All That Really Matters

by Nicole Deese

  “Hey, ladies,” I said, joining the group of women and smiling directly at Wren, who sat at the end of the bench seat. “How was everybody’s day?” I plopped my bag down on top of the table and noticed a not-so-subtle eye shift as I reached inside for one of the six goodie bags I’d assembled for each of the girls. I hadn’t embossed them yet, but I figured that could be a great project for later. Perhaps a fun team-building activity? “I have a little happy-start-of-summer gift for you all.”

  Just as I’d hoped, the girls perked up. I recognized three of them immediately—the Front Row Populars from my class the other night. Their name tags read Felicia, Amy, and Jasmine. And the other two were the Snack Pantry Reward BFFs: Sasha and Monica.

  “Oh, uh, Molly . . . before you hand those out, can we chat for just a minute?” Clara asked.

  “Sure,” I said, before addressing the girls. “I’ll be right back. You’ll love the lip glosses in these bags—it’s my top pick for the summer, actually. Has an all-natural SPF with a hint of iridescent shimmer.”

  A couple of them giggled while Wren’s expression matched the puzzled worry on Clara’s. Had I done something wrong? How was that even possible when I’d only been on campus for all of twenty seconds?

  I rounded the picnic table and followed Clara to one of the large pine trees next to the pavilion shelter.

  “Sorry, Molly. I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, really, but there’s a fairly strict policy about not giving the residents any material gifts. Silas usually has the volunteers sign something about it . . . but it’s understandable that you could have missed it tucked in with all the other paperwork.” Her face was so hopeful it was almost comical.

  I thought back to the paperwork I signed several nights ago, briefly recalling an agreement regarding money and possessions. “Oh, right. I figured that was only about money or expensive items like jewelry or electronics,” I said. “I wouldn’t think it would apply to cute summertime gift bags?”

  Clara couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable than if she’d told me a thorn was lodged in her big toe. “Well, yes, you’re right about that. We definitely can’t give money or jewelry, but we’re not supposed to give any kind of material items that can’t be shared with everyone. It can create tension and jealousy among the girls.”

  “Jealousy?” The idea of a group of young adults being catty over tinted moisturizer felt more than a bit odd to me. “But they’re all over eighteen.”

  “True, but age is often relative when it comes to kids who’ve grown up in trauma. Everything is filtered through a lens of fairness. It can seem like favoritism if only half the girls in the house receive a special gift. I’m sorry, I know your heart is totally in the right place with these bags, but I think it’s best we don’t hand them out today.”

  This new realization left me dumbfounded. “So no gifts . . . unless I can provide them for all the girls who live on campus?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I’m guessing you don’t happen to have twelve goody bags with you?” Again, her optimism was endearing.

  “Unfortunately, no.” I’d handpicked every last summery product I had from sponsors present and past to make these gift bags. “But I’ll be sure to bring another set next week. For Hannah’s group.” I glanced to the other girls’ group sitting inside the gazebo, eyeing Hannah’s third trimester belly and wondering if she was even going to make it to the end of August.

  “I’m really sorry. It was super thoughtful of you.”

  I touched her upper arm. “It’s totally fine. I just didn’t know before and now I do. It’s all good.” And if it wasn’t, I’d take it up with Silas.

  “Thanks for being so understanding.” She nodded once and then glanced at our girls, eyeing my beach bag with anticipation. “I was thinking earlier that since this is your first mentor meeting, I could lead things off to show you the structure we try to follow. But you’d be welcome to jump in whenever you’d like. Oh, maybe you’d want to lead prayer time today? It’s the last thing we do as a group before the girls are dismissed for reflection time to journal.”

  Three words pecked against my skull. Lead. Prayer. Time. “You know, I think it would be best, for continuity sake, if you went ahead and closed us out in prayer this time. I’m happy to follow your example.”

  “Okay, sure, that works.”

  As we met up with the girls again, Clara’s steps were much peppier than my own as I wondered just how to un-gift the presents I’d brought. Luckily, Clara took over that part, as well. She simply made it out to be a math blunder that would all be sorted out by the next meeting. And it would. I’d make sure to come back with twelve.

  Clara was good people.

  She opened our time asking a series of questions about everyone’s day, to which the residents seemed to know the routine well. Each of the girls took a couple minutes to give an update, bringing up issues like co-worker disputes, classmate problems, homework deadlines. Wren passed on it all.

  I wondered how often Wren skipped these personal questions. Whatever the answer, Clara didn’t seem bothered by her lack of response whatsoever.

  “Great. Well, once again, I know we’re all so happy to have Molly joining us this summer. She and I will be co-leading, so I wanted to invite you all to get to know her a bit better. If you have any specific questions for her before we move on to reflection time, please feel free to ask.”

  Five hands went up at once—all except for Wren’s. She simply studied me from the end of the picnic bench without a word.

  From Monica: “How many total followers do you have on your social media pages—like combined? Is it over two million?”

  From Felicia: “Do you think you could give us all makeovers sometime?”

  From Jasmine: “Yeah! And could we see a picture of your closet? You must have so many nice clothes. Is it true that you get sent free stuff from all kinds of companies?”

