Page 3 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

“I was thinking more Kermit the Frog.” She tries to make this sound like that’s a good thing.

“I can’t believe it. I finally stumped you. I finally screwed up so badly even you can’t make it sound like a good thing.”

“Hey! Everybody loves Kermit!”

“Maybe. But nobody wants to look like Kermit.” I chuckle, even though I don’t feel like laughing. “Thanks for letting me hide here.”

“You’re not hiding. You’re getting a fresh start.”

This is what I love about Rory. She can make anything sound like a positive. A few months ago, she had really bad food poisoning and threw up for twenty-four hours straight. She described the experience asproof her immune system worked.

Rory reaches out to brush a hand over my hair. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

I blow out a breath. “I have this Instagram account.”

“Duh. I follow you on Instagram. And comment all the time.”

I know Rory loves me. That she’ll support me no matter what. Still my heart is pounding as I admit this. My deepest secret. “No. This one is different.”

She stills, then pulls back a little. “Okay, you’re so nervous it’s freaking me out a little. Is this some weird sex thing? Because you know I’ll try to be supportive, but if my baby sister has a social media account where she posts about strange men sucking jalapeño jelly off her toes or something, I’m gonna need a minute.”

I laugh. “It’s nothing like that. I swear!”

When she still looks doubtful, I pull my phone out from under my pillow where I put it when I crawled into bed, then type in my passcode. That’s how paranoid I’ve been about keeping this secret. I don’t even use facial recognition to unlock my phone.

Though, honestly, I don’t know if it’s a sign of how paranoid I am or how controlling our mother is. I just didn’t trust her not to unlock my phone while I was asleep and look through my emails and social media without my permission.

Now, here next to the one person I trust explicitly, I open Instagram and log into my Comfortably_Curvy_Fashionista account.

Once it loads, I hand my phone to Rory, practically holding my breath as she scrolls down my page.

I know what she’s seeing, obviously, since every one of those curated photos features me. Never my face. Always just my fashion and my curves. Body positivity quotes. And, every once in a while, my food.

“This is awesome,” Rory says, her tone as bright and sunshine-y as always, but also with a hint of confusion. She pauses scrolling and looks at me. “Is this you?”

“Yep.”

“You have …” She looks up at me, clearly baffled. “You have over four hundred thousand followers.”

“Yep.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yep.”

“So the other day, when I was all excited because the account for the E-I-E-I-Okay-Corral had reached two thousand followers, did you basically laugh your ass off?”

“No!” I sit up, indignant. “Of course not! But, if you want tips about how to build your brand, we can talk about that later.”

“Um, yes, please!” Then she waves her hand dismissively, also pushing herself up and sitting cross-legged like me. “But later. One thing at a time. I need you to connect the dots for me. You have this amazing Instagram presence and somehow that’s related to you finally escaping the clutches of the evil stepmother, and—”

“She’s not our stepmother. She’s actually our mother.”

“Well, yes, but she’s awful and it helps me if I pretend we’re not her flesh and blood.”

I’m torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. Because Rory is right. Our mother is awful.

“Honestly, I think that’s why I started this account. She’s just…”

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