I’m a startup, but no one wants to take a chance in an office that looks like it’s been robbed!
Laptop comes out.
Sketchbook too.
Pencil.
Through the wireless speaker, still playing my favorite songs, my phone pings once.
Again.
Again.
Three notifications back-to-back can only be one person, and I leave it be for now, because I don’t have time to sit and chat with Claire—not until I’ve gotten something done for work.
“No,” I say. “I don’t have time for this right now.”
I do, however, scoop up my phone, and the tiny red icon in the corner of a social media app has my brows rising.
One hundred two.
Weird.
“Huh.” I poke it open and my jaw drops.
Last night when I went to sleep, my social media profile—the one I recently created for my design business—had 893 followers. This morning?
15,724.
Wait—15,725.
“What the hell?” This makes no sense.
There must be a glitch—that can be the only explanation since I am a nobody with no ad budget and barely a business page.
I click over to my personal page.
4,082 follow requests.
“Eh?” I literally say that out loud: Eh. “What is going on?”
Of course, no one responds, because I am alone.
Ding.
Ding.
Claire texts me again, twice—at least I think it’s Claire? but when I actually look at the messenger notifications on my phone, I notice 44 unread texts.
“What the…”
It rings: a girl I went to college with, one I haven’t spoken to in over a year and with whom I have no desire to speak now.
I decline the call and tap open my inbox.
Claire: 12 texts. A group chat lighting up. Some guy named Will I dated briefly my freshman year. Emily. My cousin Gwen, who can be a real bitch sometimes—she wanted me to give her a job, but has no work ethic.
My dad.
And several other people I haven’t spoken to in ages.
Honestly. What is happening?
Is it the apocalypse? Is the world coming to an end and suddenly everyone is texting to say they love me?
My phone rings again and this time it is Claire, so I accept.
“What the heck is going on,” I say by way of greeting, walking toward the bathroom in my cute office space.
“Um hello, have you been online this morning?”
“No, why would I?” I don’t sit and look at gossip columns or read the news like she does—that’s what I have her for, to give me the daily tea. No need to go snooping myself. Besides, who has time for that? I might have been late as shit this morning, but that’s not normal for me. I do not spend the beginning of my day being idle, orgasm hangover notwithstanding.
“Good, good,” she replies and I can picture her nodding. “That’s good.”
She’s being weird, but speaking of which… “Claire, my Insta is blowing up. It’s the strangest thing. Like, overnight it went crazy—I don’t know what’s going on.” I tuck the phone under my chin and start washing my hands. This new almond and shea foaming soap is just the yummiest and my fave. Wash. Rinse. Grab at the black hand towel on the counter. “Is the whole site down? What’s going on? Did you see anything about a glitch?”
“It’s not a glitch.”
“Well if it’s not a glitch then some freaky shit is going on, because I literally gained 15,000 followers overnight, and my phone was blowing up this morning.”
“Yeah, well—I have two words for you.” She pauses dramatically and I roll my eyes, waiting for her to continue.
“What two words?”
“Noah. Harding.”
“Oh my god, Noah—I forgot to tell you about our date last night, but Claire, he spent the night, and before you ask, no we did not have se—”
“Would you stop talking! This is serious!” Claire demands. “Randi, listen to me: do not go on the internet.”
“Uh…” I look at myself in the mirror, irritated skin on my neck and collarbone visible at the neckline of my t-shirt. I blush at my reflection. “Why?”
“Trust me. Just don’t do it.”
Since when has that ever worked to keep me from doing something? In fact, it has the opposite effect.
“Okay, but now I want to.”
“For once in your life, would you listen?”
I laugh and leave the bathroom, flicking the light switch down. “I don’t know what I’m even listening to—what is your problem?”
I go to the table-desk and plop down in the metal chair, cringing at how hard it is on my ass. Power up my laptop and let it come to life.
It’s as if my bestie knows what I’m about to do.
“I said don’t do it!” she shouts—yes, shouts—and I laugh again.
“Relax! I’m just going to check my emails!”
Not.
I fully intend to investigate, despite not knowing what the Sam Hill she’s squawking about.
“You don’t think it’s weird that I have a billion new followers?”
And what does Noah have to do with any of this? We went on one date.
“Yes I think it’s weird, but Miranda, it’s not good.”
I stop what I’m doing, which is pulling up a browser. “What do you mean ‘It’s not good’? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Besides, how can all these new followers on my business page be a bad thing?
I should scroll through some of them to see if any are local and potentially in the market for a decorator!
My heart races with optimism.
“There’s a picture.”
A picture? “Of what?”
“You and Noah. Him.”
“Okay…” Finally, I lean back slowly in my ungodly uncomfortable chair, crossing my arms, ready to listen. “Explain.”
“In the tabloids.”
“What tabloids?”
“All of them.”
Huh? “That makes no sense whatsoever. No one saw us out.”
Well…that’s not entirely true. I think about the men and women who were at Mason’s last night, slyly taking photos of us. The man who approached our table for an autograph, the one Noah politely snubbed. The young woman in the bathroom with me who clearly wanted to
