Chapter 2

2

ASPEN

It is not yet nine in the morning, and I’ve almost snapped at Elea three separate times.

The first was when I was trying to get a photo of the beautiful stack of sourdough pancakes to post to my Stories, and she stabbed her fork through it before I said they were okay to eat. She totally knew what she was doing too; I could tell from that glint in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Sweetheart, wait, please,” and she moaned, “But Mommy, I’m hungry. And Noemie’s blood sugar is probably getting low.” Weaponizing Noemie’s diabetes is a recent tactic that Elea’s picked up. It drives me insane because let’s face it, Elea doesn’t give a shit about Noemie’s blood sugar. She only does when it suits her.

“I’m okay,” Noemie said softly, next to Elea. I gave her a grateful wink, and she smiled at me. My sweet girl. Elea ignored me and ripped out a huge chunk of pancakes. I sucked my breath in, in a sharp hiss, barely holding myself back from snapping at her, but somehow, through some superhuman effort, I managed to bite my tongue.

Ben glanced up from the table, where he was feeding Sabine mashed peas, but he was wise enough not to say anything. I saw how his mouth pressed into a thin line, though, and it was enough to get my hackles up. I ignored them both, my silently critical husband and my rebellious six-year-old, and focused on taking the perfect shot of the pancakes.

Never mind the ruined shots , I thought. The news I’m about to share is going to make everything okay.

I served the pancakes and fruits and yogurt, then, as everyone tucked in, I cleared my throat and said, “I have some really exciting news to share.”

Ben barely looked up, he was so disinterested in what I had to say. I ignored his rudeness and said, “A producer contacted Mommy this morning. His name is Damien Kim, and he’s shooting a Netflix show about influencers and their lifestyles. Each influencer will get a thirty-minute episode to themselves, and he wants to meet with me to see if we’d be a good match.” I ended the announcement with an expectant smile, but not even Noemie looked excited at this. Instead, my family stared at me like I’d asked them to clean the toilet with their bare hands.

“What does that mean, Mommy?” Noemie said finally.

“Well, it means we might have a show that’s all about our family,” I said brightly.

“And have a bunch of cameras recording our every move?” Ben said. “I don’t think so.”

“Ben, please,” I said, and even I hated how pathetic I sounded. Groveling and begging for my family’s cooperation, like always. When I read Damien’s email, I’d been so exhilarated, so carried away by all of the possibilities, that I hadn’t paused to think that my family might not be on board. But why wouldn’t they be? If we played this right, our single episode could be so well received that we could end up with our very own show. Then maybe I could finally stop feeling like I’m on a hamster wheel, needing to come up with nonstop content to feed to the perpetually hungry social media machine. But my family, spoiled by my success, had no idea how I was breaking my back to earn as much as I could for their sake. This huge opportunity was nothing more than a blip in their day. I couldn’t afford to get into an argument with Ben over this right then, though, so I merely said, “You know what? Let’s discuss this later this evening, okay?”

The second time I almost snapped at Elea was when I tried to get a photo of Elea and Noemie in their matching outfits—powder-blue dresses with little strawberry prints all over them, cream-colored knit cardigans, black leggings, and red ribbons in their hair to match the strawberries. They looked so Instagrammable. They always look Instagrammable; that is the whole fucking point. But while Noemie stood there smiling obediently—my sweet, darling Noemie—Elea kept making horrible faces at the camera. And you know what? I rolled with it. I took photos anyway and uploaded them to my Stories with the caption, “Sugar and spice, lol.” As I was uploading the photos, Elea shouted, “LET’S GO MOM COME ON I’M SICK OF THIS,” and once more, I begged, “Please be patient, Elea; you know I need to do this.”

Inside my head a voice whispered, I’m sick of her , and although I didn’t say it out loud, hot shame burned through my entire being.

Number three: As I plopped baby Sabine down on the front yard next to Elea and Noemie, I noticed that her strawberry-red headband was gone. I groaned; I’d put that headband on Sabine to match the twins’ ribbons. Without it, the entire photo would be ruined. Then I saw it sticking out of Elea’s cardigan pocket. I snatched it out and said in a barely controlled voice, “Sweetheart, why would you take this off? You know how hard it is to put a headband on your sister.”

