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.”
“I’ll have two,” I smile at the woman and glance at the handwritten menu board. “And a pastelito.” I glance back at Josie and she holds up two fingers. “Actually let’s do two of those.”
I consider a coffee, but I'm pretty sure I’ll be bouncing off the walls if it’s as strong as it smells. I slip back into the cozy booth in the corner and pick at what’s left of my empanada, pulling my phone from my pocket and placing it flat on the tabletop. I glance down at my lock screen, a picture of my parents with their arms around each other in front of the tiny boutique store they own on the outskirts of Portland. Beaming smiles. St. James Sundry Store hand-painted on the window.
I don’t know how I got from there to here.
“I love that picture,” Josie says with a smile. “They look so happy.”
“They do,” I smile, looking at my mother’s face. “They are.” We have the same smile, the same scrunch in our noses when we laugh. I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s restocking the candy she keeps in a small basket at the back of the store for the kids who manage to find it, or if she’s washing the windows with the same ratty, bright pink towel she’s always had. A pang of homesickness hits me right in the chest.
“Evie.”
“Hm?” I blink up from my phone and look at my friend, the face of the person who knows me better than anyone. She tilts her head and gives me a soft smile.
“What’s going on? You feel like—you feel like you’re half here. Stuck in your head somewhere.” I drop my chin and press two fingers above my eyebrow as Josie rushes to explain. “Not in a bad way, necessarily. You seem distracted, I guess.”
This break feels less like an idea and more like a necessity. I wake up every morning with a hollow feeling in my chest, an anxious pounding that gets worse the longer I lay in an unfamiliar bed staring at an unfamiliar room. I spend more time in hotels than at the small apartment I rent. I check my social accounts and I feel ballooning pressure in my chest. I feel like a liar. A fake.
“I’ve got no idea what I’m doing,” I sigh.
Josie frowns. “That has never once been true.”
“It’s been true more than you think,” I mutter. I’ve gotten excellent at pretending everything is okay.
I poke around our empty basket, fingering at the edge of the greasy paper that’s crinkled at the bottom. I pick up a crumb with my finger and lick it off. “I’m just going through the motions.”
Smiling for the camera. Adding pithy captions. Making my life seem like it’s one big, wonderful, adventure when really I’m stuck in my head. I’ve become obsessed with numbers, how posts are performing. I’m more interested in the aesthetic of a story than the actual story part of it. On my last trip, I forgot the name of the town I was in. Twice.