1
Molly
I used to marvel at the way my Great Mimi’s arthritic fingers would pinch her eyeliner pencil and trace a perfect stroke of midnight black along her upper lash line. The way her tired, nearly translucent skin would transform into a picture of regal elegance with only a few pats and swipes of color. For an eleven-year-old girl whose mother had never owned a single tube of mascara, it was a magical experience.
I’d watch my Mimi’s routine with my elbows propped onto a gold-leaf vanity and eyebrows disappearing behind poorly cut bangs. My mouth would form an opera-worthy O as she became a living, breathing masterpiece, her best features showcased and enhanced, her flaws minimized and concealed.
And in those final few seconds before she closed her makeup drawer and blotted her ruby red lips, she’d hand me her blush brush and say with a wink, “Molly, when you feel good in your own skin, it’s easy to help someone else feel good in theirs.”
I’d tap the remaining rouge onto the apples of my pale cheeks and smile at the stringy-haired girl in the mirror, promising myself that one day I would do just that: I would help someone else feel the way my Mimi had always made me feel. And now, sixteen years and 606,000 Instagram followers later, I’d kept my promise to that often misunderstood little girl, one emboldened cat-eye and sheer lip tutorial at a time.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
I snapped the compact of my recently reviewed translucent face powder closed—four-out-of-five lip smacks, dinged for a shorter wear life than advertised—and primped my hair one last time in the mirror before following the sound of my oven’s cry.
“See, Ethan? I told you I could finish getting ready before the oven preheated. That took what, five minutes? Hey, maybe that could be an idea for a future post series. ‘How to Get Date-Ready in Five Minutes or Less.’ Or wait—‘How to Get Date-Ready in Five Minutes and Five Products or Less’ is even better. Then I can feature that new Hollywood Nights collection that just came in. I’ll have Val add it to the schedule.” I rounded the corner into the kitchen, expecting to see my boyfriend on the recliner in my living room. Only he wasn’t there.
“Ethan?” I slid the glass pan of chicken marsala into the oven and lifted the charcuterie board I’d spent nearly an hour preparing. There was something strangely satisfying about arranging cheeses, meats, nuts, figs, and olives.
“The chicken will take about forty minutes to bake, but our appetizers will go great with that wine you bought last month. I’ve been saving it.” I wove around the island, gathering the glasses and balancing the cheese board on my palm like the trained waitress I was not. If my twin brother were here, this would be his cue to crack a joke about my propensity to drop plates of food, even though that had only happened one time. Granted, it had been on Thanksgiving Day, and granted, I had been carrying our twenty-five-pound stuffed turkey, but still, there should be a statute of limitations on bad family jokes.
I continued my balancing act into the living room. “I’m sure your appetite is still on East Coast time, but—” I stopped abruptly at the sight of my boyfriend stretched out on my sofa, eyes closed.
“Ethan?” I set both the appetizers and stemware on the coffee table and tiptoed over to him—quite a feat in four-inch cork-wedge heels. I approached him as if he were a wind-up toy ready to spring into action at any moment, which was perhaps the most fitting description of Ethan Carrington.
But there was no springing.
Apparently it didn’t matter how much time a woman spent creating the perfect cat-eye if the man she wanted to impress was unconscious. I crouched low and waved a hand over his face before he released a snore that had me cupping a hand over my own mouth to stifle a laugh. This had to be the most anticlimactic start to a date ever.
I covered him with a vegan angora throw from a boutique in Canada I’d promoted last autumn, then decided to capitalize on the rare moment. After all, Ethan’s favorite marketing motto was Never miss an opportunity to relate to your audience.
I whipped out my phone and proceeded to take a ten-second story, featuring my adorable sleeping boyfriend, a tray of untouched appetizers, and one pouty-lipped me. I captioned a post with Jet lag is the thief of romance.
Not even eight seconds later, my phone began to vibrate with notifications—likes, comments, emojis. An immediate endorphin boost. The temptation to scroll through them proved too much. After all, my manager-turned-boyfriend showed no signs of waking any time soon, and truth was, even if he had woken up, he’d tell me to reply to at least the first twenty or so commenters. Something to do with increased visibility and reach.
You’re so cute, Molly! And so is your boy toy! Hubba hubba . . .
Ah, sorry girl! But at least that maxi dress is ADORBS on you! Link please???
Good hair days like that should never be wasted tho. Wake him up already!
I liked a few dozen comments, replying in kind to their emoji strings and creative hashtags, then scrolled through the rest of my feed, hovering over the latest post by Felicity Fashion Fix, the snotty diva and ex-client of Ethan’s who once stole an entire vlog series idea from me two days before mine went live. I breathed out my nose the way Val always encouraged me to and tried to let go of the negative static in my chest . . . but not before glancing at Felicity’s latest follower count. 415,687. What? How on earth did she get such a big jump in followers so quickly? What is she doing? Besides stealing other people’s ideas, of course.
When Ethan finally began to stir, it took a hefty force of will to silence my phone and shove it in the crack of the chair cushion. Yet I did it with a smile, because that was what committed couples did for each other. At least, that was what I’d read from a popular blogger I followed: “Healthy couples ignore the pressures of social media to be socially present in their relationship.” I’d saved the pretty graphic to my photo reel just two days ago. Ethan and I didn’t get much face-to-face time since he traveled for business roughly three weeks out of the month, but perhaps the strain of a long-distance relationship would dissipate if we practiced being more socially present with the time we did have together.
“Hey there, sleepyhead,” I crooned from the recliner, where I’d kicked off my shoes and tucked my frozen feet under the skirt of my dress. Most days, springtime in northeast Washington was just a less snowy version of winter. “Welcome back.”
He jolted at the sound of my voice and blinked. “Molly?”
“Happy date night.”
Ethan rubbed at his eyes again. “What time is it?”
I glanced at the wall clock, surprised at how much time had passed while I’d been scrolling my feed. “A little after six.”
He pushed himself up to a seated position. “You should have woken me. I don’t even remember dozing off.”
“No way, you looked way too peaceful to disturb.” And it was nice to see him without a screen on his lap or in his hand. Ethan wasn’t the greatest at leaving his work behind. Then again, neither was I. “Besides, you’ve been up since two in the morning Pacific time. Dozing off for a few minutes seems perfectly acceptable—even for someone as immune to naps as you are.”
He ran a hand through his thick butterscotch-colored locks, and my breath actually hitched in my chest at the sight. In no way did he look like a man who’d spent his entire day traveling on an airplane. He smiled at me with those same midnight blue eyes that had won him many a client—myself included.