Chapter 9

9

MEREDITH

I did it. That magical M that every influencer dreams of, hungers for, would probably kill for. Oh, that beautiful, glorious, wonderful M! “1.2M followers,” it says, underneath my Instagram handle. I can’t stop gazing at it, that M. It’s exactly where it belongs, right under @MerryMeredith. In the last few weeks, since Elea’s iPad fell into my lap, I’ve gained over half a million followers. I’ve shaken off the K and graduated to M.

I hope you don’t think it’s all because of Aspen, do you? I don’t want you to think that all I had to do was copy everything Aspen has been doing and steal her meetings. Simply catching a glimpse of the behind-the-scenes of Aspen’s life wasn’t enough, but they inspired me. They led me to shattering my boundaries—to embracing creativity when it comes to making my Reels. I was always so bound by what I thought was common sense. Of course “morning routine” videos would be recorded first thing in the morning! I never thought to break down those shackles of reality. A whole paradigm shift. And, okay, the meetings were set up by Aspen, but if I didn’t go to them prepared with a whole lot of research and armed to the gills with charm and wit and flattery, they wouldn’t have done anything for me. But here I am, with three new sponsorship deals and four collaborative relationships with huge influencers, and I am finally doing it. I am turning into my own success story. And it all happened thanks to my ingenuity. Okay, and Elea’s iPad.

I crouch down outside of Luca’s playpen and smile at him. He grins back, drool trickling out of his mouth. “You are a little stinker, aren’t you? But I’m so glad we’re in this together.” Having him was definitely the right decision to make.

Before, when I was still struggling to make it as a momfluencer (Oh, how easily I shed that past struggle! In the Before Times, when I was still struggling…hah! As though it has been years and not mere weeks since I managed to turn things around. But that’s success for you; it’s frighteningly easy to get used to), I’d sometimes look at Luca and wonder if I’d made the right decision to have him. Is that awful for a mom to think? No, I refuse to believe that I was the only mother to ever pause and think, during the lowest moments of motherhood: What the hell have I done? (Yes, maybe those thoughts occurred a lot more with me than what’s socially acceptable, but who’s counting?)

Can I tell you a secret? One so deep and so dark that I have never told a single person this, not even Aspen, and we were inseparable right up until our friendship ended. I’m hoping that you understand, by now, why I did it. That you might not judge me so harshly. You have heard of the painful years I spent toiling away at growing my brand, at passing on all of my hard-earned knowledge to Aspen.

Mer, you might say , stop delaying, I already know you stole a child’s iPad and used it to sabotage her mother, who is supposedly your best friend. What could be worse than that?

Alright, here it is. After years of striving in the beauty and fashion genre of social media, I realized that I simply didn’t have what it took to stand out in that department. Plus, at twenty-nine, I was getting too old. Most of the people who are interested in beauty and fashion are on TikTok, not Instagram. The ones left on Insta are all new moms who don’t have the time to keep up with the latest beauty trends. They wear their hair in messy mom buns and spend what precious little time they have on social media trawling Instagram for the latest infant products. I knew this because I watched Aspen’s accounts exploding with new followers as she hawked her babies and her recipes online.

I can sense your impatience. You’re stalling, your eyes are saying . Out with it.

I just needed to give you the context, okay? I knew that if I didn’t do something—something big, something drastic—that my career as an influencer would soon be over. And so I made the decision to shift from beauty/fashion to something more…age appropriate. Like being a momfluencer. Except I didn’t have a baby. So yeah.

No , I did not decide to have Luca solely for social media purposes. That would be insane. (Or would it? People have had babies for far stupider reasons, haven’t they?) I was also lonely. Aspen was my best friend, but I could sense her slipping away from me, sucked into the ever-growing vortex of her family. And when she announced she was pregnant again, I just—I knew that she would soon be gone. With three children, a husband, and her millions of needy fans, she wouldn’t have time for me. Not unless I was on the same journey she was.

You must give me some credit. I didn’t just hook up with randos at some LA club. I went to a fertility clinic and chose a donor (Caucasian, 6’2”, UCLA Law graduate, blue eyes, brown hair. Mixed-race babies are so adorable, don’t you think?), and two months later, I told Aspen that her baby would have a playmate for life. Never mind about the baby’s daddy, I assured her. I was determined to do this on my own. With my bestie right beside me, of course. Then I set about shifting all of my content from Beauty to Pregnancy.

