Chapter 28

28

As I walk through the impressive lobby of the office building, I scroll through my inbox. There are a lot of emails. Many of them begin: “We regret to inform you that, due to recent events, we will be terminating our partnership agreement…” Even more of them begin: “You are a lying fake murdering bitch you better watch your back…” Followers on TikTok: eight million, though anyone would be hard-pressed to call them fans. What do you call people who hate-follow you? Trolls? Stalkers?

The receptionist tells me that Prasad, Carey, and Associates is located on the twenty-second floor. I pretend not to notice the judgmental look on her face as I head for the elevators. I can’t stop picking at my fingernails as the elevator goes up. At least the receptionist here is more professional. She didn’t even bat an eyelid when I told her my name. I’m taken to a meeting room and given a glass of water. I’m just about to take a sip when Helena Carey walks in.

“Aspen?” she says, and her voice is somehow soothing and yet firm. The kind of voice that makes you immediately trust her. She is a blonde woman in her midforties, stunningly beautiful, in a silver skirt suit that looks like it was designed specifically for her. “Hi, I’m Helena. Nice to meet you.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I say nervously. I’m a successful businesswoman myself, but the kind of success that Helena has is something else entirely, and I don’t know how to present myself to someone as intellectual as her.

“Of course. I’ve been following your case. It’s quite something.” She settles into the chair adjacent to mine and folds her hands over her lap, giving me her full attention. “Now, tell me everything.”

I came prepared, of course. I rehearsed what I could tell her—went through every detail until I was sure what I could and could not say. “Well, my friend Meredith died, and everyone thinks I did it,” I begin. I tell Helena a lot more things than I told the detectives. I tell her how bad the fight with Meredith really was; that it wasn’t just a minor disagreement; that it was a screaming fight—the kind that left both of us destroyed. I tell her how hard it was for me afterward to have that Meredith-shaped hole in my life, an open wound that is still seeping blood. I tell her everything except the one crucial fact about me killing Meredith. It goes without saying, of course, that I also leave out the part about Meredith stealing Elea’s iPad.

Helena listens without saying anything, nodding here and there but otherwise showing no reaction. When I’m finally done speaking, she says, “Well, that is certainly a lot.” She considers me for a bit, then says, “My retainer is two thousand dollars. My hourly rate is eight hundred dollars. And here is what you will get from me in return: I will be your champion. It will be a bloodbath, and you’re going to want a fighter, and that’s who I am. I don’t like to fight dirty, but if I have to, I will.”

“I want to work with you,” I say quickly.

She smiles. “Good. I want to work with you too. Alright, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk strategy. Do you have any idea how Meredith could have gotten access to your personal videos?”

My mouth goes dry, and I shake my head.

Helena taps her chin with a manicured finger. “Are your photos and videos uploaded to a cloud?”

“Yes.”

“Change the password.”

“I did that already.”

“Set up a two-step authentication for everything. I’ll have the team look into how Meredith got ahold of it. On your end, what you need to do is damage control. You need to get your followers on your side. You stopped posting two days ago. That’s not good.”

“That was when Tanya’s video came out. The one where I—” I grimace.

“Where you faked a morning routine video,” Helena says. Ouch. “Right. We are going to use this to our advantage.”

“How?”

“Lean into it. Release more videos that show the reality of your life. Behind-the-scenes videos. People love those.”

“But they’re going to hate me!” I cry, wondering if I’ve made a mistake hiring Helena after all.

“They won’t, because you’re going to be talking to them, and you’re going to be real and vulnerable and, above all, authentic. You’ll tell them about how difficult it is to be a momfluencer. Talk about how everyone sets such unrealistic standards that you feel like a failure. You’re always messing up, you’re depressed, anxious—everybody is depressed and anxious; they’ll relate to you. One of your daughters has diabetes, right?”

I nod. “Noemie, yes.”

“Talk about that. The burden of having to earn enough to pay for her healthcare. I assume you’re paying out of pocket?”

I nod again.

“Have Noemie be in the shot with you. Appeal to the sympathy of your fellow mothers. You know how to do that.”

I stare at her, open-mouthed. The woman is a magician. Holy shit. “What do I say about Meredith?”

“Say nothing about Meredith. This is about you shedding light on the industry. It’s about you fighting for authenticity. Let me handle the subject of Meredith. Got it?”

