Chapter 8

8

ASPEN

Is it just me? Maybe it’s my mom brain forgetting everything, making mistakes in my everyday life? Ever since I had the twins, it’s like part of my brain shut down and refused to get back into action, and after having Sabine, it’s become even worse. This morning, I kept wandering around the house, frantically looking for my phone, before Noemie pointed out that my phone was in my hand the entire time. It’s getting kind of scary. Maybe I should get checked out.

But this, this isn’t my mistake. I know it isn’t, because I’ve double- and triple-checked my calendar. I show the receptionist my Google Calendar, where the appointment had been locked in weeks ago.

“See?” I say, baring my teeth at her in what I hope passes as a smile and bouncing Sabine on my left hip. “It says here: ‘Appointment with Sunflower Cheeks rep’ at nine a.m.”

The receptionist meets my smile and raises me with an even brighter, faker one. “Yes, I see that, ma’am, but unfortunately, it’s not in our calendar. So there must’ve been a miscommunication.”

Tears clog my throat, and I have to take a moment to swallow the lump back down and make sure my voice comes out even. “Um, could you check again? For my name? It’s just—I’ve been really looking forward to this meeting. I’m such a fan of Sunflower Cheeks, and I think we have a great opportunity to do something amazing together.”

Sabine twists in my arm, and I nearly drop her. I drop my phone instead so I can catch hold of her with both arms. The phone makes a deafening clatter as it hits the floor. Heads turn.

The receptionist sighs audibly. “What’s your full name?”

“Aspen Palmer.” I pick up my phone. Great. There’s a crack going across the screen. I stuff it into my purse and resume bouncing Sabine, praying that she doesn’t start fussing.

“Oh,” the receptionist says. It comes out with an undertone that makes me freeze.

“What is it?”

When she looks up at me, what little traces of sympathy the receptionist had are gone. Her expression is a cold mask. “Your appointment to meet with Ms.Chang was two days ago. I remember now. You didn’t show up.”

“What? No, that’s impossible, that—” I struggle to get my phone out of my bag one-handed. “In my calendar, it—”

The receptionist presses her mouth into a thin line and shakes her head, clearly giving zero shits about what was in my calendar. I stop myself and take a deep breath. “Okay, um, clearly there was a miscommunication. Can we reschedule? I really think that I could contribute a lot to this company. I have over five million followers—”

“I understand, but you missed your appointment, and Ms.Chang insists that all of our brand representatives work with a high standard of professionalism. She also mentioned that your accounts have a really high number of trolls. I’m afraid that at this time, she’s made it clear that she is no longer interested in pursuing a partnership.”

The words land like a slap straight across my face. My cheeks burn so hot that for a ridiculous moment, I wonder if I’ve developed a fever right then and there. I feel so exposed, like everybody in the room is watching my every move. A quick glance about the office space confirms my fears; there is a handful of other people in the waiting room, and I can tell they’re all secretly listening in. I catch a couple of looks being exchanged, and oh my god, I have never felt such humiliation. Part of me wants to stay and explain, once more, that it isn’t my fault, that I didn’t mean to miss our appointment, that I pride myself on behaving professionally, that—

But I know that they’ll all end up sounding like excuses. I know that nothing I say can salvage this. Nothing can get me into a meeting with Sunflower Cheeks. I’ve probably been blacklisted by them. The fastest-growing producer of locally sourced organic baby foods, and I’ve managed to royally mess things up with them. How did this happen? I manage to choke out a small, “Thank you, and please let me know if she changes her mind,” before scurrying out of the office building with Sabine in my arms.

My breath comes in and out in wobbly sips as I make my way back to the car. Thankfully, Sabine doesn’t fight me as I strap her into her car seat. Maybe she can sense that I’m this close to breaking down and is deciding to give me a break. I get into the driver’s seat and release the world’s longest, heaviest sigh. Then I open up my email and do a search for Sunflower Cheeks. I find the email setting up the meeting and yep, the receptionist was right; the appointment really was set for two days ago. It’s on me.

With a frustrated cry, I toss my phone to the passenger seat and bury my face in my hands. How the hell did I mess things up so badly? Did I miss something somehow? Fear stabs into my chest like an ice pick. I don’t understand how this is happening. Did someone…

No. It’s not possible. It was my mistake. I was careless. I’ve been distracted, I know. I should’ve known better. I should’ve cross-checked it with my emails. I shouldn’t have—I should’ve…

So many “shoulds” and “shouldn’t haves” cramming through my head, fighting for domination. All of them amounting to the same conclusion: it was all my fault.

No. It’s not all my fault. The receptionist had mentioned a second factor in their decision-making process, one that probably played an even bigger part than me missing the appointment. The troll comments. The thought lands like an asteroid, cratering my brain, obliterating everything else. Nothing else matters. The fact is, if I had no troll comments, I could miss any meeting and they would still be begging me to partner up with them. I have over five million bloody followers, for god’s sake! They should be coming to me; they should be working their schedules around mine. But they’re not, and it’s because of the damn trolls.

