Page 31 of Love at First Sighting

El

It’s a Thursday and we’re making Sunday roast.

We’re making Sunday roast, and so far, eight thousand people are watching.

Technically, Bex did give me the heads-up a week ago, before the vodka launch party, that I’d need to block out my afternoon to do a live sponsorship session for La Plat, an overpriced cookware brand that releases new colors like it’s Paris Fashion Week for Dutch ovens.

The pans we’re working with today are in a vomit-y pink color called Capri Sunrise.

Bex wanted to honor her culture, which meant we had to go down a list of the most popular British dishes to cook during our session (she is originally from Wisconsin, so she’s giving a mighty fuck you to cheese curds, clearly).

While I’m not a picky eater, I’m really glad we aren’t attempting to fry fish in the kitchen.

The beef is only at 110°F—or 43°C, because Bex doesn’t understand Fahrenheit anymore—but I am done and cooked and ready to be taken out.

I’m also wondering if it’s a felony to stab Bex with a meat thermometer.

I’ve listened to her tell the viewers about her favorite Sunday roast memories, which I’m positive are all made up.

She’d help her mother clean up dishes while her dad went down the street to the pub, she learned to make Yorkshire pudding at age nine, and she had a favorite “jumper” she always wore for family Sunday roasts.

Meanwhile, off to the side, Lea is convincing the internet that performers who use stage names are gaslighting fans. She started an internet beef with Cary Grant yesterday for “deliberately withholding personal information,” not even caring that the man has been dead for nearly four decades.

“Shame we weren’t able to get goose fat,” Bex says. “It really ties the whole meal together, don’t ya think?”

Lea nods vigorously, only half paying attention. Six months ago, the thought of anything with fat in it in this house would have been cause for Bex to burn it down, but now we’re eagerly wishing for goose fat. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Carter (4:32 pm): Toby sent me a suspected UFO video today. It was a Fushigi ball.

Carter (4:32 pm): Also, hi.

I sneak a peek behind the counter, blushing as Carter’s heart emoji comes through.

For just that moment, I’m not thinking about stabbing Bex with a meat thermometer anymore.

I’m thinking about heading over to Carter’s after this, picking up takeout on the way, and spending the night trying to get him into Angel City Noir .

All of it makes me feel calm again. Until I go to type a response and take a whack to the thigh.

Bex has opened the oven door directly into me.

“Jesus, ow ,” I mutter.

“Gotta check on the roast,” Bex says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You shouldn’t be texting while we’re on the telly.”

“What if it was important?”

“Nothing is more important than this roast,” Bex sneers.

The problem lately is, since I’ve taken the bold leap forward with Carter to act on our feelings, the less I care about the rest of this.

The other day, I posted one of the outtakes Carter took at the diner.

The day before, I shared a semi-unflattering selfie while someone fought with the checkout person at Erewhon.

Even more shocking, people liked it. I broke out of the filtered mold and people responded well to it.

So I pick up my phone and text back on camera.

El (4:33 pm): I wish you hadn’t reminded me those exist.

Carter (4:34 pm): I totally had one when I was a kid. Dropped it on my face once. 0/10 .

I stifle a laugh. Bex clears her throat.

“Want to share with the class, love?”

“No,” I snap back.

Bex lowers her voice. “What? Are you texting your nobody boyfriend again?”

Lea manages to look up from her thread about how Bringing Up Baby was propaganda to make us trust Cary Grant with children when he’d been lying about his identity the whole time. She read us the thesis statement before we began rolling.

“You didn’t pay any bloody attention during part of the beef prep. The carrots you chopped look like a load of tosh and your excitement level makes it look like you’ve stepped in dog shite.”

She glares at me. I’m still several inches taller than her, even in her platform sandals that look like they belong on the Spice World poster, and her chunky highlights are beginning to grow out. I wonder if she’ll shed this brand once the highlights fade, just like her Christian mom phase.

God, I don’t even want to be under the same roof as her. Or Lea. Both of them take far more pride in being anybody but themselves, whoever that may be. They don’t care who they are, and they don’t care about me. I feel like a tea kettle ready to scream.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be here.”

Bex laughs and it echoes off the barren white walls of the Nest. “No one’s holding you hostage. I’m not trappin’ you in the Tower of London.”

For the first time since I’ve known her, Bex has a point.