I have to bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from bawling. The past couple of days have been nothing short of a nightmare, and here, finally, is someone who’s reaching down into the depths of the hole I’ve been thrown into. Handing me a lifeline.

“You’ve got this, Aspen. I’ve seen your videos; you’re good. You can do this. You can make the world love you again,” Helena says, and when she says it, I believe her.

When I get home, Ben is slouched on the sofa with the twins and Sabine, Peppa Pig playing on the TV. I fleetingly think of how, before our world imploded, I would’ve gotten irritated if he’d allowed Sabine to watch TV. Our rule is simple: no screen time before the age of one. How laughable it is, now, to be concerned with such meaningless rules. Ben barely bothers to lift his head from the couch, even when I greet them.

“How did the meeting go?” he says, still staring at the TV. I want to scream at him. He could at least pretend to give a shit about my life. But since that god-awful moment when I’d been convinced he was about to hurt me, he’s retreated into a thick shell, barely existing on this plane of reality.

“Really good. She says I need to keep posting videos.”

He scoffs, a hateful sound that reaches deep into my core and ignites me. “Of course she did. The answer to everything.”

I’m this close to lunging at him and grabbing him by the collar and screaming, Well I don’t see you coming up with a better idea , so I turn and walk out of the living room. I go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, then I take a long look in the mirror. God, I look so tired. This isn’t the face of All Day Aspen. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe this is exactly what people want to see.

I go to the living room and say, “Hey, Noemie, can you come here and help Mommy with something, please?”

She looks hesitant, but slides down the couch and follows me. I lead her to her bedroom, an aesthetically pleasing space painted in pastel shades of brown and pink, with a white cotton tent hanging down from the ceiling between the girls’ twin beds. I sit down on Noemie’s bed and pat the spot next to me, and she settles there, leaning against me.

“Are you going to prison?” she says in a small voice.

Tears prick my eyes. “No, baby. I’m never going to leave you.”

Noemie wrings her hands. “It’s just that…all the other kids at school are saying you’re going to prison.”

“Well, they don’t know what they’re talking about. Mommy had a little adventure today. She went to meet with someone called a lawyer.”

Noemie gives me a tired smile. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a baby. I know what lawyers are. They taught us during Career Week.”

God, this kid. How can one heart possibly love anyone this much? “Sorry, my bad. I hired a really good lawyer, and she gave me some homework.”

“But lawyers aren’t teachers. Only teachers can give you homework.”

“Not true, actually. But never mind that. The homework she gave me is to make a video with you.”

Noemie’s little face scrunches up into a frown. “Why?”

“Mommy needs to tell the world the truth about our situation. Why Mommy has been working so hard. And you’re part of the family, which is why I need you to be in the video too.”

“What about Elea and Sabbie and Daddy?”

The thought of having to herd everyone into complying to a long, heartfelt video makes my head throb. “Just you, sweetheart.”

Noemie looks down at her lap. “It’s because of my diabetes, isn’t it?”

My heart tears itself apart. “Yes and no. But listen, sweetheart, I would not have you any other way. You are my perfect little angel, do you hear me?”

“I don’t want everyone to know about my diabetes,” she says, wringing her hands.

“Oh, sweetie, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s going to help so many people to know that you’re going through it. You’re raising awareness about the disease, and that’s a really good thing.”

Noemie raises her face and looks at me, her eyes round and worried. “I don’t know,” she mumbles.

It’s a struggle to keep calm. Please, I want to beg her, do this for Mommy. You don’t know how much I stand to lose. But I know I need to remain confident. In control. “Okay, how about this? You don’t need to say or do anything. Just be next to me while I make the video. Is that alright?”

She leans her head against me, and I give her a fierce hug. “Okay, you ready?” She nods, and relief floods my senses. I’ve got to move fast before she changes her mind. I turn my phone camera on and aim it at us, adjusting it slightly for a more flattering angle.

“Hi, everyone,” I say. “I think it’s time I tell you all the truth.” I pause, sighing, but still stoic. No overt emotions. “By now, you have all seen the video that Tanya posted. The one where I was, ah”— I have to pause to control my emotions—“where I was faking a morning routine video.” I look down reassuringly at Noemie. “That video isn’t a deepfake of me or anything. It really was me in there, running around like a madwoman, bribing my own kids into making a fake morning routine video. There are no excuses for why I did what I did. I’m here to say sorry to all of you, especially to my loyal fans, for lying to you.

