurd for an almost sixty-year-old woman to bristle at being called old. But vain, beautiful people never adjust to their changing looks. Instead of rejoicing over their good fortune in having once been gorgeous, they consider aging an injustice—that the person within them was always meant to be beautiful, and the universe is cruel for taking away their birthright.

“There’s so much social media out there,” I say. “None of this will matter. People who aren’t on social media are the weird ones. If you try to get hired somewhere in 2035 and you don’t have a long social media history, people will automatically assume you’re a serial killer.”

My mom’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t realize you were a sociologist. Did you finish your degree without my knowledge?”

Rage flares at the question and the cruelty behind it. My unfinished degree is the bane of my existence, the reason I’m drowning in debt and unable to move out on my own. She’s always known exactly what to say to get under my skin.

I try to keep my voice light. “Good talk, Mom. Now please get out of the living room so Cadence and I can finish our video. I don’t want you in the background. If people see your wrinkles, they won’t trust me when I talk about skincare.”

As soon as the words are out, I want to suck them back into my mouth. Why do I have to be like her? Why can’t I control this childish impulse to lash out? My mom’s look of rage as she stares at me silently only makes me feel that much worse. If she’s this visibly angry, it’s because I hurt her.

She turns to Cadence. “Sweetie, can you go to your room for a minute? I need to talk to your mommy about something.”

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