Then I cracked open The BFG and lost myself in the story of an orphaned girl who goes on to become a courageous, international heroine with the help of a big, friendly giant.
Chapter 15
After that, I needed a drink.
I was never one to drink alone, but this day had been like a roller coaster, and a glass of wine in the hot tub sounded like the perfect way to quiet my brain and settle my nerves. So once Izzy fell asleep, I did a thorough tidying up—loading the dishwasher, polishing the countertops, vacuuming errant pizza crumbs from the living room carpet—then slipped into my bikini and popped open a bottle of Riesling.
Hopefully, it wasn’t an expensive one. With over two dozen bottles in their wine fridge, though, they probably wouldn’t mind even if it was. I didn’t understand why they had so many bottles, anyway. I’d never even seen Natasha finish an entire glass of wine.
With the bottle in one hand and a stemless wineglass in the other, I made my way to the backyard, where the hot tub sat beside an elevated deck. The water glowed blue and ethereal from the built-in lights. I cranked up the jets and stepped inside, then served myself a heavy pour, and allowed the hum of the motor and splash of the bubbles to drown out the noise in my head.
In light of all her “they’re just things, Bree” talk, I couldn’t believe Natasha had saved our mom’s trinket box. Not that I begrudged her—I had a box of Mom’s belongings under my bed, for crying out loud—but it was so antithetical to the decluttering principles she always preached. It wasn’t like her to save things for sentimental value without putting them to immediate use. Where had she been storing it all these years? And was there more where that came from?
Before I knew it, my wineglass was empty, and as I poured myself another round, my limbs felt loose and limber. Lying back against the reclining wall of the hot tub, I stared up at the stars and the bright crescent moon and the tops of the palm trees silhouetted against the sky. It was so beautiful, so picturesque.
So totally Instagrammable.
Given the swell of emotion I’d been through today—the swimming, the surf scandal, the resurfacing of the long-lost trinket box—I wasn’t feeling particularly glamorous or inspired. If I were to hashtag my current mood, it would be something along the lines of #confused or #bummedout or #tiredaf.
But when it came to Instagram, my actual mood didn’t matter. As I was quickly learning, Instagram wasn’t about authentic emotion. It was about fantasy and facade, about crafting a narrative to entertain and engage. To make people want what you had, or more accurately, what they thought you had.
A picture of this wine bottle next to the hot tub with all the blue lights twinkling off the green glass would make for some A+ quality aspirational content. Who wouldn’t wish they were sitting here, getting tipsy, while dozens of jets blasted their backs with warm, frothy water? No one!
So I whipped out my phone and Instagrammed it.
Hot tub + Riesling + balmy San Diego night = #friyay perfection.
And because alcohol had dulled the edges of my inhibitions, I decided to tag @vitalvineyards, the wine brand that made this Riesling. There was nothing inherently strange or bold about this; people tagged brands all the time. But influencers always tagged them for advertising purposes, to let everyone know this was an official collaboration, especially if they added the #collab hashtag to their post.
Which I did, after the fact.
Look, it was a lie, but it was a small lie. The simple truth was that if I wanted to start getting more freebies, I was going to have to up my game.
Put another way: I’d have to fake it till I made it.
By pretending this bigwig wine brand chose to collaborate with me, I could build some credibility in the nano-influencer sphere, and potentially attract more (and better) sponsors. No more toxic makeup. Maybe I’d eventually get paid with money instead of free products. Or at the very least, maybe the products I’d get for free wouldn’t leave a rash on my face.
I stayed in the hot tub for a good long while, basking in the brilliance of my clever yet completely harmless deception. After draining my second glass of wine, I cut myself off. Even though Izzy was asleep, I was still on babysitting duty. If she woke up from a nightmare, shit-faced Auntie Bree wouldn’t be much comfort.
Just then, a loud slam emanated from somewhere inside the house. I sat up, prepared to jump out and towel off before escorting Izzy back to bed. But through the sliding screen doors, I saw Natasha totter into the kitchen, looking slightly unsteady on her feet. She made eye contact with me, then broke out in a wide grin, yelled, “Let me get my suit on!” and disappeared out of view.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought Natasha was drunk. But Natasha didn’t get drunk. It was part of her type A control-freak personality to always have her wits about her, to always stay in command of her faculties.
Al sauntered into the kitchen, hanging his keys on the command center with a worn-out expression on his face. Then he looked up and spotted me, waving before coming out into the backyard. “Hey, Bree. How’d things go with Izzy tonight?”
“Fantastic. She fell asleep a little late, but that was my fault. How was your gala?”
Through a great, gaping yawn, he said, “Eh. It was a networking opportunity. Nothing too exciting.”
“Natasha seems like she had a good time.” I didn’t want to mention what I was really thinking, but Al said it for me.
“She’s drunk.” He tittered, evidently amused. “I can’t blame her. It was four straight hours of orthodontia talk. She needed to entertain herself somehow.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Natasha drunk before.”
“It doesn’t happen often. Open bars are a dangerous thing.”
Right on cue, Natasha flung the sliding screen door open with such force it went flying off the track and toppled over onto the concrete. She stared down at it, unmoving. “Oh, shit.”
Al chuckled. “Don’t worry, honey, I got it.”
As he bent over to pick it up, she palmed his ass. “Thanks, hot stuff.” Then she came over, empty wineglass in hand. “Fill ’er up, lil’ sister.”
The words came out slurred. With a meaningful glance toward Al, I asked, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Don’t look at him,” she said, slipping into the hot tub beside me. “He doesn’t control me. I’m fine. I’ve had, like, three drinks. I can handle a glass of—” She squinted at the bottle. “I don’t even know what this is. Riesling? Whatever. Pour!”
I obeyed her command because what was I supposed to do, say no?