Influenced

by Eva Robinson

  Sighing, she looked at the photo of him more closely. Truth was, she vastly preferred looking at pictures of Marc to trying to write a chapter about how to get men to worship you. Honestly, what the hell did she know? She was stalking her ex-boyfriend online. She was jealous of a sheep. The book was a complete farce, and that was why she couldn’t write it.

  Something about the image of Marc bothered her, and it took her a moment to realize what it was.

  Who took the photo? He never knew how to set the camera so it would go off on its own, and the angle of the image suggested it had been taken by another person.

  Her heart was squeezing. She was being left behind. No—locked outside a wall, banished from a gleaming city she’d once inhabited. In the ancient world, traitors were literally thrown off the city walls into pits of dead dogs. That was what this felt like. This was why he hadn’t looked at her Instagram stories in weeks, hadn’t liked any of her photos.

  Who was he with now? Her mind spun in a million terrible directions as she imagined someone much, much better than her. A truly wholesome woman with honeyed hair, gorgeous even when she first woke up. Someone who raised money by running marathons for charities and couldn’t wait to have children and always remembered gifts for nieces and nephews. Marc’s mother adored her. She was vegan, probably.

  Rowan took another sip of wine, and a bit of it dripped onto her laptop. She wiped it off as quickly as she could. She’d already ruined three laptops by spilling alcohol on them.

  Now, grief electrified her body. He hadn’t written back to her messages in weeks. Their breakup had been messy, yes, and he’d been so angry with her. But he’d always written back in the past year. She was sure he still cared about her. He’d said it, in fact, when he broke up with her. I will always care about you.

  She just didn’t believe it anymore.

  Vaguely, she was aware that someone was on the riverside walk below, walking back and forth beneath her window. Staring up at her. But right now, she wasn’t sure she cared. If someone tried to murder her, at least Marc would pay attention to her again.

  A wild laugh escaped her at that thought.

  Keep it together, Ro.

  Loneliness cut through her, and she wondered who she could talk to.

  She picked up her phone and called Heather.

  Heather picked up after one ring. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do people always say that when I call?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  Rowan drained her wine glass. “I know this isn’t your wheelhouse. I have an agent to talk about the book stuff with. But I’m absolutely stuck. And I think perhaps it’s because it’s all lies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me give you the real version, Heather. Chapter six,” she announced. “How to destroy a perfect relationship and regret it for the rest of your life. Make the one true love of your life so angry that he has to end it, and you’re forever locked out of the life you were supposed to have. Let him know the real you—the really terrible side beneath the beauty—until he stops loving you. Stalk him on social media like millennial Miss Havisham until you die alone in a room filled with old recycling and bras, and you don’t even have cats to eat you.”

  “Oh, no. Please don’t write that. And please don’t write anything like that on Instagram. No one wants to know the truth, trust me. The allure lasts about a day, and then your career is over. Write people’s fantasy version of life. That’s all you need to do.”

  “I’m not sure who I am anymore.”

  “Take up a hobby. Find the glamor again. Glamor and mystery. That’s all you need to do.”

  “I tried writing something about educational equality, but I could hear their voices. The haters. They were saying my family bought my way into Harvard, and that I should kill myself.”

  “Never read the comments, honey. Never.”

  Rowan sighed. “I know.”

  “Glamor and mystery. And then just watch Netflix, like a normal person.”

  “I’ll get you some glamor and mystery if it kills me.”

  “Nope, no killing. Just relax.”

  When Rowan hung up, movement caught her eye. It was that person marching back and forth on the riverside walk across from her apartment. She could actually hear the footsteps from here, the heels against the pavement. The person was pushing something, like they were on a grim patrol before her house.

  “Hope you’re enjoying the view,” she muttered. “Creep.”

  She poured another glass of wine to calm the adrenaline surging through her veins. The footfalls echoed across the street, forming a rhythm in her mind.

  Shivering, she turned away from the window.

