Chapter 11

11

MEREDITH

There is a stereotype about Angelenos—well, there are many stereotypes about Angelenos—but the most pervasive one is how fake people are here. I feel compelled to clarify that we are not fake, not in the way Southerners are, where they say, “Bless your heart,” when they really mean, “You fucking idiot.” Angelenos would totally tell you you’re a fucking idiot, but we’d also hand you a kale smoothie while we did it, and tell you it’s okay that you’re dumb; at least you’re skinny. See, Angelenos just get hopped up on oat milk matcha lattes and the endorphins that come with chatting with the Trader Joe’s cashier and end up calling everybody their best friends. We make way too many plans with said best friends—plans that we never have any intention of fulfilling—but in that moment, it would be impossible to say no to anything, because that’s just the magic of LA.

I know all of this, and yet. And yet, days after that magical night at Tanya’s party, when Tanya texts me to say she’s sooo bummed but she can’t join me for infrared yoga after all, I can’t help but feel utterly dejected. The only person I’m mad at is myself, because I should’ve known better than to believe, even for a moment, that someone as huge as Tanya would want me as her BFF.

Oh god, I just used the term unironically, like a freaking twelve-year-old. To be fair, she used it first. That night at the party, after bonding over our mutual hatred for Aspen, Tanya had introduced me to at least three people as her BFF. Okay, so she was on maybe her fifth glass of rosé, but still. You mustn’t judge me too harshly for feeling disappointed.

If I had six million followers like Aspen does, Tanya would never cancel on me. That’s the thing about LA. To make meaningful friendships, it is imperative to be somebody. LA is full of wannabes. It is weary of wannabes. Its skin has been hardened by cynicism (and Botox), and it has no time for wannabes.

“What does that mean for Mommy?” I muse out loud to Luca as he bounces happily in his bouncer. He doesn’t even glance at me. “It means, my sweet baby, that we need to grow faster .”

It is truly incredible how fast the joy that came with hitting 1M followers faded away. The first few days after it happened, I carried that shiny fact like a piece of jewelry in my pocket, taking it out now and again, caressing it lovingly and feeling the warm, secret smile spreading throughout my whole body. I thought (foolishly, naively) this feeling would last me years. Or at least months. But no, within a week, it quickly faded into a mere background fact that I got used to, like the sky being blue. It’s pleasant, but it doesn’t give me that jolt of happiness anymore. Like an addict, I need a bigger hit.

And for that, I turn to Elea’s iPad. (Sorry, kid. I hope you have a replacement by now. If not, blame your mother; she can easily afford one, and the only reason she has for withholding buying it would be spite.) Thank god I have this device, because, truth be told, since I rage-blocked Aspen’s number, I’ve been really missing her. Even though she obviously doesn’t deserve it.

Aspen’s calendar gave me appointments with sponsors I wouldn’t otherwise have had access to. Her cloud storage showed me how to divorce myself completely from reality in order to produce the most aesthetically pleasing footage. Both of those things have been super valuable, of course, but I need more. I need ideas for content. Things that would set me apart from the chaff. Not just the same old recipes, the same old workout videos, the same old talking-head videos spouting the same old observations. Aspen was always taking down little fun thoughts and ideas on her phone. Where would they be stored?

I swipe left until I get to the final screen, then swipe right, scanning each app. Then I see it. Notes. I tap on it, and bingo! Lists upon lists of Aspen’s ideas. I’m not sure how to describe the sensation of reading through these lists. It feels like I’m peeking into Aspen’s head, and I’m torn between love and admiration for my ex-best friend and soul-crushing envy because she is so fucking good at this. So naturally good at coming up with ideas with such amazingly relatable hooks.

Cooking/baking with Sabine (make sure she’s wearing cute chef’s hat and have everything be within her reach so she can grab hold of anything she wants to for comedic effect. Remember to bake a separate batch that looks good for final shot!)

Outfit change: Line up the girls and have one tap the other’s shoulder, and with each tap, the girl’s outfit changes

Time lapse: Me rushing the twins to ballet when they were toddlers, them stumbling around in ballet class, and now, them dancing beautifully

Such sweet and cute ideas. And the recipes! Oh my gosh.

