Page 118
So I let him make me that cup.
I let him help me into my coat and even drive me to the airport.
I let him kiss me beside the airport bench where he first laid eyes on me and my line of suitcases, one last memory to pocket away.
Never shutting down officially the hope of something more between us. Never saying officially, “Well, that’s it.”
But we knew it all the same. Knew our time had come.
Because I am Cat Cranwell.
He is Zaiah Smith.
And all the way across the country, in the glittering city that never sleeps, I was famous for a living.
Chapter 18
The Bench
There’s a green bench on the corner of Eighth Street that faces a particular cherry blossom tree. In spring the pink blooms that cover the tree are so beautiful it is rumored Italian designer Giuseppe Russo was so inspired, he plucked one for inspiration and kept it by his side as he sketched a dress so desirable women fought for the honor of paying thirteen thousand dollars for one of the limited editions.
These blooms cover the tree like frosting, and for a few magical days when the cross breeze hits during a break in traffic, they fall like snow, skating along the sidewalk as people pass, keeping up with their pace.
This is one of those afternoons.
I try these days to slip outside as much as I can. When I came back to the city I was changed a little. Hyperaware of how much time I spent indoors. Finding myself stretching out my hand to touch the bark of the delicate trees as I passed them on the sidewalk. Finding myself looking up as I walked between buildings reaching to the sky, searching for the sun.
Montana ruined me.
I frown as I flip through a few options on the editing app, sliding my finger over the temperature gauge to see the picture through different filters.
Me in a flair dress covered in tangerines, midstride across Bowery Street in a strappy pair of orange heels. The rattan tote is spilling over with pink tulips and yellow daffodils. My smile is there, but something about it looks forced, despite how many pictures I take these days. I’m not certain if anyone else can see it. The follower count certainly doesn’t suggest they do, but still. It’s there.
The sponsored brand is the rattan tote, and I’m working to warm the picture without changing the natural color of the rattan.
That, and erase several unsavory objects in the background.
I slide my finger over several objects and tap to erase the offenders.
A crumpled cup lying beside a drain hole.
A slumped-over bag of trash propped beside a trash can.
A rusted-out car from the seventies with two busted-out windows covered in cardboard.
All erased with a tap of a finger. Add ten degrees for an even warmer, sunnier feel. Get a bit of gold glinting off those flowers.
Make the world look . . . perfect.
Glossy. And, of course, not reality at all.
Yes, there was a certain thrill stepping off that plane with Serena and getting my life back like it used to be—in some ways, even better.
People flocked to me, everybody wanting to comfort the girl who had been wrongfully scorned.
Brands came by the dozens trying to get me to clutch their water bottles, picnic baskets, and vacuums while talking about finally getting justice in an unjust world.
Serena took so many calls I half wondered if she’d want to quit on me. But of course she stayed. Haggled with the cunning of a fox and ferocity of a lion. Bias of friendship aside, she truly is the best agent out there, and those in the influencer community agree.
