Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

of black on her eyelids, she wondered if you could get an eye disease from makeup that was several years old.

She pulled out a tube of red lipstick—the one Nora had once used to draw on the walls—and started to fill in the color on her lips, then drew outside the lines a little to give herself the kind of enormous pout that Rowan had. She stared at herself in the mirror, not quite recognizing herself. She looked half glamorous, half demented.

As weird as it was, Hannah was now certain she had to find a way to run into Rowan. In fact, she would do whatever it took to insert herself into Rowan’s life.

Because she was drowning, and Rowan might be the branch that would save her.

Six

Give them magic.

Rowan leaned against the window in the Old Brattle Café, the sunlight streaming behind her and catching her brown hair with streaks of honey.

With the old, warped windowpanes behind her and the walls a colonial ochre, the image would have a rustic charm. She tilted her chin down, pouting at the camera and opening her eyes wide. She snapped a shot. In this light, her skin took on a warm tan hue. Very cute, Ro.

Then she took another, and another. She took one leaning on her hand, her gold S&O bracelet gleaming in the sunlight.

No matter how many times she’d done this, she still felt a bit self-conscious taking selfies in public. She knew what everyone around her was thinking—preening, self-obsessed narcissist.

She lowered her phone, casting a nervous glance around the little café. No one seemed to be paying attention, but she could practically write their comments herself.

Can you imagine just sitting around all day taking photos of yourself? Idiot. 

It was a gorgeous photo, though—makeup looked stellar, the side of her cheekbones shimmering with the backlighting. What would the haters have to say about this one?

It took her a few minutes of adjusting the photo—adding a bit of a blur and some grain, tweaking the highlights—before it was ready to upload. She typed out a quote she’d memorized from the poet Tomaž Šalamun, one about demanding both total freedom and unconditional love. It was about being terrible, but interesting. And being interesting was the key thing.

She added, #poetry, then uploaded it.

Then, unable to stop herself, she clicked on her most recent messages. One at the top was from an account boasting an image that looked like a Victorian clown, with bright red cheeks and a terrifying leer.

When she opened the message, her heart skipped a beat.

I want you cut up in little pieces you phony pig!!!

Her hands shook as she frantically deleted it, then blocked the sender. No matter how many of these messages she got, they always made her feel sick.

Get a grip, Ro.

When she looked up again, she tried to smile. Her marketing manager, Heather, was moving toward her table. Heather’s entire presence exuded confidence and a sense of control. Her dark hair draped over a grey suit jacket, and she wore just a hint of bronzer on her skin.

Rowan flicked off her phone, still shaking a little. But Heather deserved her full attention.

Without her agent, Rowan would be totally lost right now. Heather was the one who found her the jobs and shaped all her branding.

Heather slid into the chair and crossed her legs. “You’re looking well, Rowan! I’m glad to see you’ve slept. You look much healthier. A little pale, maybe.”

That’s because of the Victorian clown.

“I feel healthy. I’ve been doing everything you told me. I haven’t read any comments in two days. I haven’t read my messages.” Lies, all lies. “I’ve been drinking tons of water. I had fruit for breakfast, cut down on the booze. Yoga and all that.”

Heather sipped her latte from a paper cup, and it left a little foam mustache. “Good. Because your engagement is going up again. You have nearly two thousand new followers in the past few days. People are really watching you now. They like the poetry bits. You’ve got more of an air of mystery when you’re not talking about your critics.”

It was hard not to rant about them. And honestly, what was wrong with people? What made a person wake up in the morning and think, “I should tell her she looks old and that I want her to die”?

Her first “women should support each other” comment was when things had taken a turn for the worse. They smelled blood in the water before she even realized she’d made a mistake. They knew she cared, that they could hurt her.

“The Sephora post did well, didn’t it?” asked Rowan.

It had nearly seventy thousand likes—probably had something to do with the amount of cleavage she had on display. Everyone liked boobs—men, women, everyone.

Heather nodded. “They were very pleased with it, and we’ll definitely have more work from them soon. They want to try out a new color palette. And you have a new offer from Laurell Caron makeup. A bronzer or something.” She mouthed, “Ten thousand.”

Rowan smiled, though her mind was still working over the terrifying threat from the clown.

Things used to be different. People used to like her online. Now, there was a new breed of younger models she didn’t understand—rail-thin nineteen-year-olds who posed in sexy thongs on the toilet, who licked their middle fingers at the camera, legs splayed.

“I was thinking,” said Rowan. “Maybe I should do more on the Harvard campus? A preppy photoshoot or something outside my old dorm?”

Heather’s nose wrinkled, and Rowan already knew she hated the idea. “You’re twenty-eight now; it might look like you haven’t moved on. Like you’re living in the past. We need the new, mature Rowan.”

“Right.” She bit her lip. “What if I started grad school? Something easy.”

Heather tapped the side of her cup, holding Rowan’s gaze for long enough that it started to make her uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t it be hard to get in? I mean… Look, you don’t need to go to grad school just for your brand.