Why am I telling you all of this? I guess I just wanted someone to understand why gaining that M was the best moment of my life. I needed someone to know just how much I sacrificed for that moment. But I digress.

Life is very different for someone with a K behind their follower count versus someone with an M. I know, I thought it was an exaggeration—that the change, if there even was one, would be so subtle and so gradual that I wouldn’t even notice it happening. But it was more like a light switch being flipped. Darkness at first, feeling your way through uncertainty, groping blindly, then suddenly a voice whispers, “Let there be light,” and the stage lights thrum on, the music blares, and the entire production springs to life.

DMs galore! Okay, I always had DMs galore in the Before Times, but now, those DMs are from people with blue checks next to their names. People belonging in the M club. People who are Someones.

In the last few years, my invites mostly dried up. Especially after I moved on from beauty/fashion to the world of moms. No longer was I spending my evenings party-hopping the hottest locations in LA. But I wasn’t getting invited to any mom gatherings either. Stuck in purgatory.

But not anymore. It’s only Wednesday and already, this week alone, I’ve received five invitations to various events. There is a maternity brand launch party, a baby shower for some momfluencer, a party at a mega-influencer’s Hollywood Hills mansion, and two others I can’t even remember.

I stand and give myself a once-over in my full-length mirror. Tonight is the house party, and I’ve rented a gold-colored, long-sleeved midi Fendi dress. Underneath it, I’m wearing shapewear so unforgiving that if I dared take a deep breath, my ribs would crack. I look phenomenal. With not a small amount of difficulty, I bend down slowly, wincing at the way the corset bites into my belly, and pick Luca up from his playpen.

“Ready to go to Aunt Clara’s?”

He tries to go in for a kiss, but I shy away from him. “Sorry, little guy, your kisses are really drooly, and Mommy spent an hour on her face. Tomorrow, there will be all the kisses in the world, okay?”

I sing along to “Baby Shark” the entire drive down to Clara’s. Luca, sensing my good mood, is all grins and lovely coos. Everything is falling into place for me, just the way it should’ve done so many years ago.

Clara accepts Luca with a smile, but when she turns to face me, the smile fades a little. “You look nice,” she says in a way that somehow turns it into not-a-compliment. “Big date?”

“No,” I laugh, waving her off. “No time for dates. I got an invite to this big mixer in the Hills.”

Disapproval lines Clara’s features. “You know, I thought that when this little guy came along, you’d give up on this whole thing and settle down.”

I’m dressed in Fendi and my makeup and hair are immaculate, but somehow, Clara knows just what to say to make me feel like a piece of crap. An acidic retort makes its way up my throat, but I swallow it back down. If I piss her off, she might refuse to watch Luca. So I just nod and say, “Yeah, well. It’s work. Thanks, Clara.” I don’t wait for a response before heading back to my car.

“What time will you pick him up in the morning? I’ve got my tennis lesson at nine.”

“I’ll be back way before that!” I call out, already sliding into my car. I throw kisses their way and back out of her driveway. As I drive away, I see their silhouettes in the dim glow of the sunset—Clara lifting Luca’s little fist and making him wave bye to me. There is a small twinge at the sight of my son, so tiny in my sister’s arms. But then I make the turn to the main street, and the twinge is replaced by a spark of excitement. I’m headed to Tanya Dylan’s mansion, and I want to scream at the thought of it.

With over thirty million followers on TikTok, Tanya Dylan is one of the biggest momfluencers there is. She used to be a runway model, which was how she first became an influencer. When she got pregnant, she quit the runway and focused her content on anything and everything that had to do with raising kids. She’s still drop-dead gorgeous and LA-skinny, of course, and her fashion sense remains as sharp as her cheekbones.

But that’s not the only reason why I’ve got pinpricks of excitement zinging through my body. As if the thought of meeting Tanya Dylan in person isn’t nerve-racking enough, guess who else was invited to Tanya’s party? Yep. Aspen. You must’ve seen this coming, right? Despite my meddling, Aspen still has over six million TikTok followers. She’s been part of the M club for quite a while now, and Tanya is one of Aspen’s many momfluencer buddies. Not that she would ever deign to introduce me to Tanya. Oh no, Aspen keeps her contacts very close to her chest—yet more proof that Aspen was a shitty friend. I was tempted to fudge the date of Tanya’s party on Aspen’s calendar, but in the end, I left it alone. Tanya’s party is a huge deal that people keep posting about. Aspen might get a reminder about it and find out that her calendar’s been borked. I am trying to minimize the number of appointments that I mess up on Aspen’s calendar. I’m not a total monster. Also, I don’t want her to get suspicious.