Elea lifted her chin defiantly. “Yeah, because she hates it, and you shouldn’t make her wear it if she hates it. No means no, Mom .” Never has the word “Mom” been said with so much venom.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down before I snapped at her. When the girls were born, I made a promise to myself never to raise my voice at them except when they were in danger, but by god, Elea was testing me.

“Well, please don’t do that again, okay?” I said through a gritted smile. I stretched the headband and put it on Sabine’s bald head. A frown scrunched her chubby baby face. She pulled at the headband, and it went over her eyes, which made her fuss. Great, just great. “Come on, pumpkin,” I cooed, adjusting the headband. “Please, just for one minute, okay? Do this for Mommy, please, baby girl.” Not that she would understand anything I was saying, but hopefully the soothing tone of my voice would help calm her as I put the headband back in place.

It didn’t. She started wailing. I dipped into my Luna’s All-Natural Vegan Leather Mommy’s Hands-Free Purse. Really, it was just a glorified fanny pack, but Luna Rose, the company that paid me over fifty grand to advertise it, had been insistent that I never call it a fanny pack, so I made a habit of calling it my “hands-free purse,” even in my head. When you’ve got over five million followers watching your every move, it pays to be meticulous. And anyway, the Luna Hands-Free Purse really was a genius creation. It was divided into three sections, and into one section I had dumped a handful of sugar-free, freeze-dried yogurt melts. I fished out one of the yogurt melts and offered it to Sabine.

“My teacher said you shouldn’t use food as a reward,” Elea said.

I ignored her and the twinge of guilt because she was right. But, I reminded myself, at least it’s sugar-free. Sabine took my offering and sucked on it happily, letting me adjust her headband. Once it was in place, I ran back a few paces and raised my camera. No time to hesitate; the yogurt melt would only buy me fifteen seconds, tops. I took a dozen photos from various angles and was rewarded with smiles from Sabine and Noemie. None from Elea, of course, but I could Photoshop the corners of her mouth later on to give her a less surly look.

Then it was a mad rush to bundle everyone into the car; a quick snap of them safe and snug with me tagging the company that had paid me to advertise their car seats. I posted them to my Stories, and the Likes poured in before I was even out of the driveway.

Elea refused to give me a hug at the school drop-off, so I—fully conscious of the judgy stares from the other parents around me—made sure to lavish Noemie with a tighter hug and smoochier kiss than usual. She squirmed and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” I said brightly, and she just looked at me knowingly. Noemie has always been an old soul. “Don’t forget your morning snack, sweetie.”

She gave me a thin-lipped smile, and the crack in my heart widened. It’s not fair , I thought to myself for the millionth time. It’s not fair that my beautiful, perfect child would be diagnosed with diabetes. She’s not even fat! As soon as the thought came, I chastised myself for fat-shaming. I silently recited my mantra: don’t think any thoughts that you wouldn’t say out loud . That way, there could be no way that I would slip up and be canceled. Anyway, it’s a good thing that Noemie is learning to eat every three hours. It’s healthier this way. She’ll set a good example for her peers.

I saw the other moms making their approach, and dread lurched up my throat like bile, so I quickly waved to them and called out, “Sorry, ladies, I’m late for a meeting! Lunch soon? Love you all!”

And now, as I drive away from the twins’ school and enter the 405, I can’t help going over everything that’s happened this morning—all of the tiny details that went wrong. Elea’s acidic remarks, peeling away layer after layer of my defenses. Ben’s unspoken judgment. The way the other school moms approached me, grinning like sharks, their eyes calculating. I can’t help feeling like everyone knows. My dark secret. My hands tighten around the steering wheel. I force myself to release my breath. Take a deep inhale. Exhale.

