Follow Me(22)

But as long as I had been nurturing that crush, I’d never admitted it aloud, and so I automatically said, “There’s no story.”

“Like hell there isn’t. Come on, Cat. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

I looked into Audrey’s open face and realized she was right. She was my best friend. Finally, I had someone I could confide in again.

“We kissed once,” I admitted, a flush warming my chest as I remembered the soft pads of his fingers caressing my jawline, the wet warmth of his mouth.

“Just once? What happened after that?”

“We sobered up. It was at a party celebrating our law school graduation. We’d both had too much to drink and . . . it just happened. But then we were consumed with bar studying, and then Connor moved to Idaho for a clerkship.”

“But you’re both here now. Working in the same office, even. And you’re obviously still into him.”

“We’re just friends, Audrey.”

“For now.” she said with a giggle. “But did I tell you what he said about you?”

“What?” I asked, heartbeat suddenly pounding in my ears. “No. When did you talk to Connor?”

“I ran into him the other day on the street. We got to talking, and he said he thinks you’re great.”

I sagged, pulse still racing. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It was the way he said it,” she said confidently. “Trust me. So what are you going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cat! He clearly wants you. And you clearly want him.” She laughed and shook her head. “Hon, you are so lucky to have me as your best friend.”

Audrey began laying out a plan to help me “land” Connor, a plan that seemed hinged upon heavy spending at Nordstrom, Sephora, and the salon, but I was fixated on her word choice: best friend. I’d always considered Audrey my best friend, but she always reserved the honorific for her childhood friend Izzy. Hearing her call me her “best friend” warmed every corner of my heart.

“Trust me, Cat,” she said. “You’re going to be like a different person when I’m through with you.”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





AUDREY


Smudging a new home with a clump of burning sage was painfully trendy and more than a little woo-woo, but still I found myself circling the basket of smudge sticks at Urban Outfitters. I had spent an hour wandering around inside the Georgetown CB2, testing out different couches and lusting after light fixtures, but had walked away without purchasing anything. My lack of furniture was getting ridiculous, I knew, but I still couldn’t commit to a couch. It was an anchoring piece, something that set the tone for the entire room—and since I planned to escape my basement apartment as soon as possible, it would need to be something that would fit a larger apartment. Overcome with indecision, I put a pin in the furniture buying and popped into Urban, ostensibly to look at some patterned pillows I saw featured on another woman’s Instagram. I wouldn’t buy the same pillows, obviously—I was no follower—but I thought they might have something else I would like.

I was underwhelmed by the pillow selection but intrigued by the smudge sticks, imagining how dramatic the smoke would look on camera; it would make for a great series of photographs. The smudging itself would make good blog content, too—people were really into Wicca and other mystic shit. I got at least a dozen comments each week inquiring whether I had tried crystals or had my chakras aligned.

Why not? I thought, picking up a smudge stick and carrying it to the register.

I’d avoided filming too much of the apartment thus far. It wasn’t a bad apartment, but I was certain I could do better. There were plenty of apartments for rent in the city, but searching for them was tedious and time-consuming. I kept promising myself I would sit down and finally find a new place. Until then, I was procrastinating on unpacking . . . which was another reason I’d barely shown the apartment. Followers who had seen the Live where I talked about unpacking would no doubt notice my lack of progress. Besides, they no doubt expected me to live somewhere a bit more stylish. With that in mind, I returned to CB2 and purchased a matte black table lamp and a clear acrylic end table I had been eyeing.

At home, I wiped down the walls and baseboards in the sunniest corner of my subterranean living room, arranged my new purchases, and topped the table with a bright bouquet of flowers from Whole Foods. The tableau made the apartment look charming and inviting . . . so long as you narrowed your field of vision to that one corner. The rest remained crowded with boxes, but I would address that later. My more immediate concern was generating new content for my followers, an inclination that gave me pause. I’d watched so many of my online friends become fixated on polishing their lives to attract lucrative sponsorships only to lose their authenticity—and their followers. I was careful to remain myself online—an amplified version of myself, sure, but myself—and I was rewarded by a devoted fan base. I knew if I monetized my account more aggressively, if I gave into the pressure to put a glossy veneer on everything and create advertisements for companies, I could make bank, but I wasn’t willing to do that. I wanted to remain true to myself, and, more important, I wanted to still have a shred of dignity left when the influencer bubble inevitably burst.