Page 15 of In The Weeds
“You’re still hungry?” Her laugh is loud and boisterous, just as magical as I thought.
“Give her a croqueta,” an older woman sitting at the edge of the counter says, half-hidden behind a giant plant, her long gray hair wrapped in a bright purple silk scarf. She’s been eating tres leches since we sat down, a tiny cup of Cuban coffee on the counter in front of her. “Jamon.”
“I’ll have two,” I smile at the woman and glance at the handwritten menu board. “And a pastelito.” I glance back at Josie and she holds up two fingers. “Actually let’s do two of those.”
I consider a coffee, but I'm pretty sure I’ll be bouncing off the walls if it’s as strong as it smells. I slip back into the cozy booth in the corner and pick at what’s left of my empanada, pulling my phone from my pocket and placing it flat on the tabletop. I glance down at my lock screen, a picture of my parents with their arms around each other in front of the tiny boutique store they own on the outskirts of Portland. Beaming smiles.St. James Sundry Storehand-painted on the window.
I don’t know how I got from there to here.
“I love that picture,” Josie says with a smile. “They look so happy.”
“They do,” I smile, looking at my mother’s face. “They are.” We have the same smile, the same scrunch in our noses when we laugh. I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s restocking the candy she keeps in a small basket at the back of the store for the kids who manage to find it, or if she’s washing the windows with the same ratty, bright pink towel she’s always had. A pang of homesickness hits me right in the chest.
“Evie.”
“Hm?” I blink up from my phone and look at my friend, the face of the person who knows me better than anyone. She tilts her head and gives me a soft smile.
“What’s going on? You feel like—you feel like you’re half here. Stuck in your head somewhere.” I drop my chin and press two fingers above my eyebrow as Josie rushes to explain. “Not in a bad way, necessarily. You seem distracted, I guess.”
This break feels less like an idea and more like a necessity. I wake up every morning with a hollow feeling in my chest, an anxious pounding that gets worse the longer I lay in an unfamiliar bed staring at an unfamiliar room. I spend more time in hotels than at the small apartment I rent. I check my social accounts and I feel ballooning pressure in my chest. I feel like a liar. A fake.
“I’ve got no idea what I’m doing,” I sigh.
Josie frowns. “That has never once been true.”
“It’s been true more than you think,” I mutter. I’ve gotten excellent at pretending everything is okay.
I poke around our empty basket, fingering at the edge of the greasy paper that’s crinkled at the bottom. I pick up a crumb with my finger and lick it off. “I’m just going through the motions.”
Smiling for the camera. Adding pithy captions. Making my life seem like it’s one big, wonderful, adventure when really I’m stuck in my head. I’ve become obsessed with numbers, how posts are performing. I’m more interested in the aesthetic of a story than the actual story part of it. On my last trip, I forgot the name of the town I was in. Twice.
“How long have you felt like this?”
It’s settled in slowly, like a fog rolling in off the water. Everything lately has felt … off … and I don’t know why. The blogging started as a hobby, something fun for me to do. I never intended to build a career out of it. Now though, I have everything I’ve ever wanted from a job. I’m successful, sought after.
And terribly lonely.
I feel disconnected, I guess. Muted. Far away from anything that feels real. The guilt kicks in and I avert my gaze to the tabletop.
Poor social media influencer, sad she has too many followers and not enough friends. I feel like an impostor. Like the worst kind of fraud.
“I’m lying to everyone. I post this content and I’m just—Josie, I’m just pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
Everything, I think.Everything, all of the time.
The owner of the empanada shop makes her way over to our table, a plate full of fried deliciousness in her hands. She sets it on the edge and shouts over her shoulder in Spanish, another loud, cackling laugh echoing through the space. My heart lifts. A little bit of real-life magic.
“I don’t want to post content,” I say to Josie, still distracted.
She pops a pastelito in her mouth. “Then don’t.”
“I’m tired of traveling.”
“Take a break.”
“I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for.”