“When I first started posting online, all I wanted to do was to share bits and pieces of my life with all of you. I didn’t want to be anyone’s role model. I just wanted to be me. More and more people found me, and I’m so grateful to all of you for your support. Then I had the kids, and…” I squeeze Noemie closer to me and plant a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ve never known love like this before. And fear. I’ve never known fear like this before. Suddenly, I had everything to lose. And when we found out that Noemie here has diabetes, I think—” I pause and look up at the ceiling, blinking furiously. “Something in me broke. I would do anything for my kids. It’s no secret that when you get a certain number of followers, you can start monetizing your accounts. I had to earn enough not just to get by but to pay off our healthcare, to make sure Noemie gets her insulin every day. And I needed to save up money, because we all know how fickle social media is. I just want to provide for my family.

“I tried being authentic, for a while. But—” I give a rueful laugh. “The real me? Is a mess, you guys. I don’t get up at five in the morning to do sun salutations before making sourdough focaccia from scratch. Who does that? Well, you know who does? Everybody on Instagram and TikTok, it seems. I felt like everyone else, every momfluencer on here, has their shit together. And I’m the only one missing the puzzle pieces to make it all make sense. I watched all this mom content and tried so hard to be like them, but I couldn’t do it.” And here, I let the tears come. “I don’t have my shit together like the other momfluencers do. I’m a mess. The only way I can keep up with everyone else on here is to fake it. So that was what I did. What you saw in that video of me pushing my kids into getting in bed at four in the afternoon? That was sheer desperation. And I hate myself so much for doing that. I am sorry. From now on, I promise, no more filters. In fact, I’m going to start showing you the real stuff. I’ll show you a curated, edited video, followed by the real, full-length video to show you just how much it takes to come up with good TikTok- or Insta-friendly content. Until then, thank you for watching.”

I end the recording and look down at Noemie. She looks up at me. “That was good.”

“Really?” I wipe the tears from my face and smile at her.

“Yeah. Did you really mean it? About showing them the real stuff?” Noemie says.

“Yeah.”

She gives me a small smile. “Cool. Can I go watch Peppa Pig now?”

“Yes. Thank you for being here for Mommy.” I hug her tight and then let her go, smiling as she skips out of the room. Then I send the video off to Helena with the message: “How’s this?” Two minutes later, she replies: “Perfect. I knew you could do it.”

I swallow, hesitating, then I open up TikTok and upload the video. For the caption, I type out: “Real talk. No more filters. #authenticity.” I take a deep breath. Here goes. I hit Post.

I don’t sit there waiting around for the responses to come in. As soon as it’s up on TikTok, I close down the app and post the video to Instagram. Then I close that, too, and go out of the twins’ room and into the kitchen, where I open the fridge and start taking out ingredients to make dinner. As I take out a few bell peppers, it hits me that, for once, I don’t need to pretend that they’re freshly picked from my backyard, nor do I need to worry about the position of my arms as I chop the veg, because there isn’t a phone camera hovering over the cutting board. For once, all I need to do is simply cook.

I’m chopping the bell peppers when Ben saunters into the kitchen. Right away, from his body language, I know to expect a fight. My guard goes up, though I’m careful not to show it. I keep my eyes on the chopping board, refusing to give him an opening for an argument. He strolls past me to the fridge. By the clicking of the glass bottle, I know he’s taken out a beer. I bite my tongue. Just focus on the bell peppers .

“What’s for dinner?” he says. There is a clink as he opens the bottle.

“Just a simple roasted butternut squash and bell pepper soup. We’ve got half a loaf of ciabatta that’ll go really well with it.”

“Hmm,” Ben says, taking a big gulp of beer. He leans against the countertop, uncomfortably close to me. As I chop, my left elbow grazes his arm, and goose bumps break out across my arms. It’s not a pleasant touch, not a romantic one. It feels as though I’ve touched an eel. But I won’t be the first one to move away.