Tanya’s mansion is a stunning glass structure overlooking the Hollywood Hills. She hired a valet service for the event, but I end up parking one block away because I don’t want anyone to see my beat-up Honda. One day, my career will be so smashingly successful that I’ll turn up at events in some flashy sports car. (It’s important to dream big, you know.)

God, when was the last time I came to a house this beautiful? It seems like forever ago that I was invited to places like these. But this is different from all of the gorgeous homes I used to go to. Those had been bachelor and bachelorette pads, all sharp angles and minimalist decor. This house is a family home—a Pinterest-worthy place of light grays and whites with touches of bright colors here and there. Instead of avant-garde art, the walls are hung with pastel-colored photographs of Tanya’s children caught mid-laugh, all of them framed in sleek gold. The kids aren’t around, though; this is an adults-only party. The music is loud enough to drown out any awkwardness, but not so loud that you have to shout to be heard, and there are enough people to fill the space, but not so many that you end up feeling squished. Servers slip through the crowd, carrying trays of drinks and canapés.

There is a horrible, cold moment where my anxiety goes almost into overdrive, and every cell in my body screams at me to leave, because surely they will all see that I do not belong in this gorgeous crowd. They’ll kick me back down, I know it.

But then my social skills, honed through years of gliding through party after party, kick in, and a dazzling smile finds its way onto my face, and I plunge into the crowd. I embrace its energy without a second thought, mirroring the other partygoers. Are they air-kissing? One- or two-armed hugs? Are they calling one another “Hon” or “Babe” or “Bro” or—? And within minutes, I remember just how good I used to be at this stuff. I am in my natural element once again. It feels like I’ve been yanked out of a deep slumber and back into the light. I have come back to life.

I’m chatting with a DJ who has just under two million followers (hey, I did my homework before coming to this party) when I spot Tanya Dylan. She looks amazing, her platinum blonde hair swept back in a tight ponytail, sporting the “clean girl” look with minimal makeup that, nevertheless, looks like it took three hours to get just right. She’s wearing a silver jumpsuit that hugs every curve of her body, and it’s only in person that I get to fully appreciate just how unfairly gorgeous she is—how genetically blessed. I must talk to her. But that’s easier said than done, because, of course, everybody in this room has the same thought I do. Everybody is gravitating toward her, calling out her name and touching her arm and flocking to her.

But I’m not like everyone else. I’ve done my homework. Yesterday, I spent over four hours scrolling down Tanya’s accounts, going all the way to the very first posts she made on Instagram and TikTok. Her latest posts are mostly TikTok dances with her ridiculously talented kids, but the ones from six, seven years ago had her talking about how hard it is to raise a kid with ADHD. She has three children—a boy and two girls—and it seems that the boy has ADHD. She doesn’t talk about it as much now, maybe because those videos didn’t get that many views compared to the dancing ones.

I wait until the knot of people around Tanya untangles, leaving a bit of breathing room available, then I quickly slide in. No time for hesitation. I catch Tanya’s eye, smile, and say, “You look like you could use a drink.” Pause. Apologetic laugh. “Oh my gosh, that sounded like such a bad pickup line.”

Please laugh, plea—

She laughs. I release my breath. “I’ve heard worse,” she says.

I pluck two flutes of champagne from a passing server and hand one to her. “Yeah, sorry about that, I swear it sounded way better in my head, but I recently got diagnosed with ADHD, so my mind’s like—ack, you know?” I mime a mess in my head.

Her eyes widen. “Oh wow. Really? That’s so interesting, because I actually got diagnosed with ADHD myself a few years ago.”

“Seriously?” I cry. “No one else I know got diagnosed with it as an adult. What are the chances?”

Tanya nods. “Yeah, I—well, my son has it. He was diagnosed when he was four. So, of course, I had to educate myself on the condition, and the more I read up on it, the more I was like, hang on…”

“Oh my gosh, right?” While we talk, I’m smoothly navigating us toward the patio, away from the hungry crowd. I’m an expert at this. I do it so gradually and so subtly, keeping up our easy-going chatter the whole time, that I doubt Tanya even realizes it. Then we’re out of the house, away from the din, and on her beautiful patio. There is a handful of people out here as well, but it’s far less crowded, and the noise level is more manageable. Tanya leads me to a sofa and we sit down, drinks in our hands, and I work my magic on her.

