by Alexa Martin
“Thanks.” I smile, already feeling the excitement of actually doing this setting in. “I’m kinda fond of her.”
He chuckles but says no more, and I’m grateful to have a little time to relax before the mayhem starts.
I open my phone and check the email account linked to the newsletter and see we have more than twenty new emails from listeners. We’ve never gotten the amount of response emails that I did after the last newsletter I sent out. There have been hundreds. It’s been mind-blowing.
I mean, I knew people were reading them. I have a spreadsheet that has the time it was sent out, the subject line, and the open rate for every single email. Like most things in my life, I’m a little obsessive about it. But this week still shocked me. Not only the number of people who actually read, but so many of them clicked the link I attached and bought tickets to the panel! I even got emails from readers out of state seeing if they could stream the event.
It’s equal parts flattering and intimidating.
To know that people were going to come to the event, not because of Nicola Roberts, but because of me? What if I’m disappointing without Jude as my crutch? What if I let them all down?
But then, the little voice in the back of my head that’s always trying to dream these big, impossible dreams asks what happens if I meet their expectations. What happens if I exceed them? How could this change my and Adelaide’s life? Could this be the thing that sets my life on course?
Thanks to the ever-present Los Angeles traffic, I’m able to type out more than a few emails back to the readers who replied. It’s important to me to respond to as many people as I can. I want them to feel like we’re friends. I want those personal relationships that can be difficult to foster when you’re a parent—or an adult in general.
“Here we are,” the driver says as the car rolls to a stop.
I tuck my phone into my purse and then look out the window. An action I immediately regret.
You know how if you aren’t feeling good and then you look up the symptoms online, the internet will tell you you’re either pregnant or going to die? Well, I’ve made that mistake so many times, I decided not to do it with this panel. I knew if I looked it up, I’d be convinced of my impending doom and freak out more than I was already freaking out.
But as the women wearing flowy dresses, sunglasses, and trendy hats hold their phones or cameras above their heads and flood into City Market South in droves, I realize I really should’ve googled.
I hesitate for a minute, and when I decide it’s go time, I draw in a breath deep enough to sustain me underwater for at least a solid fifty seconds and push open the car door. The door is barely shut behind me when the driver peels away from the curb, giving me the feeling I’m not the only one who was overwhelmed by the size of the crowd.
In the emails I’ve been exchanging with Nicola—or more likely her assistant—I know I’m supposed to meet the others from my panel in a VIP tent. I’ve never done anything like this before, and being a VIP at an event like this blows my mind. I crane my neck, trying to figure out who I should talk to or where I should go, but when I take a step forward, I instantly get caught in a current of influencers. I walk along with them, afraid to break free, and am transported into what is—and I say this without even an ounce of sarcasm—a magical, glorious influencer wonderland.
Different art installations cover every open wall. Giant murals with inspirational quotes from floor to ceiling dot the space for people to capture their newest profile picture. Greenery and floral backdrops with neon-light quotes highlight the cocktail stations. Vendors are packed in on each side of the aisles. There are local businesses from every market you could think of. A party-planning company has an entire section showcasing their balloon sculptures and teaching anyone who is interested how to create a garland of their own. Hair and makeup stations with selfie lights are here in hordes. Jude’s favorite kombucha store is passing out samples of their tea, and a cupcake shop is handing out boozy cakes with personalized edible toppers using selfies people take when they place their orders.
It’s over the top and I feel wildly out of place in my blazer, cami, and jeans. Thank goodness I’m wearing my favorite shoes. They’re giving me the boost I’m desperately in need of.
And even though this is something that I would have turned my nose up at months ago, the energy flowing around me is intoxicating. Women of every age, race, and size are talking to each other, passing out compliments like confetti, and exchanging numbers with people who were strangers only moments before.
It’s contagious, and I’ve never wanted to be so extra in my entire life.
There’s a large crowd gathering not too far in front of me, and my curiosity gets the best of me. There are so many goodies being passed out all around me, I can’t imagine how amazing whatever is at the center of the crowd must be.
I sneak forward, weaving with ease since I’m one of the few people who came without a friend in tow. Once I get to the front, my jaw drops because it’s not a vendor. It’s Nicola freaking Roberts, just in the middle of the crowd, casually conversing with everyone like it’s no big deal.
But seeing her isn’t what makes my mouth hang open in what has to be the most unattractive expression in the history of the universe. No. It’s her looking at me, then doing a double take and shouting—in front of everyone!—“Oh my god! You’re Lauren Turner! I’m so glad you could make it!”
She runs over to me. Her trademark red lipstick painted onto her beautiful smile picks up the golden hues of her skin and makes her white teeth sparkle even brighter. She’s looking at me with her dark brown eyes, lined to perfection and framed with lashes that are so long, they have to be fake . . . but probably aren’t. Her big, beautiful curls are out to here, and the highlights scattered throughout are so gorgeous that they must’ve cost hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars.
And she’s talking to me.
For real. This is happening and it’s not even my lackluster imagination trying to trick me.
