That, and well… I learned in college that a hand job can accidentally double as a hair appointment. Who knew magical man juice could pass for premium hair gel? I won’t be sharing that life hack in Astrid’s nextbeauty secrets revealedvideo.
I gather my long chestnut waves into a high ponytail, the familiar motion centering me like meditation. My fingers glide through my strands, catching the faint coconut scent from this morning’s shower. The way I’m sweating, I better savor whatever’s left of that fresh feeling.
My gaze drifts up the column again, mentally calculating angles and handholds as if I’m a stunt double. This shouldn’t even register on my danger scale. I’ve literally hung off helicopters—one time to get the perfect shot of Reece bungee jumping into an active volcano.Okay, fine, it was dormant, but still… my brain has a point.
“Another day at the office,” I mutter, testing the seat’s stability. The plastic creaks ominously under my Converse.This is why I wore cargo pants with reinforced knees today.You know, for occasional pillar climbing and other normal wedding videographer to-dos.
Teenage me would be losing her shit right now. Back then, I was just another film nerd with a borrowed camera and a dream, watching Reece’s uploads as if they were sacred teachings. While other girls were freeze-framing his abs(which, okay, fair), I was pausing videos frame by frame, studying his innovative cinematography and groundbreaking editing techniques.
“And now look at me.” I snort-laugh, pulling my body up onto the ledge.
Twenty-five-year-old me gets to film with Reecerebranded(featuring twenty percent more disappointment). My one-time idol now does “authentic” morning routines that take longer to shoot than most feature films. Here’s a secret: nobody does their skincare routine while gazing soulfully out floor-to-ceiling windows from their mega mansion at sunrise. Nobody.
The worst part isn’t even that he’s traded storytelling for brand deals. It’s who he is in real life. That charming, adventurous guy who inspired me to pick up a camera? Turns out, the guy is as phony as Astrid’s platinum blonde hair and double D-cups. The actual Reece Dare has two modes: brooding silence and cutting criticism. The only way I see that famous million-dollar smile directed at me is when I’m watching it through my viewfinder.
“¡Mierda!” My foot slips. I lunge, my arms gripping the rhinestone-covered support beam, cheeks pressed into the cold stone, gemstones scratching my skin.
“Okay. Not dead. That’s good.”
But hanging on to this pillar like a sequined koala? Less good.
A fall from this height would put me in a full-body cast for sure. Reece’s voice plays in my head, all gruff and judgmental:Maybe next time, plan better, Morales.I can already picture myself strapped to a hospital bed and him barking:Edit with your toes if you have to.
“Not helpful, imaginary Reece.”
I glance at the camera dangling from my belt. Almost there. I just need to zip-tie it to the top. Totally doable.
My foot scrapes against the pillar. Glitter showers down like I’ve taken out a piñata. I tiptoe higher, legs shaking, fingers cramping. One arm holds the GoPro, while the other clings to the pole. It’s a delicate balancing act that reminds me of those carnival games that are rigged so you never win. But I refuse to lose.
Up. Up. Up. I stretch, forcing my camera higher.
One more inch.
One more tug.
Pull it tight.
Got it!
My thighs burn. My arms scream. But before I can figure out a plan to climb down, my phone blares in my pocket.
BRRRING! BRRRING!
“Oh, come on.”
My toe manages to find the edge of the ledge, still dangling precariously as I fumble for my cell. The caller ID reads:CPK Forever.
Katie and Petra. My girls. My lifelines. The name is a tribute to our college obsession with California Pizza Kitchen. Also, our initials: Cam, Petra, Katie.
I swipe to answer, my free hand gripping the pillar. “¡Hola, besties!” I say, holding the phone at an awkward angle to keep my face in frame. “Don’t mind me. Just hanging on by a thread. Or a pole. Take your pick.”
Katie appears first, glowing in soft blonde waves, her green eyes sparkling. Petra pops up next—jet-black hair in a messy bun—looking every bit the punk rock troublemaker she is.
“Cam, babe, what’s with the sparkly forehead?” Petra squints at me, grinning. “Is this a special wedding request from your boss, or did you headbutt a stripper’s chest?”
Katie tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “More importantly, why does it look like you’re one bad decision away from another ER visit?”
“Because I am,” I deadpan, tilting my phone down to reveal the tiny ledge beneath my feet. “Welcome to influencer hell. It’s glamorous—no, really.”