There’s a text message notification from my phone.

I feel like you know something you’re not telling me. Call me back.

Wincing, I hit Delete and put my phone on Silent mode before calling my assistant, Liv.

God, it’s a struggle keeping my voice calm.

“Hi, Aspen! What’s up?” she chirps.

Oh, if I could scream at her. But no. I’m nice. I’m always nice. It’s part of my brand. All Day Aspen never loses her temper. “Hey, Liv. So I just came out of a meeting…” Okay, so technically it’s a meeting that never happened. “And they mentioned the troll comments on my accounts.” I let the silence hang for an uncomfortably long time before saying, “We’ve been over this. Is there a reason why you’re not performing your task? Can I help in any way?” Technically, part of Liv’s job is also overseeing my schedule, but after everything that happened, I became too paranoid to ask Liv to go through my calendar. Instead, I’ve been relying on myself to keep up with my schedule, which I guess is proving to be a mistake.

There’s another long silence, then Liv finally cries, “I’m so sorry! I’ve just been so overwhelmed. There are so many of them, and it’s so mentally and emotionally exhausting to have to go through them.”

My stomach churns with the idea of just how many trolls there are coming for me. Why do they hate me so much? “I understand, but we really, really need to stay on top of them. Is that doable?”

Liv releases a shaky breath. “I guess. I’m sorry. Are you going to fire me?”

“No.” Despite everything, I genuinely like Liv. And more than that, I trust her. It’s hard to find someone I can trust. “I get that this stuff can be overwhelming. You don’t even need to read them, just scan quickly and if it sounds like it’s going to be a mean comment, hit Delete.”

“Okay. But…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s nothing.”

“What is it?” I press, grinding my teeth. “Look, whatever it is, you can tell me. You know I’m not the kind to shoot the messenger.”

“Well, um. It’s just—maybe you should think about why people are coming for you?” Liv says, her voice scratchy with hesitation.

I squeeze the phone so hard I wonder if it’ll shatter in my hand. Keep. Voice. Calm. “Why do you think they’re coming for me?”

“Well.” I can practically see Liv mulling over the words before she spits them out like they’re poison. “Um, well, a lot of them are saying you’re sort of, you know, a little bit fake?” Then she quickly adds, “I disagree, obviously, but uh. You know. I’m just saying, that’s what a lot of the comments are saying. Uh. Yeah.”

It’s a struggle to not fling my phone at the windshield. Fake? Me? Of course I’m fake. And whose fault is that? When I first started, I thought what it took was to share the real me online. I avoided trends and focused on staying true to myself. None of my posts were curated; all of them were achingly real, no filters. And what did that get me? Five thousand measly followers, most of whom couldn’t even be bothered to Like or comment on any of my posts. Most of them were probably just bots.

Nobody wants real. They are hungry for the fantasy. They want to believe that an average person like me can have the dream life—can find the perfect man and be suddenly whisked away from mundanity and find herself in a fairy tale. They don’t want real Aspen; real Aspen is boring as shit. You meet real Aspens every day, dressed in saggy sweatpants at the supermarket, gasping for breath in sweat-stained oversized shirts at Zumba class, and sitting with a defeated, dead-eyed stare while her kids run wild at the playground. They want Instagram Aspen who makes it all look easy, who assures you that things will get better, who is proof that you can have it all.

But twenty-six-year-old Liv isn’t going to understand any of that. She’s too young to see why my brand is so successful. She still thinks that authenticity can be found by scrolling through her For You Page on TikTok. Sometimes, I look at Liv and I hate her because the world hasn’t broken her yet.

“Thank you for letting me know,” I say after a while. “I appreciate your honesty.”

I can almost hear Liv’s sigh of relief.

“I’ll think about it. What they’re saying.” I won’t. “But in the meantime, please stay on top of the comments, okay?”

“Okay, Aspen.” I’m about to hang up when she says, “How come you’re calling me now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the pediatrician? Sabine’s due for her MMR shot today, right?”

“What? No, I was supposed to meet with—” Belatedly, I remember that I wasn’t supposed to meet with Sunflower Cheeks today. There had been that whole mix-up. “Oh god. Sabine’s MMR? You’re sure it’s today?”

“Yeah, you texted me to help you make the appointment months ago, and I put it in my calendar so I wouldn’t forget to book it. I would’ve sent you a reminder, but you told me not to be involved with your calendar anymore.” Am I just imagining it, or is there the slightest tone of reproach in her voice? “Let me see…yeah, it’s—oh, it’s supposed to be twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, bye!” I don’t wait for a reply before hanging up. As I drive out of the parking lot, I ask Siri to dial Dr.Rensburg’s office. It rings and rings, but no one picks up the phone. I drive five miles over the speed limit, even though I’m dying to floor the gas pedal. But no, Sabine’s in the car, and I’m a responsible mom now. A responsible mom who’s just forgotten her baby’s vaccine appointment. Oh my god. I am the worst mom. And how the hell did this mix-up happen? I don’t understand it. Worry and fear crawl up my spine like spiders’ legs, and the whole time, a little voice whispers at the back of my neck: Why does this keep happening? Why? Someone knows something.