There is a very fine balance to go for in conversations where you want to be appreciative but not fawning. People love to be flattered, but nobody likes a sycophant. I am a master at this. I’m not bragging; it’s just how it is. I’ve never been good at sports, but getting people to like me, that’s my superpower.

Within half an hour, Tanya is saying stuff like, “Oh my god, where have you been all my life?” and calling me “Mer” instead of “Meredith.” I am glowing. I am fully in my element, my humor charmingly self-deprecating and oh so relatable, and I do not want this night to end. I do not want to return to my messy apartment and sleep in my twin bed and wake up to pick up my cranky baby and then spend the whole day tending to said baby. I want to capture the magic and glitz and glamour of tonight and bottle it. I want to—

A flash of dark brown curls appears for a moment in the crowd inside the house, and I lose my train of thought. I don’t have to catch more than a glimpse to know that she’s here. Of course, I know who it is immediately. I know Aspen probably as well as my own reflection. Probably better, because we spent almost every day together for years and years. My brain has memorized the way she moves, the way she stands. And seeing her again after all these weeks of not talking to her is electrifying. Quite literally, it feels like an electric shock to my system. So many emotions jolting through me. A yearning for our old friendship, and resentment, and jealousy, and of course, thrumming through everything else, there is guilt.

“Whoa, you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Tanya says.

I tear my eyes away from the small figure swimming through the crowd and force a smile. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” Then it hits me—people bond over negative things so much easier than positive ones. Just look at how Tanya immediately warmed to me when I told her I’d been diagnosed with ADHD. Still, I know I need to step carefully. I don’t think she and Aspen are close—heck, I don’t think she’s close to most people at this party—but there is a chance that they are a lot friendlier with each other than I know. Aspen is a chronic brownnoser; she wouldn’t be able to resist sucking up to someone like Tanya. “I think I saw my ex-best friend in there.”

Tanya’s eyes widen with curiosity, and she straightens up. “Oh, who?”

“Oh, it’s—” I flap a hand casually. “It’s Aspen Palmer, not sure if you guys are friends?”

“All Day Aspen? Of course, yes, I know her.” Tanya narrows her eyes at me and leans in. “Ex-best friend?”

I raise both my hands. “Zero drama. I still love her to death.”

Tanya nods vigorously. “Yes, zero drama, totally. Love her.”

“Yeah, it’s just…” I let my voice trail off before sighing and letting my shoulders droop. “It’s just one of those things, you know? We used to be like this—” I curl my index and middle fingers together. “Inseparable. Her husband hated me because we were basically joined at the hip.” I give a sad laugh before pressing my mouth into a thin, sad line. “But then, um, well, I guess she got too big for me.” Another bright smile, so brave of me. “It’s okay, though. I’m fine. I’m so happy for her, she deserves every bit of her success.”

“Wait, what?” Tanya says. “So you guys used to be besties, then she got big and dumped you?”

I cringe. “It sounds awful when you put it that way. I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“Bullshit!” Tanya snaps. “Ugh, I hate people like that. I’m like, if I’m going up the ladder, I’m taking as many of my friends up with me.”

“Same!” I say. “But not everyone feels the same way, obviously. And it’s not like I’m even hoping for a handout or anything. I just…” I modulate my voice so it’s nostalgic, but not pathetic. “I just miss my best friend.”

“Well, you don’t have to, because I have decided that we are going to be besties.”

I giggle as Tanya wraps one skinny arm around my shoulders. “I love this girl!” she hoots at nobody in particular. “She is literally my new best friend.” She lowers her voice. “And this Aspen bitch? She is dead to me. I always thought she was super fake. She is done in this industry.”

A cold shiver crawls down my spine, guilt nearly choking me. Part of me wants to tell her no, it was all a mistake, Aspen’s fine. But the other part of me spits out memory after memory of Aspen’s little snubs over the past couple of years, ever since she became so much bigger than me: Aspen turning me down when I ask if we can hang out, Aspen posting Stories of her hanging out with her mega-influencer buddies, Aspen giving me social media tips and advice like I’m an amateur (when I was the one who taught her how to do social media properly in the first fucking place). Each terrible memory seethes with poison, its toxicity swirling around the curves of my brain, clouding my senses.

I meet Tanya’s eyes and I nod. And later, much later, when the story has spread all over the party like a noxious fume and someone says to me, “Should we do something crazy?” I seriously consider it. Because let’s face it, Aspen deserves every bit of what’s coming to her.