CHAPTER TWO Olive

CHAPTER TWO

Olive

"Holy smokes, Olive, these photos are incredible! You look hot!"

"Oh, stop it."

"I'm serious. Your fans are going to flip out."

"They will, huh?" I smile as I scroll through the camera roll, my roommate looking over my shoulder from her spot on the couch next to me, checking out her handiwork.

Annie may be a badass nurse by day—technically night, since that's her usual shift—but she's also an incredible photographer. Our apartment gets the most beautiful lighting at twilight, the kind of golden glow I've come to associate with the city, so more than once, I've enlisted my best friend's help to snap a few photos of me in whatever outfit tickles my fancy that day. I doubt my following would be as big as it is without her help in getting the perfect shot.

"Thank you. Again." I grin at her.

She bumps her shoulder into mine. "Anything for my favorite girl." She crinkles her nose. "Well, second favorite. I guess Daphne is my first favorite."

"Ugh." I toss my head back dramatically. "That kid is always stealing my thunder. I feel like I should challenge her to a fight or something. The winner gets all your affection and attention."

"You can't fight her, Olive. She's four."

"She's four," I mimic as I swipe through the photos, only halfway kidding about Annie's adorable blonde niece stealing all her love and attention. Daphne is really cute, so I guess I'll allow it.

"Oh, that one!" Annie points at my phone. "Post that one."

"You think? It's not too ... bland?"

"Are you kidding me? No! Nothing is boring in this dress." She runs her fingers over the sleeve of the shimmery golden material that's the star of tonight's mini photo shoot—a new piece from my favorite boutique that caters to plus-size women like me. "It's perfect. Plus, that sexy pout of yours is on full display. People will eat it up."

"Yeah, I guess." I pull up the photo Annie loves on my editing app and adjust the lighting to keep my feed's aesthetic cohesive, but that's all I touch. I refuse to do any facial or body changes, like smoothing this or flattening that, because I've worked hard to love my body the way it is.

"Besides, I've seen the comments on your photos," Annie continues. "You could wear a trash bag, and your fans would still flock to see what Olive O'Brien is wearing."

I tested this theory once and posted a photo of me in a beige jumpsuit that I know was not the least bit flattering. Two days later, I saw two women on the street wearing the same jumpsuit, heels, and accessories.

I love my followers, but sometimes I question whether they actually like me or just the version of me they have in their heads. I'm not one to shy away from being real, but I also don't share everything. I have a certain set of rules in place to try to keep some parts of myself to ... well, myself.

"And as much as I'd love to take that photo," Annie continues, "I have to run. My shift starts in twenty minutes, and you know how wild the city can get on Fridays. I'm sure we're already fifty people deep in the waiting room, so I may as well get there early to help if I can."

She rolls her big brown eyes, as if she doesn't thrive off the hospital's chaos, then rises to her feet, her adorable blue scrubs hugging her curves. She wants to talk about me being able to wear a trash bag and making it fashionable—she's one to talk. She makes her scrubs look like they belong on a runway.

"Have fun tonight," she says as she tugs her trusty cardigan off the rack near the door. She's always complaining the hospital is cold, and not a day goes by where she doesn't leave the house with that ratty old thing. "And remember, if you drink too much, call Remi. He'll happily—"

"Annie," I interrupt with my own eye roll. "I know. Love you, Mom."

She narrows her eyes playfully at the nickname. "Love you too," she says as she backs out the door.

I laugh when I hear her lock the handle and dead bolt.

She's always looking out for me, even offering up her adorably nerdy boyfriend to meet me wherever I am in the city so I'm never on the subway alone at night. He'd do it too. The man worships the ground she walks on.

She doesn't know that even though she always offers Remi up, I've never once called him. The number of times I go out vastly differs from how often she thinks I go out. In fact, most nights, I dress up and take photos, then stay home.

Which is precisely what I'm planning to do tonight.

I rise from the couch, then unzip my dress as I make my way to my bedroom. After putting the dress back in my closet, I cross my tiny room and pull my favorite pair of sweats from my drawer. They say HARVARD down the side, a school I never attended, and there are at least three holes in these things, but I can't let them go. They belonged to my father, who did attend the Ivy League school, and remind me of simpler times. Times when I wasn't spending my evenings doing my makeup and dressing in expensive clothes only to snap a photo, take it all off, and curl up on my couch for the rest of the night.