Since when did I start fearing my husband? I don’t understand when this shift happened. Has he always had this meanness in him? Have I just been so preoccupied with everything else that I failed to notice his sharp edges? Or did this whole thing break him, and in doing so, created jagged pieces that are now attempting to slice me open?

“I saw your video,” Ben says. Another swig. The bottle must be half-empty already, and he only opened it half a minute ago.

“Oh?” I won’t ask him what he thinks about it. I won’t. “What do you think about it?” Damn it.

“?’Sgood. Is that what your lawyer told you to do?” The words “your lawyer” are said in a very pointed tone.

“Yeah. She said it’s important for me to win back public opinion.”

“Well, you should be used to that by now,” Ben says.

What’s that supposed to mean? I want to snap, but I know perfectly well what he meant by it. I refuse to show him how needled I am by that statement. Smiling, I say, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“What else did you and your lawyer talk about?”

This feels more like an interrogation than a conversation. I finish chopping up the last of the bell pepper and move on to the squash. “Well, it was mostly me filling her in on everything. I guess that’s what most first-time consultations are. But I liked her. I think I’m in good hands.”

Ben scoffs, and I pretend not to hear it. “Did you really tell her everything?”

“Yeah, of course I did.”

Ben takes another swallow of beer. “Because you shouldn’t hide things from your attorney.”

This time, I turn to face him, the knife I’m using to chop vegetables gripped tight in my hand. “What are you trying to say, Ben?”

He shakes his head. There is so much mistrust and judgment in the way he looks at me that I instinctively want to hide behind the counter to put as much between us as possible. After a beat, he says, “See, the thing that keeps niggling at the back of my mind, Aspen, is…where were you that night?”

Ice trails down my spine. “What night?”

“About a month ago, we had a fight. One of many,” he snorts. “You said you were going to sleep in Sabine’s room. I went to get a beer, but we were out, so I went out and got some. Went to bed. In the morning, I woke up, and there you were: my beautiful, perfect wife, cooking breakfast for the family as usual.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I turn away from him and start chopping up the butternut squash so he won’t see the guilt that must be written all over my face. My very hot face. My gaze is kept with laser focus on the squash I’m slicing into, but my brain isn’t registering anything aside from his words.

“Well…” He drinks the rest of the beer and sets the empty bottle next to the chopping board. “Sabine woke up at around four, maybe five in the morning. Her diaper was full. I had to go in and change it. And you weren’t there.”

Chop, chop, chop. As long as I keep chopping, everything will be okay.

“I thought about confronting you. I assumed you were sleeping with some other guy. Might as well; it’s not like we ever do anything in bed with each other.” He takes out another beer. “But now I’m starting to wonder. Maybe it wasn’t another guy. Because the timing with Meredith’s death…it’s all a bit too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

I straighten up and face him, fixing him with a cutting glare. “If you’re accusing me of murder, Ben, I think our marriage is well and truly done.”

He wavers a little, but stands his ground. “So where were you that night?”

It’s time for my trump card. “How come you never told me that you saw Meredith at your open house?”

His mouth drops open, and I wonder at how utterly stupid he looks right now. How ugly and stupid and hateful. “Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Maybe you were the last one who saw Meredith alive.”

Ben takes a step back as though I’ve just hit him. “Do not go down this path, Aspen. I’m not fucking around.”

I stare at him just a moment longer before turning back to the cutting board. For a few excruciating moments, neither of us speaks. Then I say, neutrally, “Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.”

Ben turns and strides out of the kitchen without another word.

I’m scared that dinner will be a silent, awkward affair, the tension between me and Ben painfully visible. Elea and Noemie are old enough now to sense when we’re fighting, and the last thing the girls need is an unstable home. But then I hear the front door open and close, and a minute later, Ben’s car starts up and drives away, and I breathe a sigh of relief even as anger stirs in my chest. He’s just left without even telling me. But then again, good riddance. I find myself half hoping that he’ll get into a car crash. Then, of course, I feel awful for even thinking that. What kind of monster wishes for her husband to die? The kind that is being cornered by said husband.

I push the hideous thoughts away. After putting the squash and bell peppers in the oven, I finally pick up my phone and open TikTok. The video I posted less than an hour ago already has nine hundred thousand views and two hundred thousand Likes. With no small amount of trepidation, I tap on the comments.

LightYurr: This is the realest thing I’ve seen today. Love U, Aspen!!!

