Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I wasn’t meeting the girls for brunch until eleven a.m., so I had plenty of time to do a little filming.
My first mistake was scrolling to check out a few people I follow. Immediately, a notification popped up that I’d been tagged and I clicked it without thinking.
Big mistake.
It was from a huge influencer—one of those lifestyle commentators who usually reviews celebrity outfits or weighs in on PR disasters.
But this particular post?
It was ten full minutes of her dissecting me like I was a trending scandal, not a real person.
“Okay,” she said at the top of the video, with the smug energy of someone about to deliver what she thinks is the only truth. “Let’s talk about the TikTok teacher dating Lucky Branson, a.k.a. Pittsburgh’s golden boy of hockey.”
She used air quotes around the word dating.
“This isn’t jealousy. I’m not hating. But this whole situation feels off. First of all, no shade, but how do you go from dating models and other famous women to a schoolteacher who films herself in a messy kitchen with a rabbit named Buttermilk? I’m just saying.”
She laughed like it was a punch line.
“I get that the ‘normal girl’ angle is cute on paper. It makes him look grounded. Like, oh, look, he’s not shallow, he’s not one of those athletes. But let’s be honest—if she didn’t blow up on TikTok, would they have ever met? Would he have even looked at her twice? No, he wouldn’t have because she’s just a novelty and he was probably bored.”
She sighed dramatically and I was unable to look away.
“Maybe she’s cool. Maybe she’s funny. But this is starting to feel like a brand stunt that got out of hand. Her entire platform is built on being average—and now she’s trying to keep up with a guy who’s used to red carpets and VIP events. Girl, you can’t keep playing relatable while dating a millionaire athlete.”
She tilted her head, voice syrupy.
“And Lucky? Sweetheart. Blink twice if you need help. If this is your rom-com arc, cute. But if you’re serious? You better be ready for her to be followed by cameras, hated by your fans, and ripped apart online every time she makes a video where her lighting isn’t perfect. Because no one’s buying this wholesome-girl vibe she’s got going on.”
The video ends with her sipping from a designer tumbler and saying, “I’m just giving my honest opinion. Don’t cancel me.”
I didn’t comment but I did watch it twice. It was like a sickness, my inability to put it aside. To recognize it as pettiness and jealousy and a need to be nasty to get views. It got to me and I couldn’t stop hearing my own doubts in her voice. And that’s what messed me up the most—how much her words echoed the worst parts of what I’ve been secretly thinking. That I don’t belong in his world. That eventually, everyone will see it, even him.
That alone would not have made me late for brunch.
I really tried to rebound and figured I’d film a skin care review I’ve been putting off for days. I had completed a thirty-day regimen using bargain beauty brands and I needed to report my findings. The filming was easy—nothing fancy, just real results. I was on point, funny, a little self-deprecating in all the ways my followers usually eat up.
But when I went to post it, I froze.
I could already picture the comments.
The snide remarks.
The Who does she think she is? jabs from people who suddenly think I don’t deserve to exist online because I’m dating Lucky Branson. I stared at that post button forever, heart pounding, fingers hovering.
And in the end… I closed the app with so much frustration, I wanted to cry.
Three days. That’s how long it’s been since I posted, which might not sound like a big deal to anyone else, but for me? It’s a red flag. I post daily, sometimes twice a day, and I think I might be broken.
And now I’m late, mentally spun out and totally discombobulated as I look around the restaurant while removing my jacket.
The warm scent of cinnamon, espresso and maple syrup relieves some of my tension, but I’m far from hungry. I’m battling low-level anxiety nausea and I’m thinking toast and tea are on the menu.
The place buzzes with Sunday brunchers clinking mugs, soft pop music in the background, sunlight pouring through the tall front windows. I scan the room until I spot them—Farren, Mila, Tempe and Willa—settled around a table in the corner like they’ve been here for hours and haven’t run out of things to say. Tempe’s mid-laugh, Willa’s got her hand wrapped around a glass, and Farren waves when she sees me. Mila’s pulling out the chair next to her for me to sit.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and paste on a smile like everything’s fine.