While I love earning money in fashion—an industry I adore—sometimes it's lonely.

Sometimes I'm lonely.

I have friends and plenty of things to do, but it's still hard. I wish I had someone to talk to about it. My mother, bless her heart, doesn't understand the industry in the slightest. Whenever I try to explain what I do to her, she gives me a blank look—like I'm speaking some alien language. Talking to Annie about it isn't easy because she's doing actual challenging work, always on her feet, bustling through the hospital halls, saving lives every night. What business do I have complaining about my career when she's a literal hero?

After sliding on an equally hole-filled shirt, I head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of sweet white wine. I'd much prefer a sweet red, but this is all we have, and going to the store is not an option. I've already taken off my bra. I am officially in for the evening.

With my glass full, I pluck a box of cheese crackers from the cabinet—an extremely healthy dinner, I know—then climb through the window and out onto the fire escape we've turned into our patio. It's not much: a small table, two chairs, and enough room for me and Annie to relax out here after long weeks. But it's ours.

I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, then hit Play on some Taylor Swift. Nothing says sad and lonely like drinking wine and listening to Red on a Friday night.

"What a glamorous life I lead," I say before taking a sip of the wine.

With a sigh, I peel open the box of crackers and pop a few into my mouth as I pull up Instagram.

I scroll through my feed as I shovel food into my mouth, pausing only to write out a new generic comment.

Awww, love it! Total babe!

Soooooo cute! x

HOT!

I don't know these people—not really. They're just internet friends, and by internet friends, I mean people whose accounts I follow and who have no clue I even exist. Their accounts are sitting pretty over that one-million-follower mark, sometimes even two million. I only wish I had their following or brand deals or the means to visit all the different countries they travel to.

Don't get me wrong—my numbers aren't small, I have some good brand deals, and I do get to travel a little for shoots. But compared to them? I'm a nobody.

And, unfortunately, that's my favorite thing to do: compare myself to them.

Though I know I shouldn't do it, it's hard not to. They're gorgeous, effortlessly so. People flock to their accounts, and I know that whatever they link to in their storefront gets thousands and thousands of clicks. They are what I want. I want that support and that reach. But it's hard being a plus-size model in this industry, especially when you want to make a difference by helping women feel good about themselves while helping the planet.

It's taken me too long to love myself to let that happen. As much as I would benefit from a larger audience or support or reach, I'll be damned if I ever give up that feeling because I could make more money by partnering with brands who aren't truly size inclusive or don't push for more sustainable business practices. After fighting tooth and nail for the small space I've eked out in this community, I'm grateful for what I have, even if I am still in an uphill battle to belong.

I do my rounds on all my favorite accounts, then toss my phone to the side, focusing on the brightly lit city around me.

New York is buzzing. It always is—especially in Hell's Kitchen—but it's a Friday, so it's extra noisy. Horns are blaring, people are shouting, and music is thrumming through speakers up and down my block.

It's chaos, and I love it. Hell, I thrive on it. It's a far cry from my small hometown, and I couldn't be happier.

I munch on crackers and sip my wine, watching the street below, where someone walks by wearing a dress that could double as a shower curtain. Another person passes in a suit, screaming into a phone attached to their ear. Some young kid skates by on Rollerblades, jumping over a cardboard box.

I grin to myself, loving everything I see.

A couple strolls by, holding hands, smiling at one another like they're in their own little music video or something.

My smile slips.

I want that. I want all that—a person to understand me, to accept me, to support me. Sure, Annie does those things, but having a best friend isn't the same as having a partner.

Ugh, I'm so pathetic. Sitting home alone, drinking wine in holey pajamas while staring at my phone, and eating crackers for dinner ... How sad for me.

"You're a real catch, Olive. It's shocking that you're single," I mumble, then take another sip of my wine. I want to guzzle the glass, but I don't want to drink it all too fast. Not only because of the headache that would surely follow but also because it's the only bottle I have, and I want it to last.