  She felt her blood pumping hot. No matter how much she tried to forget it, her mind kept circling back to that photo of Marc in the countryside.

  When they were together, when she was naked and stretched out on his bed, he could never keep his eyes off her. He’d stop mid-sentence and just stare. His features would soften; words would escape him. She needed that to happen again.

  Slowly, an idea began to dawn in Rowan’s mind. Exactly how she could get Marc to notice her again.

  Within moments, she was rushing back inside, sliding her laptop onto the countertop. Heart pounding, she rushed to her bathroom sink, where her makeup was spread out over every surface. Given the amount of wine she’d had, it wasn’t easy to get her eyebrows just right, but she’d done this so often that she was able to eventually get them into perfect Liz Taylor style. The eyeliner took a few tries, during which she grunted in frustration and smeared it off to start again.

  Sweeps of highlighter, blush, a deep red lipstick, and liner to accentuate her full pout. Dewy makeup, suggesting a postcoital glow—pure sex. She needed to remind Marc of exactly what he was missing with his willowy, boring vegan.

  She set up her ring lights before her bed. She drained the rest of her glass of wine, her head now spinning.

  Then she slid out of her leggings and pulled off her long striped top. She unhooked her bra then pulled her underwear off and kicked it across her floor. She set up her Canon on its tripod a few feet away. Already, she knew this photo would ignite her engagement like nothing she’d ever done before. It would be all over Twitter.

  She’d never posted anything close to a nude. There’d be no way Marc could miss this, no matter what sort of Stepford girlfriend he was out sheep-gazing with.

  She set up the timer on her camera then slid into place. With one arm carefully over her nipples, she leaned back against the chaise longue. As she crossed her legs, she tilted her hips away from the camera. If she got it just right, she’d have a shockingly hot photo without breaking any of Instagram’s rules.

  She lowered her chin, giving the camera her wide-eyed, innocent look, a little bit of a pout. Just sitting here naked, totally natural and normal.

  As the camera snapped photos automatically, she imagined Marc looking directly at her. The sound of violins and drums floated through the air. Now, at last, her mind felt at rest.

  When the burst of photos had finished, she rose from her bed.

  Grabbing her camera, she scrolled through the photos, and a grin spread across her face. Marc would not be able to keep his eyes off her photo. Surely she’d have a message back from him soon. This wouldn’t bore him.

  Still naked, she pulled her laptop into her lap and plugged in the camera. With another glass of wine, she started editing her photo, tweaking the contrast. She added a bit of a blur to everything except her eyes, then added a photo grain and a vignette for added classiness.

  When she’d finished, she uploaded it, her heart thumping like a bass drum. Was this a terrible idea? Full nudity wasn’t her brand—there were plenty of others on Instagram who went for all-out sex appeal, softcore porn.

  Except she really didn’t give a crap about her brand right now. And what was more, she hadn’t felt this alive in ages. Every inch of her bare skin felt electrified. />
  She started typing out the caption.

  Strangeness is a necessary ingredient in beauty. —Charles Baudelaire #poetry

  Next, she wrote:

  Thinking of you. Her body heated at the thought of him seeing her photo, being turned on by it. Nothing else mattered.

  Marc would know it was meant for him. As she exhaled, she realized she was shaking with a pure thrill.

  She stood and crossed to the balcony, stepping outside so the breeze rippled over her.

  And there he was again—that person turning to stalk back and forth in front of her apartment, looking up at her window.

  Only then did she realize she was standing naked for all Memorial Drive to see.

  With a jolt of adrenaline, she jumped back inside and pulled the curtains closed.

  Eleven

  For the second evening in a row, Hannah was parading before Rowan’s apartment. I will find her, even if I’m losing my mind.

  From all the photos Rowan took, Hannah had a very good idea of where she lived—in a brick building, on the top floor, with a balcony overlooking the Charles.

  Funny that she lived right across from the river, after what had happened right here in high school.

  The worst night of Hannah’s life. The one that changed everything. Being here by the Charles still unnerved Hannah, and a thin blade of guilt cut into her.

