Page 103 of Famous for a Living

“What could you have done, Zaiah? I doubt she would’ve listened to you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, I saw the problem and didn’t say anything. I saw for a while I’d been losing her to all this, this”—he stares at the fire, searching for words—“pretense of significance, when in reality all she was doing was losing herself and her grip on reality.”

He takes off his hat and sets it on the log. Rakes a hand through his hair.

I’m silent.

After all, what can I say?

“I know how I look to some people. I know my position on technology seems exaggerated and out of touch with reality.”

I shake my head. “No. What’s more real than what you just said?”

“I watched her lose herself. I saw it all start to finish. When she first talked about trying to do some posts on her life—lifestyle creator, she called it. Showing off outfits and recipes. All these videos of her life on a farm.” He gives a humorless laugh. “Slow living is the term, I believe. Something about taking videos of all these sunrises and baking things and pouring tea from some kettle that she never used.”

He shakes his head. “You know what? She didn’t even drink hot tea. But she said nobody wanted to see her pour herself a Diet Dr Pepper, so she bought a bunch of tea off the internet and pretended. Always these inspirational words about taking it easy and living in the moment and making the most of each day. Making these eight-second clips that took her two hours and then spending the rest of the day with one hand glued to her phone, checking the post to see how many people liked it. She wanted to make it as a creator. Thought she had a special edge with how she lived in these mountains.”

I am a terrible person in this moment, but a part of me can’t help remarking silently, Well, of course she did. These mountains. The hot springs. It’s all so monetizable.

“Was she successful?” I say.

He shrugs. “She had just cleared eight.”

“Eight . . .”

“Thousand. Eight thousand followers right before the accident. She got a metallic balloon in the shape of an eight and made a big fuss giving away half her week’s salary at Uncle Buck’s to celebrate. I bought her a cake thinking she’d like it for her balloon video, but . . . she said that didn’t work with the aesthetic. Something about how store-bought cakes don’t resonate with a slow-living crowd. So she made one herself.”

“Oh.” I can’t help pitying him, imagining him trying hard to make her happy, trying to do his best to understand her world, and seeing her brush it aside. I understood why she’d done it—she was right. Dr Pepper and store-bought cakes don’t work for a slow-living niche. But still.

He deserved better.

“She was thrilled when a couple of businesses started to offer to send her things.”

I raise a brow. “What kind of things?”

“One sent her a month’s supply of dish soap. Another company gave her a discount on leggings and told her she could give a code to her fans and get some money if they made purchases.”

Oh dear. The companies that scam new creators are a dime a dozen. “Let me guess. She bought the leggings she never wanted in the first place, made a post to promote them, and never made any money.”

“I never asked. I’d learned early on not to probe too much.”

“So what happened?”

“Eventually she got to where she couldn’t go to the bathroom without her phone.”

That’s me. Shoot. That’s everyone.

“Kept one eye on it through every conversation.”

Check.

“Was a slave to that ding.”

Check.

“Couldn’t take a car ride with me without scrolling.”

Check.