By the time I get to the clinic, my chest feels like it’s being crushed by a giant hand, and I’ve sweated through my bra. Sabine has fallen asleep in her car seat, and I’m in such a hurry to get her out that I don’t bother to be gentle. I pluck her out, jerking her awake, and she starts wailing. I rush through the parking lot, into the blessedly cool, air-conditioned clinic.

“Hi, I’m Aspen, this is Sabine Palmer, we’re here to see Dr.Rensburg for her vaccine shot,” I call out at the receptionist before I’m even at her desk.

She glances up and taps at her computer. “Ah, Sabine Palmer. Sorry, you missed your appointment.”

“But—” I give her my best smile, even as Sabine shrieks right into my ear. “Could you slot us in, please? I mean, it shouldn’t take any time at all, right? Just a quick jab.”

This receptionist is a tad more sympathetic than the one at Sunflower Cheeks, but that doesn’t count for jack. She shrugs and says, “Sorry, today’s schedule’s full. We can book you in for another slot later this month.”

“I can’t—” My mind scrambles for something, anything, and pounces on the first story it can think of. “She’s in day care and they need to have her up-to-date with all of her shots. Can you do tomorrow?” I say, bouncing Sabine on my hip as she grabs a chunk of my carefully styled waves and yanks.

“Nope. This whole week and the next are all fully booked.”

Anxiety claws up from my guts to my chest, a giant spider stabbing my insides. “Please.”

The receptionist gives me a What do you want me to do, lady? look. She says, “Sorry, I can’t help you there. Best thing I can do is make a note, and if we get any cancellations, I can slot you in.”

“But—” My voice cracks, and I stop talking. If I say anything more, I’m going to lose it, I know I will. I nod my thanks at her and turn away, and when I do, I see that everyone in the waiting room is looking at me, all the moms and dads and their kids. The familiar fear rises up again, painfully acidic. They know. They all know.

And worse than that, one of the women has her phone aimed right at me. She doesn’t even look sorry when our eyes meet. She just raises her eyebrows a little and continues recording me. Sabine arches her back again, her signature FML move, and screams. Her whole face is red and wet with tears. I glance over at the woman again. Her phone is still trained on us, the camera following us with ruthless, unwavering interest, and something inside me breaks. It’s just too much, all of it. Not to mention my home life—my husband resents me and my kids hate me, and I can’t take it anymore. Sabine writhes in my arms. I am so close, so close to lunging at this woman. The cruelty of others astounds me. Who reacts to someone who is clearly distressed by recording them? “You are a ghoul,” I spit at her, and stride out of the clinic, my blood rushing through my veins in a rhythm of fear. They know. They know.

It’s only when Sabine and I are safe inside the cocoon of my car and she’s sucking on a bottle of formula that it hits me. Oh my god. What have I done? I showed my anger to a complete stranger in public . I should’ve known better than to do that. I never let my mask crack in public, never. I’m always All Day Aspen, all smiles, easy breezy. But losing Mer has been like having half my soul ripped away. I’m off-balance without her. Tears burn my eyes at the thought of Mer. I miss her so much. She’s the only one who would know how to fix this.

I take my phone out and open up our WhatsApp text chain. Our last messages sent to each other seem like they were sent a lifetime ago. The sight of it chisels at my heart. How could we have let this happen, when once upon a time we used to chat with each other throughout the day, every day? And the times we weren’t chatting, it was because we were actually with each other. Why did we have to have our fight? I type out “I miss you.” But my thumb refuses to hit Send. Instead, I close WhatsApp and open up TikTok.

And there it is. On my Notifications tab, I see that the woman at the clinic has wasted no time in posting about my meltdown. She recognized me, of course she did—was probably a fan before she saw All Day Aspen unmasked.

The footage is horrific. I look unhinged, bouncing Sabine aggressively while she shrieks. I could’ve sworn I was pleading with the receptionist nicely, but in the video, I sound shrill, on the edge of hysteria. A choked gasp escapes my mouth when video-Aspen whirls around and her furious gaze lands on the camera. The words “Uh oh” appear on the screen, followed by “Guys I think she’s seen me.” Video-Aspen marches closer to the camera, and it adjusts its angle to take in my face. Now, I’m towering over the phone camera. “You are a ghoul,” video-Aspen says, and I put a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming because video-Aspen’s voice is a witch’s snarl, as rough and sharp as a serrated knife. The caption says: “The REAL #AllDayAspen!”

“No,” I whisper to myself. The Likes are only trickling in for now, but I’m sure it’ll turn into a torrent in no time. “No, no, no.”

This is hell. I know it. I’ve somehow landed myself in hell, and I don’t know how to get out of it.