  I’d rather die…

  Did Rowan even remember it?

  Hannah gripped the stroller handles harder. As she walked, she thought she’d caught a glimpse of Rowan—completely naked—before the curtains had slammed shut. The confidence of that woman. And recklessness, Hannah supposed.

  Wind whipped over her as she walked along the riverside path, pushing Nora.

  What would Rowan be like now, in person? Hannah herself was totally changed. Things had all seemed very different in high school. Back then, Hannah had been confident. She was so sure she was smart, and that was what everyone wanted, wasn’t it? On the debate team, she’d never faltered, not even for a moment. Her teachers always read her writing out loud to the class. Other parents compared their kids unfavorably to her.

  It had taken her a long time to realize that none of her peers really cared how well she could analyze The Scarlet Letter from a feminist perspective, or that she could recite more than eight digits of Avogadro’s number. Sure, her teachers had been impressed, but her classmates… It wasn’t until her senior year that she’d understood they simply found her annoying. That was when she’d realized almost no one liked her.

  In any case, she never would’ve predicted that one day she might end up strolling up and down a riverside walk in the desperate hope that “Handjob Harris” might pop out and offer her employment.

  Now on her second night of stalking the path in front of Rowan’s apartment, Hannah was starting to become certain that she’d crossed the line from enterprising into pathetic stalking. In fact, what she was doing now might be the financial-planning equivalent of walking around Boston hoping to find a diamond ring lying on the street.

  And yet…

  She couldn’t shake that feeling that some kind of fate bound her and Rowan together. That if she were lucky enough, she could have the sort of life Rowan had, washed in the glow of magic.

  “Mama. Hungry.”

  Okay. That was enough of this nonsense. It was getting dark, well into dinnertime, and she was dragging her toddler around Cambridge for no reason. No matter how much she wanted to will it into existence, it didn’t appear that Rowan was about to run outside and immediately divulge the secrets of fame and fortune to someone she hadn’t spoken to since high school.

  “We’ll go home, Nora.” Hannah whirled the stroller around, and a haze of fatigue ate into her thoughts. If she got a good night’s sleep, maybe she’d come up with a better plan. Back to Somerville, then.

  “Hungry!” Nora said. “Applesauce. Hungry!”

  Hannah should have fed her by now. Nora’s hunger always sent a jolt of panic and guilt through her. She’d been a colicky baby, and even now, two years later, Hannah lived in complete dread of her daughter being upset in any way, because it had once meant five hours of screaming that Hannah had been completely unable to soothe. Her heart was already racing.

  It was the sort of thing she knew her grandmother would dismiss as Millennial nonsense, making a fuss over nothing, but Hannah wondered if it was possible for a mom to have PTSD from a colicky baby.

  It was as if all those hours spent frantically rocking but failing to soothe her baby had forever worn grooves of fear into the fissures of her brain. Nora’s distress was now her own, and Hannah would do anything to stop it. But she hadn’t planned well enough.

  Hannah leaned down and kissed Nora on her nose. “I love you.”

  Nora looked furious. “No kisses right now! Applesauce!” Nora shouted, more frantic this time. She wasn’t pacified by the fresh air and the breeze.

  Hannah’s stomach clenched, and she stopped walking. She opened her purse and started rifling around, rummaging past sticky toddler socks, a collection of seashells Nora had given her in the summer, and a plastic toy from McDonald’s. Her fingers brushed against the ooze of an old yogurt that had exploded. She was hoping to find an old snack in there, even though she didn’t remember packing one.

  “Hungry!”

  At last, her fingers brushed against a smooth packet, and she pulled it out, exhaling with relief—liquidized kale and apples. She unscrewed the top. Technically, it was baby food and Nora was a toddler, but she loved these. And it was kale, wasn’t it? Healthy.

  Nora grasped it greedily and stuffed it in her mouth. Sadly, the contentment of this single packet wouldn’t last long, and she’d be screaming for another within minutes.

