Follow Me Always

by HELEN HARDT

  But that’s a surface answer, and Braden knows it.

  He wants the real answer. The deep answer. Not just the cake beneath the frosting but the filling, too.

  And honestly?

  I’m not sure I’m ready to face the real answer.

  Chapter Two

  “I want to…find myself?”

  Damn. Already I berate myself for adding inflection to my response. He’ll know I’m not sure of my answer, and he’ll call me out.

  “Really?” he says, doubt lacing his tone.

  I inhale a deep breath, drawing as much courage as I can muster—which isn’t a lot at this point. See? When you lose so much, you lose your courage as well.

  “To challenge myself,” I say, keeping my tone as even as I can.

  “And you think me choking you will challenge you?”

  His tone isn’t mocking, but his words are. I choose to take him at face value. And at face value, his question is valid.

  He deserves an answer, a truthful one.

  “Honestly? I don’t know. All I know is that I saw it in the scene, and I wanted it.”

  “And do you still want it now?”

  I could lie to him. Tell him I’m over it. Anything to keep him in my life. But I love him too much to lie. He’ll know anyway.

  “Y-Yes. I still want it now.”

  “I see.”

  He stands and paces across the deep red Turkish rug. He rakes his fingers through his already disheveled hair.

  Fear slides through me. I already know we’re over, but as I watch him, look at him, see him, I realize how deeply I’ve fallen.

  He’s beautiful, yes. His ass tight in those black pants, his broad and muscular shoulders apparent in his black button down. A masterpiece.

  But I didn’t fall in love with his masculine beauty.

  And he’s rich. So ungodly rich. I’ve dined in the best restaurants, sampled the finest wines, flown in a private jet, for God’s sake.

  But I didn’t fall in love with his money or his things.

  I fell in love with the man who volunteers at a food pantry when he could get by with writing a gigantic check.

  I fell in love with the man who rescued two dogs—one for me.

  I fell in love with the man who cut his business trip short because he couldn’t wait to get back to me.

  I fell in love with Braden Black the man, not Braden Black the icon.

  And I need to tell him.

  “I love you, Braden.”

  He turns, his eyes heavy-lidded and a little glazed over. “I love you too. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

  His words both warm me and cut me. He loves me. But he wishes he didn’t love me.

  My lips tremble. “Then can’t we work this out?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No. Not when you can’t be honest with me.”

  “But I—”

  “Skye, you’re not. And what’s more, you know you’re not. Look inside yourself. Figure yourself out, because until you do, you’ll always yearn for something I can’t give you. And I’m not just talking about the neck bondage.”

  …

  He let me sleep in his bedroom. I don’t know where he slept. After I was all cried out, maybe I got some sleep. Truthfully, I don’t know.

  I know only that I rose in the morning and accompanied Braden in silence to the airport. We boarded the jet, also in silence. Thank God it was a short flight. Christopher met us and dropped me off at my place. Braden, ever the gentleman, walked me to the door.

  He touched my cheek lightly. “Goodbye, Skye.”

  I nodded. No words got past the lump in my throat.

  This all happened mere hours ago, and it feels like a lifetime.

  I lie on my bed, unable to move.

  Unable to—

  I jerk upward. My contract. My damned contract!

  I’m still under contract to create content for Susie Girl Cosmetics, and my last post sucked big-time.

  No more tears. I’m all cried out. I run into the bathroom and—

  Oh my God. I look like a hag. A red-eyed, swollen-faced, snot-nosed hag.

  And I have to do an Instagram post today.

  Three posts per week pursuant to my contract.

  My contract that I have only because I’m Braden’s girlfriend.

  Somehow, I have to get myself together. I have to do the post, and it has to be great after the last disaster.

  If only I had someone to talk to.

  Tessa could help me, but we’re not speaking.

  Penny would snuggle with me, lick my face, and make me feel loved enough to maybe get my creative juices flowing. But she’s still at Braden’s, and she will be until I move into a place that allows dogs.

  That’s it! I’ll go over to Braden’s to see Penny. She’s my dog, after all. I should be able to visit my own dog.

  I bite my lower lip.

  That’s not the answer, and I know it. Though I long to see my puppy, I’m really hoping I’ll see Braden. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind when he sees me, remembers how much he loves me.

  He’ll accuse me of manipulating him.

  And he’ll be right.

  I’ll visit Penny tomorrow, then, when Braden’s at his office. He already told Christopher during our tense drive home earlier that I’m allowed to see Penny as often as I want, as long as he’s not home. I even have Christopher’s number to text him personally.

  My phone is like a magnetic beacon in my pocket.

  Just one text… Maybe Braden isn’t home? Maybe he went into his office? Maybe…

  But I can’t.

  I’m a mess, and as much as I want my puppy, I can’t be that woman.

  It’s manipulative. Needy and manipulative.