Just as the tension starts to leave my shoulders, Sabine gurgles. I smile at her through the rearview mirror, and she smiles back. My sweet baby. Then her eyes suddenly focus, and her face turns pink. “Oh no,” I mutter, just as she lets out a massive, wet fart.

I recognize the sound of a diaper blowout when I hear it. “No!” I cry. “Not today, baby.”

But Sabine doesn’t give a shit (or rather, she gives a lot of shit) about what day it is. She doesn’t know we’re on our way to meet with Bodacious Babies, a meeting weeks in the making. It would be Sabine’s first ever official modeling contract. I held off long enough so I wouldn’t be accused of exploiting my newborn, but now she is sturdier, with thigh rolls to die for, and she adores the camera. It would be a crime not to let her shine.

Of course, right now, those luscious thigh rolls are covered in crap. Sabine starts wailing. “I know, baby,” I coo, searching for someplace I can stop at to clean her up. There is nothing. Of course there’s nothing, we’re on the freaking 405. I could take the next exit and pray there’s a Ralphs or something that I could go to, but then we’d be hopelessly late for the meeting. And I pride myself on my professionalism; influencers get enough bad rap as it is, and I’ve set myself aside from all the others by taking my career seriously. Turning up to a meeting like this one this late is unacceptable. I take a deep breath and immediately regret it as the stench of Sabine’s blowout has now filled the car. I look at her crying face in the rearview mirror and say, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you’re just going to have to endure it for now, okay?”

It doesn’t help. She screams throughout the entirety of the remaining journey. By the time I take the exit for Wilshire, Sabine’s usually cherubic face is covered with snot and tears and sweat, and she’s so tired from wailing that her cries are all gaspy—closer to whimpers than full-on wails. I spot a Natural Foods and swerve into the parking lot. I should’ve stopped off earlier. God, I am the worst mom.

Stop that. She’ll be fine. It’s just a little poop, that’s all.

Except when I finally get to her, it isn’t just a little poop. It’s the mother lode of diaper blowouts. I can’t help gagging when I see the mess. “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay, it’s fine,” I say, more to myself than to Sabine. I lift her from her car seat, but now I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. There is just so much. Sabine’s whole bottom half is covered in it. Her car seat is covered in it. For a second, I stand there, arms out, holding my baby, both of us just as stunned as the other. Then, as though being lifted gave her a second wind, she opens her mouth and starts screaming once more. And now, Natural Foods customers are staring at us. As though Natural Foods customers need more reason to be judgy assholes. I snap out of it. One step at a time , I remind myself. This is nothing . I shoulder her diaper bag and hurry her into the supermarket, being careful to still hold her away from me because the last thing I need is for me to get shit all over my outfit right before a meeting. More judgmental stares. A couple of them seem to recognize me. I ignore them all, locate the bathroom, and rush in.

It is carnage. By the time I’ve changed Sabine into a clean diaper and clean clothes, I am drenched in sweat. My makeup isn’t just running, it’s speeding away from my face. I try to salvage it as best as I can, but it’s next to impossible with one arm keeping a squirmy Sabine on my hip, and the other shaky after all the stress. Don’t fall apart now , I scold myself. It’ll all be okay. You always land on your feet .

“We’re so late,” I moan to Sabine as I speed walk back to the car. “Goddamn it!” I cry when I see her car seat. Somehow, I’d managed to forget that I still needed to clean it. Again, I try my best, one-handed, Sabine fussing, twisting, arching her back, and shouting right in my ear. People looking, always looking. I could’ve sworn I saw a glimpse of someone’s camera phone aimed at me. And I roll with it. I always roll with it. I give them my best oh god, it’s one of those days smiles and wave. The woman taking a photo smiles back and puts her phone in her purse before coming toward me.

“Do you need a hand?” she says.

“Oh, thank you so much. It has been…” I gesture at the mess and give a harried smile. “One of those days.”

“I know those days,” the woman laughs. “My life is nothing but ‘those days.’ Want me to carry her while you clean up?”