Homemade burrata? Maybe can be used on homemade pizza? (Make sure pizza sauce is made using “homegrown tomatoes”)

Sourdough bread with butterflies on top made out of flower petals

Beef bourguignon but cooked inside a giant pumpkin

Then there are the sponsor baits.

Tea company sponsorship: A series where I suffer from various maladies like migraines, digestive problems, etc., then a tea recipe for each one. The recipes will be shot top down, like a baking recipe, with the flowers and leaves laid out on the table in a beautiful pattern

Any company: Elea and Noemie arguing over the last bag of X, and meanwhile Sabine in the corner with an extra large bag of X, smiling to herself

Children’s clothes company: The outfit change idea where the girls tap each other, etc.

I scan the list while shaking my head. It feels as though the notes go on and on. There is no limit to Aspen’s creative ideas when it comes to content that is refreshing and fun. Ironic, because when she first got started, generating content ideas was the one thing that kept holding her back. “I just can’t think of anything!” she’d whine. “How do you do it? How do you come up with so many different makeup looks?”

Hah. How the tables have turned. I used to think it was something she just wasn’t very good at, but turns out all she needed was to find her niche, and now it seems she has way too many ideas and not enough time to turn them all into actual content. Well, let me help you with that, Aspen.

I go down the list, this time discarding the ideas that I can’t do because, unlike Aspen, I only have the one baby to work with. It still leaves me with more ideas than I can shoot in a single week. And knowing Aspen, she’ll add to the list every day. I look over at Luca and smile.

“Come on, mister, let’s get you in an apron and chef’s hat and we’re going to bake cookies.”

···

The video of me baking with Luca and him making a huge mess with everything gets over nine million views. Nine million! The comments are all incredibly positive, everybody gushing over what an adorable little sous chef he makes and how good the cookies ended up looking, despite the mess. I would never have thought of doing a comedic video like that. If you’d asked me to make a cooking video with Luca, I would’ve set him a safe distance away from the kitchen counter and given him a pile of chocolate chips to nibble on while I did most of the work. But having him strangle the flour bag with both hands and shovel a stick of butter into his mouth while I scramble to stop him is genius; you can’t help but stay and watch the carnage. And to have it end successfully after all that leaves the viewer with a pleasant feeling. I really have to hand it to Aspen to think of setting aside a good batch to ensure a positive outcome; in reality, Luca destroyed everything, and I would have had nothing to bake if not for Aspen’s note.

I also did the outfit change video with Luca, where we turn and look at each other, then I tap him on his nose and his outfit changes. He taps me on mine (it took about thirty takes with me saying, “Where’s mommy’s nose? Where is it? Mommy’s nose!” the whole time before he booped me on the nose) and my outfit changes. And so on and so forth, five outfits for each of us. Six million views. Not as many as the cooking one, but considering I have below two million followers, it’s still an amazing view rate.

I do her other ideas as well, each time tweaking it enough so that it’s ever so slightly different from Aspen’s notes. A Moroccan lamb stew instead of beef bourguignon cooked inside a pumpkin. A focaccia instead of a sourdough loaf with butterfly flowers. I tell myself that this way, Aspen won’t realize that I’m taking her ideas. When we had our fight, I blocked her on everything, including all of my socials. I tell myself that she won’t even be able to see any of my content. But of course, with them going viral and people downloading and reposting them, chances are she’ll come across them at some point. And I know she’s not stupid; she would totally know that I stole her ideas. I keep waiting for her to realize that I took Elea’s iPad. Each time I turn it on, I keep expecting a sign to blare, “This ipad has been locked by its rightful owner.” But nothing happens. Her Notes app is updated multiple times daily with new ideas, many of which I help myself to.

And I continue on my meteoric rise.

You’d think that this would make me happy. It’s all I wanted—a proper career as an influencer. But instead, the more followers I get, the more hollow I feel. The more anxious, because what happens when Aspen finds out she’s being hacked into and changes all her passwords? What happens when I no longer have fresh ideas to rely on? Sure, I could go back to mimicking other people’s content, which a ton of influencers do, but there’s something about being the pioneer, the one whom everyone else copies. And above all, doing this doesn’t stop me from missing Aspen. And I do. I miss her so much. I wish I could rip her out of my heart neatly, leaving no traces behind, but instead, I move the other way. I become even more obsessed with her, with trying to find out how she’s doing without me.