  From Amy: “We looked you up on Tuesday night and saw that Selena Gomez follows you! Have you met her in real life? Do you get invited to celebrity parties? Have you ever dated anybody famous?”

  From Sasha: “Is this really all you do for money? Make videos of yourself and talk about makeup?”

  Ouch. Okay, so Sasha wasn’t exactly the warmest of young women.

  “Oh, well, wow. That’s a whole lot of questions.” I glanced at Clara, hoping for a rescue plan. Somehow, I doubted Silas would approve of Makeup Matters taking over the small group study handbook we were supposed to be following. But Clara was no help; she looked as curious as they did.

  And then I had an idea.

  “What if . . . what if we had a slumber party here at some point? Like a whole evening dedicated to makeovers and hairstyles, and I could bring some yummy snacks and we could watch some cute romantic comedies or something? That might be a better time to get into the details of all your questions.”

  Hoping I hadn’t broken some kind of protocol by making the suggestion, I glanced at Clara. But she was already bobbing her head in agreement. “We actually try to plan a dedicated girls’ night each month—but I don’t think we have a plan for later in the summer yet. Let me see here.” She opened a spiral-bound planner on the table and flipped through weeks and months, her finger roaming past each date box overflowing with blue and black ink. Apparently, somebody needed to get this girl a second calendar. Finally, her finger stopped and she tapped an open weekend in July while offering me a hope-filled smile. “Any chance this date could work for you? I’d still need to run this all past Silas, but I can’t imagine he’d have an issue with it.”

  She couldn’t? Really? Obviously Clara and I knew two very different sides of Silas Whittaker. And for whatever reason, I seemed to evoke his irritated side far more often than any other person I’d encountered here. But perhaps things would go smoother overall if Clara was the one to ask the Duke of Fir Crest Manor for a makeover night and not me.

  I picked up my phone, seeing notifications of four hundred forty-si
x comments on the photo I’d posted to my Instagram before I left the house. It featured a cream clutch handbag with gold hardware, a linen bullet-point journal, and a pale pink coffee mug boasting the hashtag #MakeupMatters propped beside a blush throw blanket. All items were twenty percent off today if they used the promotional link in my bio. Apparently, my followers had wildly approved.

  The muscle memory in my trigger finger narrowly escaped clicking into my favorite social media outlet, but instead, I swiped into my calendar and double tapped the date she’d asked about.

  Outside of some loose work notes specific to video themes and shoots, my days were wide open. I had exactly zero social engagements scheduled on any given date in July. Just like the majority of my evenings and weekends for much of the summer . . . and beyond.

  In general, if Ethan wasn’t flying in from Seattle for a spontaneous date night or flying me to some VIP conference or fashion shoot, I had little else going on outside of working at my home studio: taking pictures of new product lines, making and arranging food I’d eventually drop off to Miles, replying to hundreds of online friends, and video chatting with Val while I tried out the latest hair mask recommendation.

  I swallowed, squinting at the blank calendar box on my phone before glancing up to the girls again. “Hmm, I think I can make something work for that weekend. I may have to juggle a few things, but it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. That’s the glory of owning your own business, I suppose.” My laugh fell short as I realized the audience sitting in front of me. Stupid, Molly. The majority of these girls didn’t even know what it was like to have a paying job, much less owning a successful company.

  “Great!” Clara said. “Then I’ll work on setting something up with Silas and Glo.”

  The squeals from five of the six girls were electrifying as talks of what kind of makeup they wanted to try first ensued. I happily obliged in this conversation, offering brands and insights and eventually pulling out my phone to show them a folder of products I had on hand at home. More giddy squeals as they passed my phone around.

  “What about you, Wren? Is there anything specific you’d like us to plan for our girl’s night?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll probably just watch,” she said quietly.

  “No way. I have a very strict policy of my own. If one girl goes glam, then we all go glam,” I said as if I hadn’t just made up the rule on the spot.

  Her lips twitched. “You’re going to do glam makeovers on twelve girls in a single night?”

  Hmm. She had a point. That was a lot of makeovers to do all on my own. “Nope, I’ll need an assistant. And I volunteer you as tribute.”

  “Now, that’s a perfect job for you, Wren. This girl has skills when it comes to hair,” Clara piped in.

  “I know, I’ve seen some of her intricate braid work.” Much like the one she wore now that looked like a rose in full bloom.

  Clara stood up from the table and waved to Hannah and her girls from across the field. They were on the move, spiral-bound journals in hand. Obviously, our group was late on dismissing the girls for reflection time. Which meant I’d likely bulldozed right over Clara’s allotted prayer time with talk of going full glam. Way to be spiritual, Mentor Molly.

  As Clara asked for prayer requests, I whispered across the table at Wren. “What do you say? Will you be my assistant?”

  Wren shifted her eyes to the girls at the opposite side of the picnic table who were staring at us both—Sasha and Monica. But then, shockingly, she gave me a nod. I spent the next several minutes of Clara’s prayer closing my eyes while fighting off an all-teeth grin.

  I might have lost out on a romantic beach date with my workaholic boyfriend, but somehow Wren’s little head nod had just more than made up for it.