“I . . . uhh . . . you’re . . . I . . .” I forget what words are, and my mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.
Thankfully, the women-supporting-women vibe is flowing here too when the woman next to me nudges me forward and whispers in my ear, “Girl, own your power and go get that spotlight.”
I nod, still trying to get my tongue to remember how to form sounds, and step forward and into Nicola’s wide-open arms. “This is Lauren, she’s going to be on the podcast panel on the main stage in an hour. Go get your seats now”—she drops her voice to a whisper—“because I just know this woman is about to blow our minds.”
Nicola freaking Roberts thinks I’m going to blow minds.
How is this life?!
* * *
• • •
“Yes! Snaps and claps for you!” Nicola says to Rani, a beauty blogger who started a podcast that delves into the different beauty standards and practices across cultures.
She’s basically a supermodel who is also brilliant and, of course, who I get to speak after.
Lovely.
She passes me the microphone and I take it with shaking hands.
“You’re going to be great,” she mouths before giving my hand a quick squeeze. And even though I appreciate the intention behind the action, I’m not sure I believe her.
“All right now, Lauren,” Nicola says into her microphone, sounding perfectly comfortable and confident. “You’re actually new to this entire podcasting and influencer world, aren’t you?”
I send up a quick thank-you to whoever is listening for the easy question to work my way in.
“I am, I’m extremely new. I honestly can’t even believe I’m here today,” I say, and am pleasantly surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
“Well, anyone who has listened to Mom Jeans and Martinis or read the hilarious emails you send out
every week knows why you deserve to be on this stage.”
Applause sounds in the audience, and my cheeks and heart warm at the praise and support. My smile comes easily this time, not forced or fake to cover the nerves. My shoulders relax, and some of the butterflies that have been wreaking havoc on my digestive system fade away.
“Well, thank you.” I loosen my grip on the mic. “I really appreciate that.”
“So tell us, what made you decide to start a podcast?”
“I honestly didn’t decide.” I give her the truth I’m sure she didn’t expect, but if I’m going to be up here, I have to give it to everyone real. “My best friend is Jude Andrews, who, if you listen to the podcast, you know is also my cohost. She has been just killing it in this industry for years. Her phone was always in her hand, and I could never take a picture of her without getting a full-on tutorial before snapping one. I, on the other hand, didn’t have social media at all. But a few months ago, the father of my five-year-old daughter decided that after a couple of years of being completely absent, he was going to get involved in a big way. This big way included taking me to court for full custody.” There are a few gasps in the audience, and I nod along with them. Even knowing how this story ends, I still get worked up thinking about it.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I like to be liked and I hate to rock the boat or cause problems.” There are some nods of agreement and raised hands in the audience. “So when my ex decided to leave, I didn’t want to do anything to make it worse. As a Black woman, I know the stereotypes that are thrown around. I know how easy it is to dismiss my feelings by saying I have an attitude or that I’m angry. So instead of letting that happen, I let my ex, a white doctor, walk all over me. And what I thought was going to be the thing that protected me and my daughter—letting him see her when he wanted, never pushing child support—ended up biting me in the butt.
“So when I met with my lawyer and it was kinda shoved in my face that by not taking him to court earlier, he could direct the narrative in whatever way he wanted, Jude threw out the idea of a podcast.” I pause and make eye contact with a woman who I saw earlier getting her makeup done. “And I immediately shot it down. There was no way she was getting me on a microphone talking about motherhood. Nobody wanted to listen to a twentysomething, med school dropout, single mom of a kindergartner. Nobody.” The crowd laughs, and a buzz like I’ve never experienced shoots through my body, lighting every nerve with excitement that makes me feel like I’m floating. “But then, because Jude doesn’t give up on her ideas, she threw the idea out there when I was meeting with my lawyer. And to my shock, my lawyer loved the idea. She worked with a single mom who had been able to create a network of support and an unbreakable image that went a long way in court, so she thought it could do the same for me. I agreed, but only if we could be real about motherhood.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love mom influencers. Adelaide’s lunch boxes are practically gourmet, and I’ve labeled and organized every inch of her bedroom thanks to blogs and vlogs. But there are times when watching them makes me feel even more alone than I did before I watched. And I’m a single mom who lived with my parents, so more alone is, like, the bottom of the bottom.” There are more laughs, and my nerves are completely gone. I get it. I get why Jude loves it so much. “There was just too much perfection, and to me, motherhood is imperfection. It’s imperfect people doing their best to love these small humans and turn them into good, decent big humans. But there’s no way to be a perfect parent. No matter what you do, someone will have an opinion. Someone will tell you you’re doing it wrong and that you’re ruining your kid. Literally, from day one. Natural delivery versus an epidural. Breastfeeding versus formula. Co-sleeping versus a crib. It just doesn’t stop . . . ever. And I hate that. We’re all trying our best, and just because that might look different to you than the person sitting next you doesn’t mean they’re wrong. It means we’re human and that means we all need support and love.”