At night, after putting Luca down, I lie in bed exhausted, both mind and body depleted. What I find hardest about having a baby isn’t the never-ending chores. I don’t mind changing dirty diapers over and over again. I don’t mind breastfeeding. I don’t mind washing all of the components that make up a baby bottle. In fact, I enjoy it, because it means I can safely turn off my brain and just wash the damn bottles.

It’s the playtime that I find shockingly draining. The pressure of having to come up with ways to encourage learning. Yes, he’s not even a year old, and already I need to find a dozen creative ways each day to make sure his brain will develop to the max. Peekaboo. Dancing and singing. Sensory toys. It is endless, and each game, requiring me to trill at him in a desperately happy tone, is more mind-numbing than the last. Playing with little children is a special kind of torture where you feel your mind slowly sagging, turning you into some kind of cretin, but at the same time you must be one hundred percent aware and present, because babies and little kids are always coming up with new ways of getting themselves hurt.

The only thing that can ease this excruciatingly boring and yet taxing activity is to have a playdate with another equally tortured mother. Something I used to do with Aspen, but obviously not anymore. I could arrange for playdates with other moms, and I have, but finding the right moms to have playdates with is trickier than it sounds. For one thing, your babies need to actually get along. For another, it’s a tough balance to find someone who is equally as vocal as you are about how shit motherhood can be. I haven’t been able to find that yet, and the more I take from Elea’s iPad, the more I find myself being sucked back into Aspen’s world, and yet not actually being a part of it.

At night, I lie alone in bed, drained, but instead of sleeping, I pick up the iPad and pore over it, refreshing the Calendar, Albums, and Notes in case there are new updates, which there often are. Sometimes, exhilaratingly, the update happens while I’m watching the iPad. In real time. Those moments always send a shiver down my spine. At this very moment —I would tell myself— Aspen is tapping away on her iPad . And it’s as though I’m right there, peeping over her shoulder. Then the sudden yearning hits me, a sharp thrust straight through my chest, the message clear as day: I am alone. I have no real friends. I had one real friend, and I picked a fight with her and chased her away.

And the tears slide down my cheeks, wetting my pillowcase, and still I sit there while the iPad screen grows too blurry for me to read.

This morning, as I mash some steamed peas for Luca’s breakfast, I glance over at the iPad and see that there’s an appointment for Ben today. “Open house at 63 Belmont Ave. All day.”

Something inside me clicks. I’ve been toying with the idea of tailing Aspen again, just to see her even if from afar, but maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I’ll learn more by seeing Ben. Unlike Aspen, he’s always been hopeless at hiding his thoughts and emotions. Maybe he might let it slip just how much Aspen has been missing me.

After a hectic breakfast where most of the peas end up smushed into Luca’s wispy hair, I wipe him down and place him in his playpen. He immediately shrieks; he hates the fenced corner, but I ignore his enraged screams and dart off for a quick shower. I blow-dry my hair into loose waves and apply makeup. Part of me sneers at myself. Are you putting makeup on for Ben? Pathetic Nice Guy Ben? I ignore her the same way I ignore Luca’s screeching, and soon enough I’m on my way to Clara’s.

“For fuck’s sake, Mer,” she says by way of greeting when she opens her front door.

“Clara, language!” I cover Luca’s ears and give her a look of mock outrage.

The corners of her mouth twitch like she’s trying not to smile. She sighs. “What did I say about giving me advance warning before dropping him off?”

“Something came up suddenly. You know how these things are.” I hold Luca up and say in a high voice, “Please don’t be mad, Auntie Clara. We’ll have such a great time bitching about Mommy.”

“Argh,” Clara grumbles, taking him from me. “You are such a brat.”

“That’s not a nice thing to say to your only nephew.”

“I’m talking about you.”

