Beach Cute, page 22
Rory scrunches her face up. “What?”
I repeat myself.
“Your Liam? The ex? From back home? The one with the sneakers and the puka shell necklace?”
“Well, I don’t mean Liam Hemsworth, do I?”
Rory frowns at me, baffled. She sways on her feet, one elbow on the sticky bar. “Are you sure?”
“She looks like the girl in the photo we saw on Gabriel’s phone. The one Liam had his arm around. And he vacationed around here last year. I think Zoe worked in his hotel. And she’s from Manchester, too—if she was there when he went home from uni, maybe…”
Instead of telling me I’ve gone properly bonkers, Rory looks over at Zoe with a thoughtful frown for a while before saying, “Nah, the girl in that photo was skinnier, wasn’t she? And Zoe has a tattoo on her wrist. I’ve seen it. We’d have remembered a tattoo, wouldn’t we? Especially a Japanese one like she’s got. We’d have probably said something bitchy about how we bet it means ‘butternut squash’ instead of ‘harmony’ or something.”
“Oh.”
Did the girl in the photo have a tattoo?
I don’t think she did.
“Besides, I’m pretty sure Zoe has been here all week, working with the kids. I feel like she’d have mentioned if she’d been in some pub back home getting chatted up a few days ago.”
“Oh, because you’re such good friends,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I don’t know. I don’t know why it sounded so nasty, either.
I look at Zoe, who’s totally relaxed and having a great time out with us. With total strangers. Life and soul of the party. Spontaneous. Fun. All the things I’m—I’m not.
And it doesn’t matter if Zoe is the girl Liam was with. The fact that she’s more his type than I have been for the past year is enough.
So I ignore Rory and lean over the bar, waving to the bartender. “Can we get some vodka lemonades, please? Doubles!”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Rory asks.
Instead of saying yes, what comes out of my mouth is: “Why did you invite her, anyway?”
Rory blinks at me, her brown eyes annoyingly wide, her lips in a pout and slightly parted. The picture of innocence. I bet that’s the exact kind of look that got her sisters to pack her off on vacation, the look that always gets her out of trouble. “She suggested this place when I said maybe getting out of that hellhole wouldn’t be a bad idea. I was hardly going to not invite her, was I? She’s really nice. I thought you guys would like her, too.”
Once more, I think about that list I found in her notebook and the few times over the last day or so that she or Jodie have been a bit short with me, the fear that I’ve latched on and am only weighing them down. And I think about the group chats that have winnowed away bit by bit over the last few weeks since the breakup—over the last year since we all moved away from home and on to the next phase of our lives.
Boring, you’re so boring, nobody wants you around. Liam wasn’t sorry to see you gone, was he, not if he’s moved on so quickly? And your “friends” must have thought good riddance, too.
“Guess I should be grateful you bothered to invite me along, then,” I say.
“Miss Lola,” Rory snaps at me while I pay the bartender for our drinks, “you’re being really weird, d’you know that? What’ve I done to make you so pissed off?”
“Nothing. I’m not.”
“You sure sound it.”
“I’m not!” I yell at her, bristling. “Just drop it, will you?”
“No! You’re shouting at me and being mean over nothing. Because—what, because I said Zoe wasn’t the girl in the photo? Do you not like her or something?”
Picking sides, she’s picking sides. She doesn’t want to choose you, either. Nobody does.
“Oh, shut up, Rory. You know, you wouldn’t even have met her if you hadn’t let Esteban push you around like that and if you hadn’t been so stupid, so irresponsible—”
“What?”
“What’s going on, guys?” Jodie asks, coming over.
“Luna’s being a bitch, that’s what,” Rory says, glowering at me.
Her big brown eyes have turned narrow and icy, the sharp flick of her eyeliner only adding to the sternness of her look. She taps her long fingers on her crossed arms, hips tilting as she shifts her weight to one foot. I hate how tall she is, especially in those heels. Combined with that expression, she makes me feel all of two inches tall. She looks haughty and pissed off, and her cheeks are rosy from all the booze.
