“No,” I said slowly. “At home, in New York.”
“Oooh.” She put a shell down and looked at me. “You live in New York City, don’t you? What’s that like? Your videos look really cool.”
“It’s… busy. There are a lot of people there.”
“I bet it’s better than Creek Keys.”
“Not exactly. I like it here. It’s quiet and sunny and relaxed.”
“I think I want to live in New York. I want to be just like you!”
I looked over at her. “No, you don’t.”
“I do! I really do!” She crawled over to me and sat down right in front of me. “You have the best life. You have pretty hair. Pretty clothes. You get to play with puppies. I really want a puppy, but Dad says no.”
I knew that.
“I work a lot. My videos take hours to edit and pull together. I can spend hours on the phone talking business. It’s not as glamorous as it looks.”
“No way. Your life is so cool. You do the best stuff.”
Oh, Lord. I was about to give this poor baby girl a lesson in reality.
“Ari, you have to realize something,” I said, pulling my phone out of the pocket of my shorts. I pressed my thumb against the screen of my phone to unlock it. “What you see here, on the internet, isn’t real.”
“How isn’t it real?”
“It just isn’t.”
“Any of it? How can all of it not be real? Some of it has to be real.”
I shrugged one shoulder as I opened Instagram and showed her the screen. “Sure, some of it is. But almost every single image you see here of all these people everyone thinks is perfect, is fake. They’re photoshopped. They’re filtered. They’ve been brightened and lightened and edited because that’s what they think people want to see.”
“But they’re real pictures, right? They’re actually in those places.”
“Sure, they’re real, but it’s not their real life.” I locked my phone again and, resting my arms on my knees, looked her in the eyes. “You don’t see them waking up at six-thirty and going to the Starbucks drive-thru with yesterday’s mascara, hair that looks like a rat’s nest, and a yogurt stain on their sweatpants.”
She laughed. “They don’t do that.”
“Of course they do! Before you met me, would you think I did that?”
A frown marred her brow, and she pushed her hair back behind her ear. “No.”
With a wry smile, I pointed to my hair. “Rat’s nest. I barely even brushed it after my shower before I shoved it up into a bun.” Then my eyes. “Yesterday’s mascara. Some came off in the shower, but it’s waterproof, so not all of it.” Then my shorts. “That’s a yogurt stain from my afternoon snack. You don’t see any of this on my Instagram or my Facebook or my YouTube channel. But this is me, Arielle. This is who I am when I don’t have to be perfectly pulled together. Sometimes, I’ll make three videos in a row and just change my outfits so I can have a day off, and on those days, I don’t even know if I change my panties. And I definitely don’t wear a bra. I choose what I want people to see—I choose the version of Elle I want to put out into the world.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Think about it this way—do you go to church?”
She frowned again. “Not every week, but sometimes. Dad forgets.”
I fought a smile. “I bet you dress up real pretty in your nicest dress.”
“I do! And my sparkly shoes! And my special silver church bow!”
“So not the things you wear, to say, the grocery store? Or the diner?”
“No. Why would I wear my sparkly shoes to the grocery store?”
“Exactly.” I took her soft little hand in mine. “I don’t wear my sparkly shoes if I don’t have to, and I save my nicest dress for my videos. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.”
“You see what I want you to see. That’s the same for all those people you see. None of us look that good all the time.”
Her eyes widened as reality settled on her. “I guess you’re right.”
“That doesn’t mean you should stop watching everything. It doesn’t mean you can’t love the people you watch. Just be aware that the fancy lives you’re shown aren’t necessarily their realities.”
“Like a movie?”
“A bit like a movie, yeah.”
“I think I get it.” She looked out at the water. “Do you do all the stuff in your videos?”
“Sure do, honey. I volunteer at soup kitchens and dog rescues and all that other stuff, but you only see a little bit. You see maybe five minutes, but what you don’t see is that I do a six-hour shift at the soup kitchen. I can spend eight hours at the rescue helping them with puppies and dogs and even cats. But you don’t see that I do that every single week.”
“You do? Every week? All the time?”
“Uh-huh. Every Monday I help at the soup kitchen and every Thursday I go to the shelter.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Exactly. Because I don’t share that. I have a whole life behind what you see on my videos. That is but a snapshot of my life. Remember that.”
She turned and grinned up at me. “I will. I promise.”
I tapped the tip of her little nose. “Abraham Lincoln once said that you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet.”
“But, Elle, Abraham Lincoln died before the internet.”
“Exactly. And do you know where I read that? The internet.” I grinned and squeezed her hand lightly.
She laughed, leaning into me until her head rested on my upper arm. “You’re silly, Elle.”
I hugged her into me. “I am silly. And so are you.”
She giggled when I tickled her.
“Shall we finish these sandcastles before your dad gets back with the pizza?”
“No time,” Theo said from behind us. “Did someone order pepperoni pizza, potato wedges, lemonade, and cookie dough?”
“Me, me, me! I did!” Ari scrambled on the sand, rushing to get up.
“Come wash your hands and we’ll eat on the deck.” Theo turned back to the house, and I grabbed all the buckets and spades to take back with me.
I left them on the deck near the food and went inside to wash my hands. Their house was beautiful, a mix of homely and beach décor from the blue sofa to the pictures of Ari on the walls. One wall was a gallery of multicolored photo frames. Some of the pictures were just Ari through her life, others had Theo and other people in. There was one of her as a baby with a woman who had the exact same color hair, and my heart twanged when I realized I was looking at her mom.
Poor baby. I couldn’t imagine growing up without mine—it was hard enough being an adult without her.
I scurried through to the kitchen before they caught me staring. Ari was scrubbing her hands and spraying soap everywhere, something Theo was deftly avoiding in a way that said he’d done this a thousand times before.
“Done!” she declared.
“Plates and napkins, please,” he asked, rinsing his own hands. “Soap?” he offered me the dispenser.