I grin at her and hand Luca’s diaper bag over. “Love you, sis. See you later!” I skip down her front steps while still blowing kisses at Luca. I am definitely thankful for a sister who works from home.

When I get to the open house, I park across the street and stay there for a while, not quite sure just what the hell I’m doing. I think of driving off. Instead, I take a deep breath, check my reflection one last time in the rearview mirror, and get out of the car.

Soft classical music spills out of the open front door, and there is a delectable scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. I’ve known Ben long enough, been dragged to enough of his open houses by Aspen, to know that he takes a tray of frozen cookie dough to each open house and slides it into the oven right before he starts. Tacky, but it works. My mouth is watering.

Ben is in the kitchen, speaking to a young couple. “Hi, welc—oh,” he says when he registers who just came into the house. “Meredith, hi. Ah, one minute.”

“No worries,” I say in an easy-breezy voice, though my mind is screaming, WHAT AM I DOING HERE? I wave him off. “I’m just going to look around a bit. Take your time. Hi.” I give the couple a friendly, nonthreatening smile, and go deeper into the living room.

The house is a recently renovated three-bedroom that’s slightly nicer than what Ben usually gets. I guess he’s moving up in the Realtor business. Though it’s still in Alhambra, so he’s not moving up that much. Nonetheless, it’s a lot nicer than my current apartment. I stand inside the master bedroom for a long while, imagining living someplace like this. Spacious and modern. Big enough to have a space that’s separate from all the baby clutter.

Ben’s voice startles me. “Looking to buy a place?”

I turn and see him leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of him. It’s been a while since I saw Ben. I always thought he was good-looking in the way that a math teacher might be—safe and predictable. But now I’m seeing him in a different light. Which just goes to show how much motherhood messes with your head. “Yeah,” I lie without much effort. It’s not like I can say no; I’m here because I’m missing his wife.

“Cool,” Ben says. “I’ll give you an overview of the place.”

I follow Ben quietly as he shows me around the house, pointing out things like “a newly installed bathtub” and “low-key ambient lighting,” and so on and so forth, and it’s very strange to see Ben so in his element. So in charge. At the end of it, we stop at the living room, and he says, “So what do you think?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking about the house. Of course he’s asking about the house. Come on, Mer. I give a noncommittal nod. “Seems nice.”

“It is, isn’t it? It’s good for a small, young family.” He starts talking about mortgages, which makes my head swim.

Before I know what I’m about to say, I blurt out, “How’s Aspen?”

Ben stops mid-sentence. He closes his mouth, then narrows his eyes. “Did you just—did you come here to check in on Aspen?”

“No,” I say, and we both see the lie, plain as day. I wonder if he’s going to throw me out of the open house. Ben never really had much of a sense of humor. Or maybe he just didn’t find me or Aspen funny. Same thing.

Instead, he snorts. Then the snort turns into a laugh. He shakes his head. “Mer,” he mutters, not unkindly.

My cheeks grow warm. I don’t know whether I should try to convince him otherwise or give up the ruse.

“Why don’t you two just talk to each other? You know, be mature adults.”

“Okay, I’m going to overlook the patronizing tone this time. I—” I fumble for the right words. “I miss her, but…” What can I say? Everything I’ve been ruminating about for months, all of the infractions that have sliced into me, now seem so petty. Like her being buddy-buddy with other big influencers and making content with them and calling them her besties. Every single post she made with them had pummeled into my heart like a battering ram, each Reel a betrayal to our best-friendship. But I can’t say that to Ben. What do I even say? That Aspen is supposed to be my best friend and mine only? That would make me look about as mature as a six-year-old. Oh god, it was a mistake coming here. I don’t even know what I was thinking.

But before I can make up an excuse to leave, Ben says, “Yeah,” and his voice is raw with so much emotion that it makes me do a double take. “I know.” There is so much weight in those two words, so much empathy, that I look again at Ben. Really look at him this time, finally seeing him. The tiny frown lines etched into his face, the bitter sadness in his eyes. And I realize that all those times Aspen had gushed about how sweet Ben is, and how thoughtful, and what a doting husband he is, and what a perfect marriage they have…were, like the rest of her social media content, nothing more than fucking lies.