  I draw in a deep breath and stare at my disgusting reflection. First things first. A shower. A cold one to help ease the swelling in my face. It won’t be pleasant, but I don’t want anything pleasant at the moment. I want the blast of cold water on my body. Maybe it will fuel the creative part of my brain, because, damn, I need a post to end all posts today.

  I have to give Eugenie and the rest of the team a reason to keep me on the payroll even if I’m not Braden Black’s significant other.

  I’ll show them that Skye Manning is worth their confidence just because she’s Skye Manning.

  Now… If only I can convince myself.

  Chapter Three

  The cold shower helps a little, but I still look like I’ve been to hell and back. I hastily pull the contract out of my briefcase. Does each post have to be a selfie? I hope not.

  I read through the instructions for each post, and… “Yes!” I shout. Nothing in the language says I must appear in every post.

  What can I do, then?

  What can I do with this new pile of Susie products without actually using them on my face? I sift through them, looking each one over, hoping one of them will speak to me in words. Of course, that would mean I’m hearing voices, which wouldn’t be a good thing.

  Come on, Skye. Time to get creative. Think, brain. Think.

  And when it finally comes to me, my heart thuds.

  Susie Girl Mood Lip Gloss and Plumper.

  It changes color according to skin tone and to mood, or so it says.

  Let’s prove it, then. I’ll show the world how it looks on someone other than me today, and tomorrow, I’ll wear it. But who?

  This is a new line, and it’s all about the everyday woman, right? So why not find an everyday woman to model one of the lip colors? It doesn’t have to be me, especially when I look like a fright.

  Tessa, of course, is my first choice, but she’s not an option. Too bad, because her darker skin tone and lip color would be the perfect contrast to my fairness.

  So…Betsy.
r />   She’s perfect. Very pretty but not glam like Tessa. Her skin is pretty light, but not as pale as mine, and her lips are more an orange flesh tone compared to my pink. Her hair’s slightly darker, as well, and her boho frocks will show her as a carefree soul.

  Of course…she may turn me down because of her relationship with Addie. Addie can still get her a lot more business with her Bark Boutique than I can, especially if I don’t have Braden backing me up.

  Damn.

  I can go out, find someone at a local shop or café, introduce myself, and ask them to help me out.

  Except I look like a hag from hell.

  I have no choice. It has to be Betsy.

  I punch in her number.

  “Hello?” she says.

  “Hi, Betsy. It’s Skye.”

  “Hey, Skye,” she says hesitantly. “What’s up?”

  “How would you like to star in one of my Instagram posts?” I say, willing my voice to sound excited and not nasal from all the crying earlier.

  “You mean here at the shop?”

  Crap. Of course she thought I meant the shop. She thinks I’m calling to help her. Instead, I’m calling to get her to help me.

  Talk about self-centered.

  “Never mind, Bets. Sorry to bother you.”

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I lie. “How are you?”

  “Good. I mean, yeah. Good.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “You sound…off.”

  “No, I’m good. It’s a good day at the shop. Things are good with Peter. You know, good.”

  Just how many times can she say good and still think I don’t know something’s up?

  “How about Tess? Is she good?” I swallow.

  No response for a minute. Then, “She’s a mess, Skye. She’d kick my butt if she knew I told you, but she’s still a mess.”

  “About Garrett?”

  “About Garrett, yeah. And about you.”

  I’m a mess too. I can’t do this without her. I can’t do this without Braden. Without Penny. Without you, Betsy. Without all of you. I’m a fraud, through and through. I don’t even know my own mind.

  Those words never make it past my lips, of course. To say them would hurt too much.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I say.

  “You should call her.”

  “I… I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve hit rock bottom, Betsy. Below rock bottom.”

  Another pause. Then, “You just said you were okay.”

  “I lied. I fucking lied.”

  “Wow. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I can’t tell her Braden called it quits. If I say it, it becomes real.

  But it is real, and I can’t hide from reality. I simply can’t.

  “I’m a mess. I’m such a damned mess that I bet Tessa looks amazing next to me.” I resist the urge to break into tears again. Barely.

  “Skye, I’ve got some customers…”

  “Yeah. I get it. Sorry.”

  “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Bye, Betsy.” I end the call, and within seconds, my phone buzzes again, a number I don’t recognize. “Hello, this is Skye.”

  “Skye, hi. It’s Kathy Harmon.”

  Kathy Harmon. Bobby Black’s girlfriend. “Hi, Kathy.”

  “I was wondering if you were free for dinner tonight.”

  Dinner? Not while I’m at rock bottom.

  For a hot minute I consider asking her to take Betsy’s place in my post but decide against it. I need to figure this out for myself. I like Kathy, but I’m not fit to hang with anyone at the moment.

  “I can’t tonight, Kathy. But I’ll call you soon, okay?”

  “That’d be great. Can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Same. Talk to you soon.” Again, I end the call.

  I heave an exasperated sigh. Now what? No Braden. No Tessa. No Penny. And no Betsy and no Kathy, by my own doing.

  I have to come up with a new idea for a post. Today. Fucking today.