Truthfully, it's not that shocking I'm single. I've dated over the years, but nothing serious has stuck. I'm sure that has everything to do with my lack of getting real with someone, but can I really be blamed? It's scary enough putting yourself out there because you don't want to get hurt, but it's even scarier when you've gone through the trauma of losing someone you love tremendously at random. It tends to make you a little wary of getting close to people for fear of losing them.

I grab my phone again and bury my face in my newsfeed, as if that will make me feel better or something.

I scroll through two photos before I'm faced with yet another happy couple.

"Ugh!" I set my phone aside. "Screw it."

I grab my wineglass and toss the last of the alcohol back, then head inside for another pour.

When I crawl back through the window to the fire escape, I settle into my chair once more, throwing my feet up on the rail and closing my eyes as the cool late-August air flows over me. The sounds of the city pull me into a lull. If I'm not careful, I'll fall asleep out here.

I set an alarm on my phone just in case and am surprised when I see a notification waiting for me.

I learned long ago to turn off my notifications if I wanted any real sort of work-life balance, but there are a few I make an exception for, and the one I'm staring at is on that short list.

Jasper Rafferty has posted an image.

I click on it and an image of Jasper on a talk show fills the screen. The caption is the same thing "he" always posts: the place and the date. That's it. It's obvious his account is run by his publicist or someone else on his team of minions, because everything he posts is generic. None of it is real. All cultivated and fake, fake, fake.

It's probably why I feel so comfortable with my own secret little hobby—messaging him.

Well, it's more like using his DMs as my own personal diary, but still.

When I started seeing my therapist, Ingrid, last year after breaking up with a third guy in as many months, she suggested that, to work through the trauma I'm still carrying—largely from my father dying of a sudden heart attack at forty-four—I journal to process my emotions.

I highly doubt she meant using a celebrity's DMs as that journal, but that's what I did.

Jasper, who is too damn talented for his own good, uncharacteristically posted a throwback photo of his family at Disney World, and it instantly brought me back to the time before my dad's company took off and he'd scraped together every penny we had to take us on vacation in Florida. We stayed in an old, musty motel and lived off peanut butter and jelly for the entire week, but damn, did we have fun. It truly was magical, and not only because of where we were.

So I responded to his post, telling him the story.

Of course, he never saw it. How could he? He's Jasper Rafferty. He has no time for peasants like me. His inbox is flooded with thousands of messages daily. Mine was just another added to the pile.

But after I wrote him, it changed something in me. It felt beyond good to let go of memories and feelings I had been holding on to for so long. So I kept going, and before I knew it, his DMs had become my journal.

I zoom in on the image he posted, looking into his bright-green eyes, which have no doubt gotten him cast in multiple roles with their sparkle alone. He's perfect leading-man material—six foot three, with dirty-blond hair and a smirk that could make my panties disappear in 0.2 seconds. Everything about him is flawless, from his straight teeth to his deep, rumbling voice. But he's not only pretty; he's also a phenomenal actor, able to take on all kinds of roles with ease.

In my perusal of his profile, I see a ring around his picture, indicating he's posted a new story, too, so I click on it. The first slide is just a repost of what he's added to his feed, but the second is different.

An emoji of a palm tree, an arrow, and then the Statue of Liberty.

He's on his way to New York.

I swipe up and my thumbs fly over the keypad.

@OliveMe: The first time I came to New York, I was with my father on one of his business trips. It was my first time visiting a big city like this, and I couldn't wait to explore. On our flight, he fell asleep and snored so loudly that I cried because I was embarrassed. That was the first and only time I got to go with him anywhere for work.

I hit Send, letting the message slip out into the ether like all the others. That's what makes me feel so comfortable spilling all my secrets to him—knowing he'll never, ever read them.

I scroll back through the dozens of other messages I've sent him.

@OliveMe: I woke up today feeling ready to take on the world, but then I saw my dad's old business partner in line at the coffee shop and broke down in the bathroom. It reminded me of a different family trip we took to NYC when I was a senior in high school, and how we went around to all the usual tourist attractions. Meanwhile, I went and fell in love with this place, vowing to live here one day. I do live here now, and I love it. But it's still so hard without him. He wouldn't understand that I'm a model, but he'd be damn proud of me anyway. I miss that safe space he gave me.

