In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(13)

“Sure.” That’s a fine word for it. I have plenty in my savings account to support a mini-vacation, bolstered by years of meticulous financial planning. An influencer’s income is hardly stable and I’ve always been afraid of the attention slipping away as quickly as it arrived. Social media is a fickle thing.

Maybe some time away is exactly what I need. Space to refocus, realign.

I turn and look over my shoulder through the big windows to the empanada shop below. I start gathering my things.

Some space to eat empanadas.

“But you’ll keep posting, right?” There’s a thin thread of unease in Kirstyn’s voice as she slides from her chair, trailing me to the open door. Josie waits for me at the entrance to the room, quiet pride in her big brown eyes. She’s been ready to leave since we got here. I’m not even sure she packed her laptop. She bounces on her feet, curly hair bouncing with her.

Kirstyn follows us, hanging onto the edge of the industrial glass window like she’s about to leap from a plane. “You won’t, like, go completely dark?”

I shrug. “I haven’t really thought about it yet.” But now that she’s mentioned it, completely ignoring my social media channels for a couple of weeks sounds amazing. I shrug on my jacket and curl my hands in the sleeves. “Do I have any sponsorship things I’m on contract for?”

She practically sprints back to the table, flipping through her pink notebook. “No,” her face falls in dismay. “No, nothing you’re obligated to post. But we’ve got some interest from Ray-Ban if you want—“

“That’s alright, thank you.” I try to smooth the edges of my quick refusal. “Listen, Kirstyn. I’m thankful for the work you did on this pitch, but I think it’s best if I take a step back right now. Go into planning mode for a couple of weeks.”

Her face blanches. “Weeks?”

I need to figure out what I’m doing, why everything suddenly feels like shrugging on a sweater that’s way too small. I keep waiting for this feeling to go away, but it’s not. It’s only getting worse.

“I’ll keep you updated, okay? Check in. Feel free to keep sending me options, but—” I glance at the screen, the strobe lights and the face paint. “—this doesn’t feel right. I’m looking for something different than this.”

Kirstyn nods. “We can do that. We can support something different. I’ll have options in your inbox tonight.”

I start backing my way to the elevator. Josie is already aggressively jamming the button with her thumb. “I won’t look at them tonight, so take your time. I’m serious about the break.”

She follows me like a baby lamb. Some of the people at the collection of tables in the center of the room are half-standing from their seats, watching our progress. There’s a woman at the front with blunt bangs, her teeth sawing her bottom lip. A man behind her in a short-sleeved button-down stands, his palm against his forehead. I feel like I’ve just flipped a table and drop-kicked one of their mothers. All of their faces are stricken, concerned. I give them a wave and what I hope is a reassuring smile. They stare blankly back.

“Always a pleasure, guys!” Josie waves over her shoulder, not bothering to turn from the elevator. The doors slide open and Kirstyn follows us, right to the edge of the sliding doors.

“Your followers would miss you,” she tells me as I slip into the tiny vestibule, green fern wallpaper wrapped floor to ceiling. There’s a gold framed mirror on the ceiling and white shag carpet on the floor. It is the most ridiculous elevator I have ever been in. “Everyone is going to wonder where you went.”

It’s not the incentive she thinks she is. If anything, it makes me want to drop my phone right down this elevator shaft. They’ll wonder, and then they’ll find someone new to follow. Another account. Another collection of reels and posts and … dances. The elevator doors begin to close. I give her a reassuring smile.

“We’ll talk soon.”



The empanadas, as it turns out, are incredible.

“I thought her face was going to melt right off,” Josie says around a mouthful of spinach and cheese. She does something grotesque with her palms pressed tight to her cheeks—an attempt, I think, to illustrate her face melting. It’s difficult to tell exactly what she’s going for. I snort into another bite of flaky buttery goodness. “She was genuinely shocked you don’t want to start wearing body paint.”

“It was weird, right? I don’t think they understand—” me, I almost say. An unfair comment considering I don’t understand myself these days. “I don’t think they get the type of content I’m looking for.”

“Obviously. I’m proud of you for saying something. I’ve only been waiting the past six months for it to happen.” She pokes around in the empty basket between us. “We need more empanadas.”

The lady behind the counter laughs when I slip out of the small booth and wander up for a third round.

“You’re still hungry?” Her laugh is loud and boisterous, just as magical as I thought.

“Give her a croqueta,” an older woman sitting at the edge of the counter says, half-hidden behind a giant plant, her long gray hair wrapped in a bright purple silk scarf. She’s been eating tres leches since we sat down, a tiny cup of Cuban coffee on the counter in front of her. “Jamon.”