Page 16 of Goalie Secrets

Why do we keep ending up in this weird back and forth? In cahoots over cookies one moment, and oddly prickly to each other the next.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” I say.

“Vanya?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you mean it? That you won’t be my doctor? Because I’m not going to deny how much better I felt after your treatment. Ihope you’ll reconsider.”

There it is. Jeremy asked me to have cookies and coffee, joked around about the neighbor’s casserole, and wished me a happy birthday for a reason. These acts were means to an end.

Obviously, Vanya. Why else would he hang out with you?

“I’ll reconsider,” I say with a tight smile before rushing out of the car. But once inside, the answer is clear.

Of course I’ll get back on his case. My fellowship year in Columbus wouldn’t be the same without it. Having access to Jeremy Lopez’s medical history and tracking the effectiveness of treatments are crucial to my plans.

I take a peek in the cookie box and grab a pinch of the one closest to me. Is that…oatmeal mush? I’m about to spit it out when I get a taste of something unexpected: creamy white chocolate. I swallow the bite down.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Sort of like the whole night, really.

Not what I expected, but surprisingly pleasant.

I get ready for bed, settle into my clean sheets, and sigh into its softness. Before dozing off, I take stock of my blessings in this new city. I’m part of a medical practice with good people, stripper commentary aside. There’s a cookie shop and movie theater within walking distance of this rental. And my career’s future is on track now that the most awkward aspects of working with Jeremy Lopez are behind me. There’s much to be grateful for on my birthday.

My phone has been off since the movie, so I restart it to set up tomorrow’s alarm. Unfortunately, that’s when all the notifications come in.

Not from my social media, mind you, since it’s basically an empty shell with a five-year-old profile picture and a handful of vacation photos.

Nope. The notifications are from being tagged. “Happy Birthday Vanya!” posts from my mother abound.

Zara Gupta Kapur, or @ZaraGlow, has flooded her feed with pictures of me through the years. My mother keeps her unmarried name because she’s more famous for being Ms. India in the nineties than she is the widow of Rahul Kapur. As a social media influencer, her profile is a lifestyle and beauty brand.

Because I’m taller than my mom, the top of my head is cut off some pictures, so I’m featured from the forehead down. She’s perfectly centered, however.

My birthday homage of pictures are obvious excuses to show how littleshe’saged in every picture. In one close up, the portrait mode flatters an already perfect face, so she looks computer generated. That my mother is AI generated physically and emotionally would surprise no one.

While I go from chubby baby to awkward teen to surly graduate, my mother continues to look like a vibrant young woman. Face unlined, body trim, clothes stylish, and smile aglow. Thus the “glow” part of her hashtag brand.

I shake my head resignedly. Might as well get it done before I forget. As is expected of me, I press the heart under each post. I type “Thank you, Mom!” in the most recent comment box.

It’s more efficient to do what she expects in the moment, instead of apologizing later for my failure to openly acknowledge her public greetings. I mute the notifications for all social media so I can get some sleep.

Head on the pillow, it occurs to me that the single best birthday gift I could give myself is to keep notifications muted forever. The thought opens up a whole new world.

What would it be like to never see my mother’s posts about me?

What would it be like to refuse to be bothered by her barely muted disappointments that her daughter is a socially awkward nerd instead of a beauty queen?

What will happen when she realizes I’m no longer one of her many followers?

Am I ready for the backlash of how pissed she’ll be?

No, but fuck it. Impulsively, I jump out of bed and delete every single one of my social media accounts.

I’ll still be on the world wide web as @ZaraGlow’s daughter, but I’d rather not hear about it.