I wanted to look at charter schools for Adelaide. The price of private school, even for elementary school, is mind-boggling. But my parents insisted on only the best for Adelaide, promising to cover the cost and letting me pay them back on a payment plan. I might’ve fought harder against it, but when Adelaide got into Remington Academy, I couldn’t say no. Not only are the academics unmatched, but their art program is truly out of this world. When Adelaide shadowed a student for a day, she talked about the art teacher for weeks. She loved it. And I couldn’t deny her a start in life where she loved school from the very beginning.
The color in his cheeks hasn’t faded and his posture hasn’t relaxed. He looks right past me and eyes the overstuffed backpack slung over my shoulder. “Is that her stuff?”
Point taken.
I’d gladly never discuss this with him ever again.
“Yeah.” I take it off and hand it over to him. It’s hard for me to believe that I used to consider him my best friend.
He takes the bag from my hand, careful to make sure he doesn’t even so much as graze my fingertips. “Well, even if she doesn’t go to school around here.” He stumbles over his words and my guard immediately shoots up. “I was talking with Stephanie and we both think it would be a good idea if Junie starts coming over a little bit more.”
My stomach twists into knots, and I’m afraid I might decorate those rosebushes I so lovingly planted with this morning’s pancakes.
“Yeah, sure!” My voice is too high, my words are too forceful, but no matter how many calming techniques Jude’s friends taught me, my panic overrides it all and I forget everything. “Adelaide would love that.”
And she would. Which is why me feeling like his words are slowly ripping me apart from the inside out makes me feel like the worst mom in the history of moms. I should be happy. Right? I want my daughter to have a relationship with her dad. I want Ben to step up and be involved in her life. I freaking prayed for it! But I don’t want to lose any of my time with her either. I want every good-night kiss, morning cuddle, every tickle session. I want the tantrums and snotty noses. Good and bad. I want every single second of it.
And it makes me hate Ben even more.
“Great, thanks.” He at least has the decency to look somewhat nervous. And considering the roller-coaster ride this encounter has been, it’s the least he could do. “I’ll email you, the lawyer said it’s probably best that we have everything in writing.”
His sentence trails off at the same time the ground disappears from beneath my feet.
“Lawyer?” The word is barely more than a whisper.
“Oh, yeah, you know, I just wanted to make sure I go about everything the right way.” His blue eyes, the ones I loved so much, look anywhere except at me.
“Ben.” His name is like acid coming out of my mouth. “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
“No.” He shakes his head furiously, the wavy black hair I used to love running my fingers through flopping over across his forehead. “Really, don’t worry about it. You’ve been so great, I know we don’t need to get them involved, this is just for me so I don’t mess things up.”
“Okay, thank you.” Relief washes over me. The last thing I need is lawyer bills with the kindergarten tuition payments I’ll soon be paying.
When we separated, he was a doctor and I was an unemployed single mom. I told my mom a lawyer helped me get everything straightened out, but since Ben and I never got married and I wasn’t legally entitled to his money, I couldn’t afford a lawyer. And the way my pride was set up, I couldn’t admit to my mom that she was right to be worried. So instead, I pretended everything was fine to my parents and was grateful anytime he gave me money or graced Adelaide with his presence.
“Of course. I just want to make things good between us.” He pushes his hair off his face, and then he smiles at me.
And not just any smile. Not the one I fell in love with or the one he gave me after I said yes to marrying him. No, it’s the smile that came later. The one he gave me when I told him I was pregnant. The one he gave me when I told him it was fine he took an extra shift at the hospital. The one I took comfort in and trusted.
The same one he used while he was cheating on me and lying straight to my face for years.
And I know I need to get a lawyer. Which means I need to call my parents and come clean.
Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.
FOUR
• • •
Jude
The best part of being a social influencer is that everyone around you wants to be one too.
I started my brand without even trying. Some random blog posted a picture from my Instagram for an article they were doing on Hollywood’s hottest daughters. It was nice that they still considered my mom part of Hollywood. It was shortly after her second season on a cult-following reality show. They posted a picture of us leaving a Pilates class, and even I have to admit that my body looked bangin’ in that picture. I was pulling my freshly highlighted hair out of a ponytail, and my smile was that of someone completely oblivious to the destruction life was about to rain down on her. My skin had the glow of a perfect sweat session. I looked amazing.
That night the first clothing line reached out to me. The next day, an online Pilates platform and a nutritional company. And considering I was most definitely not using my theater degree, I took this opportunity for what it was and ran with it.
That was five years ago.
I know being an influencer looks like bullshit captions and filtered pictures. Part of it is. But it’s also a lot of work to stay relevant in a field that gets more and more saturated by the day. It’s being conscious of everything I post online. It’s seeing my life through the lens of my phone camera, projecting that sparkling image to my hundreds of thousands of followers, and never letting them see me falter. Even when my life is in a total tailspin. It’s constantly pitching to brands that I’m the person they should invest in. And it’s trying to expand my brand so I’m not dependent on some algorithm for my livelihood. That’s what my Pilates studio was supposed to do.
Before Asher Thompson took my money and ran with it. Leaving me broke, with a “sister wife” and a five-year-old for roommates. But like I post on the ’gram, c’est la vie and some other inspirational shit.
Even though faking perfection should probably make me feel guilty or like a fraud who doesn’t deserve any of the things I have, it doesn’t. It does the opposite. It just proves how fucking good I am at my job. And unlike my mom, I’m making money doing this, not sending my entire family into financial ruin to keep up with the Joneses. So tonight, when I post pictures smiling with my best friend at Hudson’s gallery opening, my followers will eat it up, just like I knew they would. Because I’m a goddamn professional.