“Yes!” Nicola yells into her microphone and comes out of her seat to hug me. “Listen,” she says to the crowd after she lets me go. “This woman was afraid to be here. She didn’t think she had anything to offer and she just took us to freaking church! This is why I asked you to come today, Lauren. You are a testimony to everyone in this room that you don’t need to be anyone other than the person God made you to succeed. Speaking your truth is the key to success, and you embody that, sis.”
Well, damn.
“Wow. Thank you so much, Nicola.” I’m smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt. I don’t even care how crazy I look up here. Nothing can ruin this moment.
Nothing.
* * *
• • •
“Hold on one second,” I say to Rani. “I just want to check my phone really fast in case Jude called.”
I slip into the VIP room where all the speakers were told we could leave our purses and jackets while we mingled and did our events.
I find my purse in the cubby where I left it and pull my phone out.
When I see the screen and the multiple missed calls from Jude, that happy adrenaline rush I’ve been skating on fades fast.
I start to type in my passcode as fast as I can, every worst-case scenario running through my head, when my phone buzzes in my hand, startling me so bad that it goes flying.
I pick it back up, and the panic I’m already feeling compounds by a million when I see the name on the screen.
“Ben?” I ask when I put the phone to my ear. “Is everything okay?”
THIRTY-THREE
• • •
Jude
“The boots my mom got her are in the back of the closet, and make sure she wears a long-sleeved shirt and has a jacket,” Lauren tells me for the hundredth time this morning. “And her—”
“Her gloves and hat,” I say, cutting her off. I know I’m not a mom or even the most responsible human in the world, but I’m not a total fucking idiot. I can remember that a five-year-old needs a jacket, gloves, and a hat to go play in the snow. “Lauren, seriously. Chill. Get it? Chill. Snow?” I laugh at my pun, but Lauren looks less than amused. “It’s going to be fine. I’m going to make sure Addy doesn’t get frostbite.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re both going to have fun. I heard this event is a blast.” She twists her hands together. She hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she confirmed the Nicola Roberts event. “I’m just freaking out about this panel. I think I made a mistake? I don’t know anything about public speaking. I almost failed the one class I took for it.”
“Take a breath. You’re going to be great. Just like the podcast. You’re going to be your smart, funny, wonderful self and everyone is going to love you. Plus, now they get to see how hot you are.” I grab her hands in mine, partly for support, partly because the constant movement is making my eye twitch. “Anyway, at least you get to go hang with Nicola Roberts. I have to spend the day with Jennifer and the rest of the bitches of Remington. Sabrina is coming, though, right? I need at least one decent mom to be around.”
“Sabrina will be there.” Her shoulders relax and the tension leaves her mouth. Even though I know she’s still freaking out, I’m glad something I said sunk in there. “And you’re right, public humiliation is still better than an afternoon of Jennifer, Colleen, and Whitney.”
I don’t even try to hide my eye roll. “You owe me so huge for this,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. I’m just glad that Lauren is finally starting to see her potential and is doing something for herself.
“You’re the best.” She leans in and wraps her arms around me. Careful not to mess with her curls. “Adelaide!” she shouts when she lets me go. “Come give me a hug!”
Adelaide barrels down the stairs. Lauren braided her hair into two French braids so her curls wouldn’t make it hard to keep her hat on, and she looks so damn cute. I can’t with this little girl. I’m so obsessed wit
h her that it’s low-key unhealthy. I can’t wait to sled with her.
“Bye, Mommy!” She doesn’t slow down and collides into Lauren’s legs at full speed. Lauren rocks back half a step, and even though getting struck by a child-sized rocket doesn’t look pleasant, Lauren’s smile grows wider as she wraps her arms tight around Addy. “Do good talking!”
“Thank you, sister girl.” Lauren laughs a little, dropping to a squat to give Addy a kiss. “Be a good girl for Auntie Jude, okay? And have the most fun ever. I’m going to want to hear all about it tonight.”
“Okay, Mommy!” Addy drapes her arms over Lauren’s shoulder and whispers like a five-year-old, which is to say she’s just as loud as ever. “And I’ll make sure Jude is nice to the other mommies.”
“Thank you,” Lauren whispers back with a very rude and large smile.
A car honks from out front, and Lauren stands up, wringing her hands again. “All right.” She looks at the door like it might grow fangs and bite her. “I guess this is it. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“You’re going to be amazing. Seriously.” I hand her the sweater she laid on the back of the chair. “Just enjoy it. I have a feeling this is going to be the first of many events for you.”
She nods once and pulls open the door. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” Addy shouts after her, waving until Lauren is tucked in the back of the car Nicola Roberts sent for her.
I close the door, twisting the lock, and look to Addy. “Party time?”
She claps her hands together, bouncing on her toes. “Party time!”
“You go get your boots and jacket. I’ll get your gloves and hat. Then let’s meet in the kitchen to make hot cocoa for our thermoses.” I ignore Lauren’s voice in the back of my head telling me not to sugar her up. But this is the benefit of being the fun aunt—I get to give her whatever she wants. “Deal?”