Jodie glances between us, baffled, and I can’t say I blame her.
I have no idea what’s happening either, but I can’t stop myself. All that heartache from everything that happened with Liam, all the weirdness about the distance with my old friends and the stresses of this week suddenly come spilling out of all the dark, faraway corners I’ve been pushing them into, not wanting to have to confront them in case it hurts even more. They rip through me like a tornado, swallowing every rational thought, every smile the girls and I have shared this week. I cross my arms too, but I doubt I look half as intimidating as Rory does.
Jodie puts a hand on my shoulder. “Luna? What’s going on?”
I shake her off. Her niceness feels as fake as her blasé attitude to the implosion of her summer romance with Gabriel earlier. She said in the car she didn’t care why Esteban wanted to talk to Rory. Maybe she really doesn’t, and we’re just distractions like Gabriel was.
“Is this all about Liam?” Rory says, and rolls her eyes. To Jodie, she adds, “She reckons Zoe is the girl in his photo. Can you even? For God’s sake, Luna, get a grip. You were the one who ended things! And from what you’ve said, he’s a total prat!”
“You don’t know the whole story,” I say.
Jodie says, “Let me guess—he was so perfect, and so great, and you were so in love. Yeah, you told us. And you told us he cheated on you, which, honestly, I’m not surprised about.”
I flinch.
Something flickers across Jodie’s face at my reaction, but I bite back at her. “What would you know? You were so lonely and desperate for any kind of romance you flung yourself at the first guy who looked twice! You think I’ve been going on about Liam? Of course I have—we spent four years together! But you’ve only known Gabriel for a few days, and I feel like that’s all we’ve talked about this week, you and that bartender! You wouldn’t even pass the Bechdel Test the way you carry on.”
“Uh, you seemed to join in with those conversations, too. You encouraged me, if I remember rightly,” Jodie snaps, and she squares her shoulders as she straightens up, scowling at me. “And that’s rich coming from you. You’re acting like the fricking poster girl for lonely and desperate!”
Because you latched onto them, and they don’t want you around, and they know you’re terrified of being on your own.
Before I can say anything else, Rory barges her way in front of Jodie, interrupting my argument and sending me racing back down this path of self-destruction I’ve laid with Rory instead.
“You’re wrong, you know. About me. I’m not stupid,” she tells me. “And I didn’t let Esteban push me around. Don’t tell me I’m irresponsible when I was trying to take some responsibility.”
“Was that on your bucket list as well?” I snap, too far along the path to think about what I’m saying. Rory startles, mouth dropping open and arms falling slack at her sides. She seems to shrink, but I don’t feel any taller.
“What did you say?”
“Is that the only reason you even bothered talking to us? So you could—I don’t know—write a blog post about it? Put it on your TikTok? Use us as a funny story in your hashtag influencer lifestyle? Trying to make yourself look like a better person doesn’t make you a better person, you know. And acting like we’re friends just so you could tick it off your bucket list doesn’t mean we’re actually friends.”
“What bucket list?” Jodie asks, but we both ignore her.
“You read my notebook,” Rory says, and she’s seething, shaking, pale beneath the blotchy flush of alcohol and her makeup.
I feel possessed. Overtaken by something—someone—I don’t recognize. Someone not small or quiet or boring…Someone horrible and nasty.
Someone who glowers at Rory and snaps, “What were we, some little pet project? An ego boost? Your own personal fan club now you haven’t got all your online followers making you feel important? So you didn’t have to feel like you’d failed at this, too, and you could go home and prove to your family what a disappointment you aren’t?”
There’s a short pause before she swallows hard. “I can see why Liam and you didn’t work out,” she snarls.
The words hit their mark a bit too well, and I lash out again before I can stop myself.
“At least I’m not a people pleaser too busy pretending online to actually deal with my problems in the real world!” I shout.
