Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
They lied to me.
They didn’t tell me there was a girl before me who they wanted badly enough to decorate an entire room for her.
I’m going to be sick.
My cheeks grow wet with tears and I shrivel inside. Dax never cries, but I cry over the stupidest stuff. This certainly feels stupid.
I’m second best.
Two seems fitting of a name for a kid no one ever wanted.
The sound of the garage door opening has me jolting. I quickly shove everything back into the trunk, close the lid, and move the coats to hide it once more. By the time I exit their bedroom, Dad is coming through the garage door into the house. I swipe all the tears off my face and force a neutral expression.
“Two, buddy, grab your coat and hat. Pops is taking us for pizza and then we’re going to look at a house we’re going to restore. Maybe you’ll find some cool treasures. The owner said we can take whatever we want.”
I stare at my smiling dad, feeling a stabbing, burning pain deep inside my chest. It’s so easy for him to pretend that I almost wasn’t their son. They almost had Gemma. Their perfect, precious baby girl.
“Everything okay?” Dad asks, coming to stand in front of me. He cradles my cheeks with his cold palms and studies my face. “You look sad.”
Not sad.
Destroyed.
There’s a difference, Dad.
“I’m good. Can I get Pepsi?”
Dad purses his lips, clearly biting back what he’s really thinking before he nods once. “Just one and you can have it with dinner, not before.” He drops his forehead to mine and grins at me. “Love you, Two.”
“Yeah, Dad, I know.”
He’s not the only liar in this family.
Gemma (Present Day)
I know I’m a joke to my family.
They think my job as an influencer is made up and silly. Dad is convinced it’s dangerous and not something I should do long-term, often lecturing me on putting my focus on school rather than my platform.
For me, though, it’s something I’m proud of. I built it from nothing and shaped it into something that not only awards me a viable income but also gives me a voice to help other people.
Sure, sometimes that help is showing my followers what moisturizer I use or my favorite lip gloss, but it feels bigger than that. One day, I hope to use it in a way that’s more impactful.
One day.
I’m not really sure how I’ll turn my content around without some blowback, but I’ll figure it out. It’s why I’m majoring in marketing at PMU.
What my family and followers don’t see is all that goes into maintaining and growing my audience. Each day, I spend hours strategizing content, researching what others are doing, and replying to my followers to cultivate and build solid relationships. So many girls my age and younger have reached out to me to let me know they aspire to be like me. It makes me feel good that I’m inspiring them, even if it’s just to feel better about their outward appearance.
I’m making my way through my messages when I come to a strange one.
@TwoCanPlayThisGame.
The username sends a chill down my spine.
I read the message, trying to make sense of it.
I see you. The real you. The you no one else but me sees.
I click on their profile to see what sort of person is sending me this message. From another girl like myself, it could mean something totally different than some random weird man. The profile, though, has nothing to offer. It’s a new account. They’re not following anyone but me and they have no posts. The picture is a screenshot of my profile page.
This is the kind of stuff Dad is worried about, but thankfully, I know how to handle it. It’s not the first weirdo to message me and it certainly won’t be the last. I quickly block the person and delete the message without giving it another thought.
I move on to more sweet messages about how my recommendation for an acne treatment helped one girl’s skin clear up and now she’s feeling more confident. As I read through them all—each one kind and uplifting—I can’t help but keep thinking back to the creepy message.
I see you. The real you. The you no one else but me sees.
It’s a scary thought. The real me, the girl buried deep beneath the perfect makeup, style, and smile, is insecure, feels smothered by her father wanting to keep her safe, and wants to be seen for more than a trophy. That girl isn’t as confident as the one she outwardly portrays for the internet. Knowing someone else might see her leaves me feeling exposed and raw.
I suck in a deep breath and exhale heavily. My nerves are brittle, making me feel slightly nauseous. Imposter syndrome claws its way up inside me, mocking me.