A month after I moved in, Porsha sent me a text with link to an Instagram profile with a note that said “Is this you????”
I scrolled through each perfectly styled and filtered picture on the account and with each swipe of my fingers, my dread grew.
I didn’t know how they’d explained my absence at the wedding. But I could see now. My profile was full of pictures of a woman whose face was never turned toward the camera. She was blonde, dressed the way I used to. Her profile proclaimed
“This account the official account for Liz Wolfe, daughter of candidate for Governor @TheRealDrewWolfe. I want to inspire women all over the world who feel inadequate to the challenges they face. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t have it all I’m living proof of that lie.”
I felt sick as I scrolled to the first picture, one of “me” standing on a beach arms outstretched and the wind blowing my hair all over my head. The caption said, “I’m moving on. I walked away from a man who broke his promises. With the support of my family, I’m making the most of my new life. Follow me for daily inspiration.”
Post of after post was full of images of “Liz” living her best life in Austin. I understand the appeal of the image they’re selling.
The Liz Wolfe in those pictures lived a charmed life. She lived in a beautiful home, wore beautiful clothes. She gardened, did yoga without sweating. Sat behind a desk and wrote in a gold filigreed journal with a gold pen held in her perfectly manicured hands.
Every meal she ate looked delicious and decadent but was balanced and healthy. Her lips were painted the same shade of pink in each picture, her blond hair, thick and lustrous, flowed over her shoulders in shining, fraudulent waves.
Nothing about her was real. But the most destructive part of the profile - the thing that made me feel ill were the comments from the profiles almost 100,000 followers.
They call themselves #LuckyCharms because apparently that’s what @LizWolfeOfficial calls them. When I search the hashtag, the pictures make my blood run cold.
They all dress in pink and most of them are blond. And according to their posts, they’re miserable because no matter how hard they try, they don’t have anything like the life they see emulated in the pictures on my account.
I didn’t want that to be what my name is synonymous with. I tried to log into the account, but found all the permissions changed.
When I talked to Porsha about it, leaving out all the details about Carter, she suggested I started a new account.
I could counter it by making something real. That same day, I created a new account and called myself @TheFreeBeth.
My first post was a video. I didn’t show my face. Instead, I held up the picture I’d painted of myself - a replica of the one I’d made when I first got back from my grandmothers. I just introduce myself and offered to paint them a mirror, too.
I’d been scared to post it. But as soon as it was done, I’d felt nothing but a sense of rightness. And, I was sure no one would ever see it.
I was wrong. People saw and responded. I got a lot of requests. I’ve painted three “mirrors” since then – and only because that’s the most I can make time for. I love it, and I’m excited to see where it takes me. But, it feels good to make other people feel good.
The last two years have a been trial by fire. But what’s been revealed as I walked through it, is a girl who has learned to trust her wings so that when she falls, fear is the last thing she feels.
“Oh my God, I knew that song was familiar,” Porsha’s loud exclamation snaps me out of my daydream.
There’s no music playing. I pour the buttermilk into the mixture of eggs and vanilla. “What song?”
“The one you were humming a second ago.”
“I don’t hum,” I say, frowning as I beat the batter into a fluffy wet cloud.
She gives me her incredulous wide eyed stare that she gives the guys she dates when she catches them in a lie.
“What? I don’t,” I insist.
She presses her fist to her lips and laughs wildly. “Oh my God, are you for real? You’re always humming, Beth. And I swear that song you’ve been humming is the same one I heard on the radio when I was getting dressed.
“Since when did you lower yourself to listen to the radio?” I ask, and ladle two dollops of batter onto the smoking hot griddle.
“Since I decided Spotify is too expensive. Damn! What’s it called? It was beautiful, kind a tragic, but so romantic.”
She snaps her fingers and her brows furrow like she’s thinking really hard.
“It’s not that serious. You look like you’re about to bust a blood vessel. Chill.“
“No, hold on, I know…” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through it.
She shimmies her shoulders and presses play. “Here it is. The band is called Blue Clover…the song is Between Now and Heartbreak. They’re calling them the next Coldplay. And they’re all sexy as hell. Look.”
She turns the phone around to show me the album cover which is a tapestry of gold and blue four leaf clovers. But I can barely see it through the haze of tears in my eyes. The blood is rushing in my ears when the song - our song - starts to play.
I vaguely register Porsha’s loud exclamation when I drop the spoon I was using to mix the batter.
I stumble back to the chair, sit down and close my eyes while Carter’s beautiful voice covers me like a blanket woven from every good thing in the world. I’m transported back to a place where every day felt like flying.
When I close my eyes, I can feel the vibration of his voice against my ear, the way I did on the many nights he sang me to sleep.
Joy and pride burst through the dam of denial and deprivation I put between my heart and all of the memories we made. I can’t hold back the happy tears shed for my best friend and the dream he’s made come true.
“What happened?” Porsha asks and rushes around the counter, pulling me into an embrace. I breathe in the familiar scent of her almond body lotion and marvel at the turn my life has taken in the last three months.
She’s a safe place. She’s proven that in the few months I’ve known her. She’s got rough edges, but they’re never ever used on the people she loves. I can trust her And I need to tell someone.
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is so right. I’m just where I should be. And so is he. The man singing that…he’s the love of my life. And I’m the love of his. That song is about us.”
“The love of your life?” she repeats slowly.
I just nod. My heart breaks to hear how surprised she sounds. Loving him is an essential part of me, and I’ve kept it a secret.
“So why is he there and you’re here?” She asks, her voice full of question, but soothing at the same time, as if she knows I need the tenderness.
Telling her the truth means I can never pretend otherwise - but I need to rip the Band-Aid off so that I can start finding a way to heal and move on.
“Because after I fell in love with him…we found out we have the same father.”
A Woman’s Will
LIZ
THREE MONTHS LATER
“Hey Princess, they’re playing your song,” Joe, my downstairs neighbor calls after me when I rush past his door toward the stairs.