“You’re such a controlling, condescending little—” And then Rory falls back half a step. “You know what? Fuck you, Luna.”
I glance at Jodie, but she’s busy scoffing and shaking her head and sipping angrily on her drink. She’s turned away from me, I guess already back to scanning the dance floor for the guy she wants to pull tonight. I spot Zoe not too far off—close enough to hear but not close enough that she has to get involved. She looks away when I catch her eye.
I down the rest of my drink and slam the glass onto the bar before storming out.
Good riddance to them.
The second I’ve walked far enough down the strip to find a taxi to take me back to the hotel, that hurricane inside me vanishes, leaving me hollowed out and breathless, and I break down in tears.
26 Rory
The worst part is Luna was right. Not about treating the girls like a pet project for likes and views, but…I am a people pleaser. Isn’t that why I’m here, to stop my family worrying about me? Isn’t that why I went along with the law degree even when I had zero interest in it, and hid how hard I was trying with my art from them when they thought it would only ever be a “hobby”? Hell, it’s definitely why I was quick to volunteer for Kids’ Club to get Esteban off my back.
It’s a sharp, sobering realization that makes my heart squeeze.
Still. It doesn’t get Luna off the hook for snooping or for being so horrible to us.
Although, you know, in some ways she probably has a right to be so mad at me, because I’m responsible for ruining her and Jodie’s vacation. If it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have been cast out of the hotel and into that dilapidated ruin on the beach.
But I have no idea why Luna’s suddenly lashing out like this. I tried asking what was up and if she was okay, but she bit my head off. If she wants to be a bitch, well, fine. She’s made her bed, I think bitterly. She can lie in it now.
As she storms out of the club, the fight leaves me, and I look at Jodie, feeling a stone settle in the pit of my stomach. Something like concern starts to creep into her expression, clouding the anger that was there a moment ago, and her eyes follow Luna out the door.
I’ve left plenty of parties by myself before or wandered off during a night out. Someone’s always come after me, even if I’ve been a total mess and it means they have to sort me out before they can go back to enjoying their own night. I’ve never understood why they bothered until now: it doesn’t feel right to let Luna, drunk, upset and riled up as she is, go off into the night alone in this strange place. Especially without a phone.
“We shouldn’t let her go back on her own,” I say.
Jodie nods, already setting her drink down. She mutters, “What the hell was all that about? She’s not serious about thinking Zoe’s got a thing with her ex, is she? And what was all that about a bucket—”
But she stops when someone grabs my arm and whirls me around. It’s some bony thirtysomething with a garish feather boa so bright it’s almost fluorescent wrapped around her neck. Before I can ask her what the hell she thinks she’s doing, she shrieks with delight.
“Oh my God! Kells, you were right! It is her!”
“What?” I say.
For a mad second, I think, Maybe she follows me online.
And then the hen-do lady laughs and pulls out her phone, posing next to me with a duck-face pout and saying, “Don’t suppose you’ve got the lobster head with you, babe?”
A shiver of dread runs down my spine, and I go cold all over.
I can’t even get excited about seeing a phone.
“The what?”
“It is you, isn’t it? The lobster girl? From Hashtag LobsterFail?” She lowers her phone to make the hashtag sign with her fingers and looks crestfallen for a moment. “I could’ve sworn it was you.”
“Lobster fail?” Jodie says, because all I can do is gawp in horror at this woman. A few of her friends have come over, and Zoe has drifted nearer. I noticed that she’d kept her distance when I was fighting with Luna, and I so can’t blame her.
“Oh my God,” the woman gushes, grabbing at Jodie’s shoulder with her thin fingers. “You haven’t seen it? Everyone’s seen it. It was on BuzzFeed. It’s trending on Twitter and TikTok. Even me mam has seen it.”
Before Jodie or I can answer, and before I can pinch myself to see if this is maybe just some horrible nightmare, the woman’s friend is shoving her phone toward us with a TikTok video playing on the screen.