  Hannah found a napkin in her handbag and wiped off the sludge from her hands.

  Then, when she looked up again, she saw a woman striding closer, her dark curls caught in the wind.

  It’s her.

  Rowan wore a belted camel trench coat, hands shoved in her pockets. Her cheeks shimmered in the dying sunlight.

  Hannah’s nerves crackled, and she started pushing the stroller again, trying to act natural. What a coincidence! That was the vibe she was going for.

  As Rowan stalked closer, Hannah tried to catch her eye. Rowan, however, seemed completely intent on the path before her, and slightly pissed off as well.

  Say something, Hannah.

  When she passed, Hannah turned, then blurted, “Rowan!”

  Rowan whirled, and Hannah tried to remember what a natural smile looked like.

  At first, Rowan frowned, looking irritated by the interruption. Then she cocked her head as if recognition was dawning very slowly.

  “It’s Hannah,” said Hannah, feeling like an idiot. “From S and O. Saltonstall and Oakes,” she added, feeling stupid.

  Immediately, Rowan’s features brightened, and a smile beamed from her face. “Hannah! How are you? It’s been ages. I remember you! You were the smartest kid in our whole school.”

  “It has been ages,” Hannah said. “I was just out for a walk. I live nearby. Well, just over the Somerville border in Porter Square.”

  Rowan frowned at her. “Were you walking back and forth? Over and over? I thought I saw you from my window.”

  Hannah’s stomach clenched, and she wanted to run. “Sometimes walking by the river is the only thing that soothes Nora.”

  Rowan glanced at Nora. “Are you a mom, Rowan? How exciting!”

  Oh, thank heavens that worked.

  “Yes, this is Nora.” Hannah suddenly felt her chest warm with a fierce pride. Nora was, after all, the most adorable child in the area. Anyone could see that immediately. “She’s just turned two.”

  “Turned two,” said Nora, trying and failing to hold up two fingers.

  “So funny to run into you here,” said Hannah. What was the best way to ask, “Hey, can you turn me into an Instagram star too,” without sounding like a giant us
er?

  Rowan pointed to her apartment. “Oh, well, I live right there. I ran out of wine. It’s been one of those days, you know?”

  “Oh, I know.”

  Rowan pointed at Hannah’s charm bracelet. “Oh, you still wear it! That makes me happy.” She held up her own. “I do too.”

  Oh, I know. “You look the same.”

  Rowan took a step closer. “You were always so together. You were class president and valedictorian, right? I remember your speech. I remember thinking, ‘That’s someone who’s going to do amazing things.’ You gave a speech about, like… existentialism or something. I barely even knew what that was. You were so incredibly smart. I mean, I’m sure you still are.”

  Hannah could feel her cheeks heating. “Oh no, I wish everyone would forget that speech. I don’t think I had any idea what I was talking about.”

  “Fooled me. Gosh, I’m feeling strangely nostalgic, is that weird? Maybe things were simpler then.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Hungry!” shouted Nora.

  “When did you get married?” asked Rowan.

  “Oh, I didn’t. It’s just me and Nora. Her dad is a friend of mine. He takes her on the weekends.”

  A smile curled Rowan’s lips. “Wow, you turned out much more interesting than I would have anticipated. How bohemian.”

  Hannah wondered if there was a backhanded compliment in there, but it made her feel cool either way. “Oh, not that interesting. I’m just a school psychologist, not a glamorous model. I’ve seen your pictures. I have my own little profile with book reviews, but it’s nothing like yours.”

  Rowan seemed to go still, staring at Hannah.

  Hannah wondered if she’d made a terrible miscalculation—if Rowan was seeing right through this whole ruse. Hannah felt her mouth go dry, and once again she wanted to run.

  Then, at last, Rowan said, “You’re a school psychologist?”

  “Yes,” said Hannah. “Well, I impulsively quit my job, but that’s what I did until this week.” So bohemian, right?