  15

  Molly

  Molly

  Hey, did you forget our call?

  Val

  Oh no! I’m sorry, Molly. Tucker came down with a stomach bug this afternoon. I don’t think I can do Face-mask Friday with you tonight. ☹

  Molly

  Ah, poor kid. Tell Tuck I hope he feels better soon!

  I flopped back on the sofa and crossed my slippered feet at the ankles. My black charcoal beauty mask was already starting to feel like shrink-wrap on my skin. I faked a yawn to test the crusty layer forming over my cheeks. It didn’t budge. What was this stuff made of? Rubber cement? I picked up the tube to examine the ingredients list, but who was I kidding? No human with average eyesight could read the minuscule print on the back.

  I grabbed my phone to take another scroll through all my feeds, noting the stats of my latest post and stopping to heart each comment—or in some cases leave a response—when I noted the top right corner of my opened app. My direct message inbox showed over a hundred waiting messages.

  I went in prepared, knowing that half the senders would be trolls—some telling me I was fat, ugly, a poser, or a horrible human being for profiting from the products I promoted, while still others would be asking for a variety of inappropriate pictures. Sometimes I’d even receive a marriage proposal or two. The only response I’d give to any of those was an automatic block. One of the first rules I’d learned in this business: Never engage with the crazies.

  But a single message near the top caused my delete-happy finger to pause: Felicity Fashion Fix.

  Well, this was curious. Felicity hadn’t said a single word to me since the debacle that involved both our legal teams having to intervene on account of her stealing my series idea and using it for her sponsor’s products. Unfortunately, her crime against me had fallen under the legal header of “intellectual property,” and not much could be done.

  Her message simply read: Way to hit seven hundred thousand. What’s it like dating an agent who controls all your content for his own gain? Oh, wait, I already know. Word of free advice: Hold on to your soul before he finds a way to sell that, too.

  I stared at her words, my breathing growing shallower by the second as I took in her backhanded compliment and her clickbait lies. She’d never dated Ethan—I’d asked him point-blank before I said yes to going out with him the first time. I hadn’t wanted to be one in a long line of clients-turned-girlfriends. But not only had she not been his girlfriend, she’d only been his client long enough for Ethan to gauge what an absolute train wreck she was to work with. From the stories he’d told me early on, Felicity was a demanding witch of a woman who threw diva tantrums often and schemed her way to the top. I witnessed this firsthand when she stole from me by hacking into Cobalt’s active marketing campaigns—a violation that was rectified with tighter internal security and a termination of her contract. Shortly after the breach, Ethan decided he would only take on one beauty influencer in his agency at a time.

  For a moment, I debated responding to her, debated starting a thread with all the reasons I believed she was a fake and why I’d never in a billion years take life advice from a manipulative cheat like her. . . . But instead, I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  And then I deleted her poison.

  The instant her message was cleared from view, a local number I didn’t recognize lit up my screen. I swiped left and sent it to my voicemail. Not thirty seconds later, my phone vibrated with a waiting audio message.

  I clicked to listen to the recording. Within the first syllable, I knew exactly who it was, and I smiled when his dignified and professional voice came through my phone speaker. I immediately saved his contact information as The Duke of Fir Crest Manor.

  “Hello, Molly, this is Silas Whittaker. I’d like to follow up with you when you have a few minutes, regarding today’s mentor meeting with the young ladies. I apologize that I wasn’t on campus this afternoon to ask you in person. Please give me a call at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

  I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up inside me. Why Silas had felt the need to tell me his last name, I’d never know. There was only one Silas in my world who spoke like a nobleman
, and he was it.

  I called him back.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hello, this is Silas.”

  “Hello, Silas, this is Molly McKenzie.” I fought the laugh behind my voice. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, and yourself?”

  I smiled at the properness of it all and then immediately regretted the action. My face suddenly felt like it was being sucked through a vacuum hose. “Ouch.” The mask tightened around my mouth, nose, chin, and eyes. What kind of torture device was this?

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, sorry. I just have—ouch—something stuck to my face.”

  I could almost imagine the crinkle forming in the middle of his forehead as he worked to interpret what I was saying, because I’d suddenly become the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz in desperate need of his oil can.

  “As in . . . what exactly?” he asked.

  “A mask.” I scraped and tugged at the dried peel under my chin. It didn’t budge. Obviously, this mask had been mismarked, seeing as this was the opposite of a self-care routine. It was more like a bad prank.

  “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

  “Huh?” I squeezed my watering eyes closed.

  “Halloween. It’s only June.”

  At this, I stopped all futile attempts at peeling back a mask that refused to be peeled so I could fully register his words. And once I did, I lost it—completely undone by the thought of Silas envisioning me lying on my sofa on a random Friday night in June with a Halloween mask stuck to my face. “No, no. Not . . .” I couldn’t catch my breath. “. . . a . . . costume. . . .”

  “What? Molly, I can’t understand you.”

  “A beauty mask,” I said through a wheeze. The tightness in my face cracked at the untamed laughter, releasing approximately ten percent of its death grip on my skin. “It’s black like tar and made from a dead sea urchin that lives in some special sea.”