  Not only that, I also need to post other stuff. If I’m going to be an influencer, my posts can’t be just about sponsorships. They have to be about life. About my life.

  Will anyone care about my life if it doesn’t involve Braden?

  You have to make them care.

  The words land in my mind so quickly that I’m unaware of where they came from.

  I have to make them care. I do.

  And they’ll care if they relate to me.

  Today I’m sad. I’m so, so sad. I’ve lost everything that matters, but I still have this contract. It still matters.

  I still matter.

  Even if I don’t paste on a happy face.

  What’s wrong with posting that I’m having a bad day? Who the hell can’t relate to that? It’s not done a lot, of course. Most profiles are constantly touting how good everything is. That’s great, but what does it inspire?

  Sure, some people will feel good to know an influencer is feeling good, to know an influencer is on top of the world, to know an influencer like Addie was born into money.

  But others? To others, posts like that only inspire envy.

  I don’t want to inspire envy. Really, there’s nothing to envy about me, especially now that Braden’s gone.

  I’m just a regular woman.

  And I still fucking matter. Even if I don’t feel that way at the moment. My feelings aren’t important right now. The feelings I invoke in my audience are.

  I walk back into my bathroom and gaze at my reflection. Oddly, I look a little better. My eyes are still slightly bloodshot and slightly swollen, and my nose is still red around the edges as well. I’m no longer sniffling, and the tears have dried up.

  I brush my hair out and let it flounce over my shoulders. The color is basic brown, not much luster to it, but it’s a nice and even color and it’s thick. My eyes are brown as well, nothing special. But you know what? They’re still my eyes, and they’re a lot less red than they were only an hour ago.

  I wash my face quickly with cold water, getting rid of the last traces of mascara from last night.

  That makes all the difference.

  Then I sift through the pile of Susie cosmetics once more, looking for something that stands out to me.

  The mood lip plumper? Maybe. If it indeed will show mood, but right now, my lips don’t need any extra plumping. They’re still swollen from my sobbing fit.

  Blush? God, no. I’m already redder than I want to be.

  Mascara? And draw attention to my swollen eyes? I don’t think so.

  Eye shadow? Yeah, that’s a no.

  Nail polish.

  Bingo!

  Why didn’t I think of that before? No one has to see my face if I do my nails. Eugenie sent me two colors—Make Things Happen, a flashy neon pink, and Night on the Town, a reddish black.

  The pink. I can put this to good use. I’ll take a selfie and say I haven’t had the best day, and it’s okay not to have a good day once in a while.

  Then I’ll do the Susie post—a photo of my hand with the pink polish. Pink makes everyone feel better, right? Now to figure out the copy.

  I muse over what to say while I paint my nails. I have to admit, the polish is nice. It’s not too thick and it dries quickly. They didn’t send me base and top coat, so I use what I have on hand. Doesn’t matter anyway. All the followers will see is the pink.

  I regard my finished nails and smile.

  I actually do feel better.

  The power of pink—

  And then I laugh out loud.

  That’s my copy! The power of pink!

  I grab my phone.

  Chapter Four

  The posts
go live, and I fall into bed. Just a nap, except when I wake up, the sun is rising.

  I slept for over twelve hours?

  Shit. My posts!

  I grab my phone…and it’s dead, of course. I hastily plug it into the charger and check my two posts from yesterday.

  And my mouth drops open.

  The “likes” are off the charts for both, and I see more comments than I’ve ever had.

  We all have bad days. Sending hugs!

  Easy does it. You got this!

  That pink is fabulous!

  Pink power!

  Girl power!

  Don’t let life drag you down!

  You rock, Skye!

  Gorgeous color!

  You’re still beautiful!

  What happened? Sending lots of love.

  That color rocks on you.

  You should be a hand model.

  Don’t let the bastards get you down!

  I skim through all of them—it takes a while—tears welling in my eyes. These people care. Maybe not about me so much as the idea of me, but they care that I had a bad day, and that’s something amazing.

  They don’t need me to be Braden’s arm candy to relate to me. They just need me to be human.

  They need me to be relatable.

  I scoff softly. Addie has hundreds of thousands more followers than I do, and she’s hardly relatable.

  But she gives the illusion of being relatable. That’s the key.

  I’ll be relatable without using illusion, without using sleight of hand.

  I’ll be relatable because I’m me.

  I’m a woman who just lost the man she loves.

  Am I giving up on Braden? Hell, no. But everyone can relate to losing a love. I won’t post about it, of course, but the news will get out eventually, and I’ll have to address it.

  In the meantime?

  Maybe I need to get to know myself a little better, not just for Braden, but for me. If I couldn’t give him more than an “icing on the cake” answer to his question, perhaps it’s time to look in the mirror. Put Skye under the magnifying glass.

  But where to start?

  Therapy?

  Not a bad idea, and I’ll look into it. I have COBRA benefits from my employment with Addison, and I may as well put them to good use. I’ll find a therapist.