I don’t have to put up with this, and I don’t have to stay here.

The Nest has never been my home and half of my things are still in storage.

I have the finances to leave anytime I want.

The Nest has been a roof over my head, but now it feels more like a hornets’ nest.

“You’re right.”

“I know I am.” Bex crosses her arms and looks to Lea, who is back to cyberbullying Cary Grant already.

“You’re right,” I repeat. “I don’t have to be here. I can walk right out that door and say ‘fuck you’ to you both. I mostly mean it to you, Bex. Lea’s…Lea is fine.”

Lea’s ears and eyes perk up when she hears her name.

“Actually, I’m really not fine right now,” she sputters.

“And I’m leaving,” I say as I tip over the engraved silver gravy boat.

Translucent brown meat juice pours across the white granite countertops and drips onto the floor.

Adrenaline takes over, and before I can stop myself, or Bex can claw my eyes out, I dash.

I slam the door, and begin to pack. Bex shouts British expletives at me through the wall and bangs on the door.

I want to be out of here as quickly as humanly possible, so I shove whatever I can into suitcases, boxes, and many, many purses. I don’t think about where I’m going to go. I think about taking down Content Corner and setting it up anywhere else. Anywhere is better than here.

Storming out of my influencer house is not going to be a good look for me, and it won’t help bolster the brand I’m slowly rehabilitating, but the idea of promoting smoothies I hate and scrunchies I don’t need and going back to how life was before all this began—I know for a fact I don’t want that.

I’m fine to leave behind my comforter, and the pillows and mattress weren’t mine in the first place.

I’ll figure the rest out later, once I’m long gone from this eggshell-white hellhole.

I can negotiate a time to come grab my remaining things.

I fling the door back open and move my stuff out of my room. Of course, Bex is there.

“Have you gone off your rocker? We’ve been working on this sponsorship for weeks, and you fookin’ blow it because of some bloke?”

“It’s not because of him,” I assert.

The truth is, I’m not choosing Carter. I’m choosing me . I haven’t chosen myself in years. Maybe ever. Even when I was following my modeling ambitions or trying to climb the influencer ladder, I wasn’t doing it for myself. I was doing it for the clout, for the money, for the fame.

“It’s because of you and this stupid house. And these stupid facades you make us wear. Because I can’t be myself here or do whatever the hell I want. Sorry, Becca—”

“It’s Bex !” she shouts.

“So you don’t like it when people call you the wrong name? Ain’t that something. My name isn’t Eloise and I’m getting out of here. Move out of my way.”

I haul box after box downstairs and into the back of my car. Bex rushes out the front door, with one last fuck you for the road.

“You know you can’t come back!”

“That is the point! Have a nice life and unfollow me.”

It takes until I hit Sunset for the adrenaline to die down and for the panic to set in. While seeing a UFO is one thing, having a meltdown while streaming, packing up my things, and moving out in the span of an hour? That’s bold.

That was bold and I am now effectively homeless.

I pull over on a quiet street in Beverly Hills and figure I should start calling hotels and finding a place I can stay short-term. As I unlock my phone, I hover over my text chain with Carter. Instead of the Beverly Hills Hotel, I call Carter.

It rings twice before he answers.

“Hey. I’m heading out, give me a second.” On the other end of the phone, I hear the sounds of computers and typing, doors shutting, before it quiets when he slides into his car. “Okay. Hi. How was your day?”

Then something strange happens.

I start to cry.

“El? El, what’s going on? Are you okay?” The concern in his voice makes it worse, because he cares .

I know if he were here now, he’d be wiping my tears and I’d have my face buried in the crisp fabric of his suit.

I flash back to the night I first saw the UFO, when I feared for my life and didn’t have anyone to call.

No one would have picked up and no one would have cared.

Now I know Carter will always pick up.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I…I kind of lost it on Bex.”

“It was about time!” I sniffle again and Carter pivots his tone. “Oh, okay, so we’re not happy about this?”

“She had it coming. But I…left.”

“Where are you now?”

“Somewhere in Beverly Hills. I’m going to find a hotel and stay there for the night, then start looking for apartments tomorrow, I guess.” I try to wipe my tears with the bottoms of my sleeves.

“Oh…” he gasps. “Oh, you, like, left left. You moved out.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re not going to a hotel, that’s for sure.”

“What?”

“Come here. I mean, my apartment.”