The last few days have dragged by without a phone, but this is not how I wanted to get my hands on one.
The four ladies from the hen party are bickering between themselves (it must be me, they’re sure, but no, maybe the girl in the video was more strawberry blond? She could have been a bit ginger. If it was me, I wouldn’t dare show my face in public, so it can’t be me, I’m too pretty to be Lobster Girl anyway…)
Jodie takes the phone, and we lean over it together.
She presses Play, and we watch the horror unfold.
It looks worse on-screen, I decide. The way I flail when the kid pushes me is cartoonish. The pool isn’t even that deep, so you can see me floundering wildly in the costume while everyone looks on, laughing. As I drag myself out of the pool, the camera gets a clear shot of my shorts ripping apart before it swings to my face and zooms in. I look like a drowned cat. You can sort of see Jodie and Luna trying to talk to me and look after me, but then I make a bid to go back in the pool and they have to haul me away.
Finally, the camera turns back to the pool, focusing on Larry’s head sinking under the water for a few seconds before the screen goes black and the video ends.
I can feel Jodie looking at me, so I keep staring at the phone.
I snatch it from her to get a better look.
#LobsterFail at Casa Dorada Resort—kid pushes lobster girl in pool (repost from YouTube) is at over two hundred thousand views. There are hundreds of comments. Tens of thousands of likes. “It is her! I told you it was—look!”
A different phone is thrust in my face. Without thinking, I take it and look at the screen, with Jodie peering over my shoulder.
It’s my Instagram feed.
Except instead of 8,392 followers like I had when I last checked, I now have 17,000.
All I can do is grip the phone so tightly my fingers hurt with the effort and stare at the women, the blood draining from my face. “How did you find that?”
“Eh?”
“How did you find my Instagram?” I bark.
And it’s not even the fake personal one that my family and friends follow. It’s mine, the one I curated with such devotion, the one that points to my TikTok in the hope of growing my followers further.
Jodie puts a hand on my arm, but I jerk away.
Two of the ladies look at each other. One of them, taking the phone back from Jodie, says to me with a shrug, “It’s just on Instagram, in’t it? Whoever uploaded it there tagged you.”
“They tagged me?”
“It is you, though?” the first lady says, squinting at me. “I knew it was! Kelly said. She said she was sure it was you. Didn’t you, Kells? Can we get a picture, babes? Me mam’ll love that. I’ll tag you in it if you like. Group selfie!”
I gawp at her, only ducking away when she lifts the camera. I don’t think I’ve avoided a camera in my whole life, but right now…Nope.
I bump straight into Zoe.
And she looks so apologetic that I jump straight down her throat.
“Did you know?”
“No! Honestly, I swear I didn’t. I’d have told you if I’d seen it.”
The women behind me are clucking and cooing. “Didn’t you know they got it all on video, hon?” one of them asks.
“It’s supposed to be a device-free resort,” Jodie says.
And suddenly, I’m furious. “She’s right. Device-free. Esteban and his fucking policies. First, I’m pushed into the pool, and now this. I should sue him. I should. Device-free! Who posted it?”
I’m still clutching one of the ladies’ phones and dithering over the open Instagram app. I look up at them. “Who posted it?”
“Dunno. Some meme account reposted it, didn’t they? Everyone’s been reposting and sharing it. It’s all over the internet. Sorry, chick.”
Either some guest smuggled a phone into the resort—and got away with brazenly filming the whole incident at the pool—or one of the staff did it. And either possibility feeds my outrage and panic in turn.
“Are you all right, babes? Do you want a drink? Ooh, girls, let’s get some shots! Tequila for Lobster Girl! Go viral, too, we will. Hashtag lit.”
I look at the phone again.
My Instagram feed is full of carefully curated photographs of some scenery or a coffee shop. The occasional selfie, an immaculate #outfitoftheday #ootd and precise arrangements of jewelry or makeup. The occasional Reel reposted from my TikTok account showing the entire GRWM process.
