“Doubt it, Oz,” I said, trying not to show he’d annoyed me. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
And you were not, under any circumstances, allowed to fuck your sister’s friends. That was the one thing Caroline asked of me when we were in high school, and I’d kept my promise.
“So what?” Oz said.
“I’m just doing a good deed for my sister’s friend,” I said firmly. “I do not want to fuck her. Not at all.”
Oz narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit. You clearly want to fuck her. She’s exactly your type.”
“How?” I asked.
“She’s a woman.”
I walked right into that.
“Lyssa is not my type,” I said firmly. “She’s way too much banana for one milkshake.”
That was when I heard the hand dryer start up and remembered the walls in Levitate were plasterboard. If I could hear the dryer, maybe she’d heard the?—
Nah, surely I wasn’t that unlucky?
CHAPTER 5
LYSSA
Nothing was going to plan.
In my head, I was going to arrive in New Zealand like America’s sweetheart in a Hallmark Christmas movie, and enliven the small town with my effervescence. There would be a few comical mishaps—involving a dog or the local bakery—before I was enfolded into the tight-knit community. I would show them how to be quirkier and more open-minded, and they’d show me how to enjoy life at a slower pace …
In reality, Tanya had laughed at me—not unkindly, but she still clearly thought I was weird—and the party princess had glared daggers when Mike was in the kitchen. Not to mention, the man with the beer had watched me move around the room like I was something dead and delicious on a sushi train. So far, the only person I’d met who I actually had something in common with lived by herself in a crumbling house, like a leper shunned from society. Meeting Cilla had felt like looking into my future, and while she was undeniably fabulous, I wasn’t ready to be like her, with only memories of my glory days. I had time for more glory first.
Some people said I was too much ... but they were always the ones who lived tiny lives. I wasn’t going to dull my shine to appease the unimaginative.
Later that afternoon, Mike drove me and my suitcase a few blocks to his home, situated on the fringes of town. He said it was fine to leave my rental car where it was and I didn’t argue. I was still humiliated from booking an unfinished hotel.
Mike’s house was ... unusual.
It had a decidedly 70’s flavor, and each room had a color theme, which the past owner (whom Mike pinned this on with an unconcerned shrug) had rigidly stuck to, making each room feel like a dream in a medically induced sleep. The kitchen was turquoise, my room was purple, and the main bathroom was orange—not just the walls: the enamel sink and the bath—everything was orange.
I’d asked Mike if the clashing colors bothered him. He frowned and asked what I meant.
It was weird to be getting ready for bed when my body was ready to wake up. Fumbling through my suitcase for my pajamas, I took comfort feeling my precious clothes with their varied textures and weights. This grounded me, and I gave myself a pep talk.
Just because the script I’d drafted in my mind wasn’t currently playing out, that didn’t mean I couldn’t pretend it was. Telling the truth online was what had gotten me into this mess in the first place, so if I had to romanticize my content to the point it was pure fiction now, then so what? I wouldn’t be the first influencer to do it.
I had everything unpacked and was peeling back the covers of Mike’s spare bed when I realized my water bottle was empty. I’d forgotten to refill it when I got off the plane. This was bad for skin-care reasons but also because I’d had a video series called Hydrate with Me where I filmed myself drinking water throughout my day to remind my followers to hydrate. It was a flippant series with a serious goal: build a subliminal association between me and my followers’ daily routines.
And Mike thought I just talked about toast.
Over the past few days of travel, I’d managed my channels by using premade content and turning off comments and limiting DMs. But that wouldn’t work for much longer, not if I wanted to salvage a commercially viable engagement rate. Which I did. Paul had ensured that I would never get a job in fashion again, so I would need more brand deals to pay my bills.
Tomorrow I would get the last shot I needed for my “Come to New Zealand with Me!” travel vlog and thus launch a new era of content.
I just needed my car keys back from Mike so I could get around places to film—this country wasn’t very walkable, and I’d yet to catch sight of anything resembling public transport.
Mike had way overreacted to my driving. I’d listened to everything the rental car person had said at the airport and driven the whole hour and a bit to get here from the airport without incident, a fact which Mike seemed to be ignoring. Caroline was right—her brother was overbearing. His mustache was overbearing too. So was his symmetrical, tanned face.
It was just past ten p.m. when I grabbed my water bottle and padded down the hallway. After Mike had shown me to the (viciously purple) guest room, he excused himself, saying he had to be up at five a.m. to go to work on a neighboring farm. Then he’d given me a weird little salute and taken himself to bed at eight thirty.