I almost hand Sabine over to her, but catch myself in time. I can just see the uproar online: Aspen Palmer gave her baby to a STRANGER! I force another smile and say, “I think I’ve got most of it out, though thank you so much.” I haven’t gotten most of it out. Most of it has been absorbed into the car seat, and no amount of baby wipes, no matter how savagely I scrub, is going to get it out. I shake out a baby blanket and drape it over the car seat before putting Sabine back inside. “Thank you so much,” I say again over my shoulder to the woman as I wrestle Sabine into the car seat. Not that she has done anything to help, but I am always nice. Always.

I can’t speed the rest of the way to the meeting ( Aspen Palmer SPEEDING with a baby in her car! ). By the time we get there, we’re twenty-seven minutes late, and both Sabine and I look like shit. We also smell like it—something I realize as the receptionist’s nose wrinkles when I get to her desk.

“Hi, I’m Aspen Palmer, and this is Sabine. I’m here to see Michelle Reyes.”

Recognition dawns on her face. “Oh my gosh, you’re All Day Aspen!” The disgusted nose wrinkle is instantly gone, replaced by an expression I’m more familiar with: admiration.

“That’s me,” I say cheerfully, resisting the urge to apologize for the way we look and smell. I learned long ago to stop apologizing so much for everything. It doesn’t endear you to people. I do, however, apologize for being late, because that’s common courtesy.

“Hmm, let’s see…Ms.Reyes is supposed to have a meeting in three minutes’ time. Your slot is almost over,” the receptionist says apologetically. My stomach drops. But then she adds, “You know what? That meeting is actually flexible, so let me just move it…Okay, you have twenty minutes with Ms.Reyes now.”

“Thank you so much!”

“Of course. I’m such a huge fan,” the receptionist says. “My little sister has diabetes, and I really appreciate you raising awareness about juvenile diabetes.”

I give a sympathetic “Aww” and nod, and she smiles as she leads me into the main office space. Bodacious Babies is a modeling agency for babies, and the walls are adorned with framed photos of their clients, all of them plump and cherubic with chunky thigh rolls. None of them holds a candle to my beautiful Sabine. Of course, you wouldn’t know it from looking at her now. Sweaty, cranky, still whimpering in my arms.

The receptionist knocks at the corner office door. “Come in,” Michelle calls out.

“Good luck,” the receptionist says.

“Thank you.” I take a deep breath and enter with a confident smile. I’ve got this. How many of these meetings have I taken? She should be glad that I’ve taken the time to come and see her. She’ll grasp my hand warmly and fall in love with Sabine, because how can anyone not?

Instead, the first thing Michelle Reyes does when I walk in is to give a very pointed, very calculated glance at the clock.

“I’m sorry we’re late. Poor Sabine had a diaper blowout,” I say with an apologetic laugh. I hadn’t planned on telling her about the blowout, but it’s something I’m betting that, as a mother, Michelle would empathize with.

Except Michelle turns out to be a sociopath, because the mention of a blowout doesn’t make her sympathetic, it only disgusts her. God, how have I misjudged this so badly? I try to recover. “But I’ve cleaned her up now!”

Michelle still wears the look of distaste as she regards Sabine, and I get a sudden urge to take off Sabine’s diaper and smack it into Michelle’s face. I fight it off and settle into the seat opposite Michelle’s desk. “We’re both so excited to be here today.”

A fake smile appears on Michelle’s face. “Yes, so am I.”

“Sabine loves the camera. You can tell she grew up with it.” Sabine writhes in my arms and shrieks, and I jump back to my feet and bounce her on my hip. “Sorry, like I said, we had a difficult morning. She’s usually really easy. The easiest! She hardly ever cries.” At this, Sabine screams even louder. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Come on, Sabine. Please don’t do this right now. “Sorry, just—” I rummage through the diaper bag and locate a bottle of formula. “Freshly pumped,” I sing to Sabine as I put the rubber nipple in her mouth. I pray that Michelle can’t tell the difference between breast milk and formula. With the twins, I managed to breastfeed them until they were a year old. But with Sabine, my breasts gave up three months in, and ever since then, she’s been on formula. But try telling any other momfluencer that. I’d be stoned for being a terrible mom. Thankfully, Sabine settles down. “See? Easy.” I smile at Michelle.