@OliveMe: Annie swore today that if Remi doesn't make a big move soon, she's ending things. I think she's being dramatic. It's clear they're in love. It will happen for her. I know it will. Relationships move at different paces. Just because they've been together for a long time and aren't engaged or married, it doesn't mean their relationship isn't going anywhere. They're moving slower, that's all. Or maybe she's watched one too many rom-coms and wants a big, grand gesture of love. Then again, what girl doesn't, right? Plus, Remi is kind of a goof sometimes. I think he wants the same things she does, but he's too dang ... well, Remi to do anything about it. They both need to stop being too scared to go after what they want and do it.

@OliveMe: I watched Shut Up and Kiss Me last night. You were a total jerk in it but got the girl anyway. Rom-coms are weird.

@OliveMe: My dad used to take me bowling at this tiny run-down place in Iowa. I have no idea if it's still even open or not, but today, when I was going for a walk, I passed by a vendor with a popcorn machine, and it smelled exactly like the stale stuff they used to sell there. It made me think of him. And it made me want stale popcorn.

@OliveMe: I'm a fraud. I pretend to be this fun, city-loving party girl, but the truth is, I prefer the quiet of my own apartment. Do you ever feel like that? Like nobody ever gets to see the real you? I'm tired of pretending. Tired of hiding. But I'm scared the real me isn't enough.

@OliveMe: I booked a big shoot today with Mitch Dirkson!!!! I wish I had someone special (other than Annie) to celebrate with. I don't, so a night in with wine and ice cream will have to do. Glamorous life, huh?

Next to each entry is a "delivered" check mark, but he has not looked at my messages, and I'm glad about that.

With a grin to myself, finding my little secret amusing, I close out of Instagram, then set my phone on the table. I relax into my chair, tip my head back, and close my eyes as the sounds of the city wash over me.

It's a long way from where I was born, a small town in Iowa. But I knew at ten I was destined to live here. After that last trip I took with my parents, I obsessed over it, and when it came time to apply for colleges, NYU was at the top of my list.

I was denied.

In fact, every college I applied to in New York rejected me.

But I was at a point where I had to leave Iowa, and I wasn't about to let a few rejection letters stop me. After some thorough searching—and my mother's final approval—I found Annie online, looking for a roommate for her Hell's Kitchen apartment, so I hopped on a plane and moved my entire life here. I haven't regretted it for a second.

It's been seven years since I left the small town and even smaller farm I grew up on, and my mom still isn't exactly happy about the move, but I don't care. I had to do it for myself, because there was no way I could have continued living in a place where everybody knows your business and then some. It was a constant reminder of everything I had lost. I craved something new and exciting, something to re-spark my joy.

I found it here with Annie and within the modeling industry. It's not without its tribulations, but it beats the alternative—working a dead-end job in a small town where I see my father's ghost at every turn.

But that's not what I want to think about tonight.

Tonight, I want wine, my favorite cheesy crackers, and relaxation.

"I spoil myself," I mutter sarcastically, bringing my wineglass to my lips.

"Are you talking to yourself again, dear?"

I jump at the sudden intrusion, spilling wine from my glass and all over my lap.

I glance over to find Mrs. Hammish squinting at me from next door, her head—completely covered in curlers—hanging out of her window.

"Yes, Mrs. Hammish. Sorry if I was bothering you."

"Nonsense." She waves her hand. "You don't bother me. You just make me sad."

I groan inwardly. Great. Even my eighty-something-year-old neighbor thinks I'm pathetic.

"I'm also sad because I lost my damn glasses again."

"Is that why you're squinting at me?"

"Well, obviously, kid," she says in that raspy voice I've come to love over the years. "Help an old lady out, will ya?"

"Sure." I barely hold back my sigh as I push out of my chair.

"Oh Lord. Did you pee yourself, dear? They have diapers for that, you know."

"It's just wine, Mrs. Hammish."

"Well, good. Now, come on already. I ain't got forever. I'm old."

"Coming, Mrs. Hammish."

I crawl through my window, thinking again about how glamorous my life is.

Lucky me, huh?