Elleies: GUYS IM CRYING THIS GOT ME IN THE FEELS

Seeweed10: Srsly it’s impossible to keep up with all these momfluencers, I wish more ppl would be this real

Tears sting my eyes. Oh my god. Could Helena be right? That this was all I had to do to get people on my side? That in the end, what might save me is showing them the real me? I check Instagram, and the responses are just as good as the ones on TikTok. There are a few haters here and there, but they are drowned by all of the heartfelt comments from moms gushing about how I’m keeping it real.

While waiting for the vegetables to roast, I scroll through my old videos, trying to find one that’s authentic without being too damning. I reject many of them before finally finding one. It’s of me cleaning the house. If someone had said to me ten years ago that videos of people cleaning their own houses would be a huge thing, I wouldn’t have believed them. But they are, and so here I am, recording myself cleaning up. But the thing is, while I do it, I’m also bitching about how much mess there is in the house. How nobody ever helps me tidy up. The twins are forever leaving their toys everywhere, and Ben’s shit is all over every available surface. Multiple times throughout the real video, I slump in a chair, exhausted, and bury my face in my hands.

In the edited video, I fast-forwarded the original footage by a multiple of eight, cut out all the depressing parts, and replaced the audio with relaxing classical music. The result is a one-minute-long video that is both therapeutic and satisfying to watch. The house starts out untidy, the house ends up beautifully clean, and the viewer doesn’t even have to lift a finger.

I stitch the edited video with the original video and add a voice-over of me narrating. “Here is a video I posted a while ago of me cleaning my house. It looks quick and fun and relaxing. Here is the real footage of me cleaning my house. It wasn’t quick, or fun, and it definitely wasn’t relaxing. As you can see, I lost hope various times. I sat down and thought about giving up. I cursed a lot. I cried. I resented my family for not helping me. And you might be wondering why they don’t help me. The answer is: they think it’s my job. Because my career is a lifestyle brand, and so they think keeping a beautiful home is part of my career. I don’t know, I mean, obviously that’s bullshit, and I could probably force them into helping me if I really wanted to, but I just wanted the house to be clean, you know? So yeah. And, to be honest with y’all, I thought that this way I would be able to clean the way I want to clean. And get a video out of it. But it’s so tiring to keep this up for social media. I want you all to know that your houses don’t have to be pristine. Mine is rarely pristine. This is the real me. Later, you guys.”

I send the video to Helena, and as I’m taking the vegetables out of the oven, she replies: “Genius!” Smiling, I post the video, then blend the vegetables up into a creamy soup.

Dinner without Ben is actually a relief. Elea and Noemie are beautifully behaved, and Sabine loves dipping her ciabatta into the soup and smearing it all over her face. My phone is facedown as per our no-gadgets-at-the-table rule, but my watch is silently buzzing nonstop as Likes and positive comments pour in. I take a peek at my watch once in a while, and my god, how adoring the comments are. The watch only shows snippets of them, but they are glowing.

My husband never helps me with…

No but why is this so relatable…

Ok this one got me crying, you…

After we finish eating, I give Sabine a bath. The twins shower, and I help dry them and get them changed into their pajamas. Sabine gets a warm bottle and falls asleep before I even put her in her crib. Then I go into Elea and Noemie’s room to tell them a bedtime story. I snuggle into Elea’s bed, and Noemie joins us, one twin on each side of me.

“My favorite sandwich,” I say.

“Oh, Mommy.” Elea rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and I never want this moment to end.

“Is Daddy going to be okay?” Noemie says. “He seems so…mean all the time.”

That makes me want to cry. And hit Ben and scream at him. “He’ll be fine. It’s just been a tough time for everyone.”

“Will the cops catch the bad guy who killed Aunt Mer?” Elea says.

“Yes.” Then, to my surprise, Elea nuzzles her head into my chest, and I think my heart might actually burst with love for this girl. “It’ll be okay.” I think of how my fans are coming to bat for me now, their loyal chorus overwhelming all of the trolls, and I think of how Helena is busy putting together a battle plan, and I really do believe that everything will be okay.

I tell the twins that I love them and leave their room. I go out to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, and open up TikTok. A video pops up on my FYP. The wineglass slips from my hand and shatters on the floor.