She gives a terse nod, looking far from convinced. “The thing is, Aspen, as much as we love your brand, we’re very concerned about the number of trolls you’ve attracted.”

My gut twists. Anger flickers, searing hot. Goddamn Liv. How many times do I have to tell her to take care of the hateful comments that plague my accounts? I’m going to fire that useless moron. I force a laugh. “Isn’t it a mark of success to have trolls? I think every influencer—the ones who are big enough, anyway—has them.”

“Yes, but you have more than an acceptable number of them. It’s actually quite worrying. Aren’t you concerned about your family’s safety?”

And now I’m not just angry, I’m furious. How dare this smug, condescending bitch sit there and accuse me of not caring for my family’s safety? It’s a struggle to keep my voice even. “My family’s health and safety is my top priority. Ben and I have made damn sure to do everything to keep our kids safe.”

Michelle leans back, clearly unconvinced. “See, the thing is, your trolls seem more…personal. My team has combed your accounts, and these comments…” She picks up her iPad and scrolls, sucking in a breath. “?‘Fake bitch,’ ‘fake,’ ‘fake,’ —we don’t like these, because your brand is all about authenticity, but at least they’re not alarming. But these ones: ‘I know where her kids go to school and trust me when I say they are total brats,’ and, ‘The twins are so beautiful, especially in those little skirts I saw them wearing on Monday on the way to ballet.’ They’re not…typical, Aspen. I don’t think it’s a good time for you to be getting more exposure. We don’t want to further endanger your family.”

The rage is almost blinding. My whole body is so hot that I’m surprised I haven’t burned a hole right through the chair. “Every influencer has them,” is all I manage to say, and I know I’m just repeating myself. I know there is no changing her mind. “Why did you—why set up this meeting if you were just going to reject us?”

Michelle shrugs. “I wasn’t aware of the magnitude of the troll accounts when we set up this meeting. It was brought to my attention only recently.”

“You’re making a mistake.” My voice comes out wobbly, lacking conviction. And god, could I have come up with more of a cliché?

“I’m sure we are, but we take our clients’ safety very seriously. Thank you for coming by, and I’m sorry not to have better news.”

And just like that, I’ve been dismissed. I lift Sabine up—she’s so heavy, and the diaper bag is so heavy, and I just want to lie down—and stride out of the office. I can’t meet anybody’s eye. Did they all know in advance that I was going in there to be rejected? A huge lump wedges in my throat, and my breath is coming in and out all shaky with tears. I manage to bite out a hushed “Thank you” to the receptionist as I hurry out of the office. It’s only when I’m out of the lobby that I let the tears come.

“Fucking bitch,” I whisper under my breath. I can’t even wipe them off because my hands are full. There hadn’t been time to take the stroller out of the trunk of the car, and boy am I regretting my choice now as I lug Sabine and the diaper bag across the parking lot under the unforgiving LA sun.

I need Mer. The thought hits me like a brutal sucker punch. It’s true. I need my best friend. Days like these, all I want is to drive to her place, plop Sabine in a playpen with Luca, and eat Ben & Jerry’s (Phish Food for me, Chunky Monkey for her) right out of the carton while we bitch about what a bitch Michelle Reyes turned out to be. God, why did we have to fight? Of all the things I regret, this is the one I can’t get over. Our horrible, soul-ripping fight.

Stop it. No use ruminating. I need to move on.

As I near my car, I spot someone peeping into it. “Hey!” I call out. With tears blurring my vision, it’s hard to tell if the figure is male or female, but something tells me it’s a woman. She jerks away from my car and runs off before I can say anything else. I hurry to my car, my blood pounding in my ears. There doesn’t seem to be any damage done to it, but still, I can’t shake off the sickening, nervous sensation lurking in my gut. Michelle’s words echo in my head: Your trolls seem more…personal.

I look around the parking lot, unable to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Someone who knows what I’ve done.