A seat at the table

Pinkpals

"I am not going out looking like a corpse," True grumbles, hiding behind oversized Chanel sunglasses and pulling her oversized hoodie tighter around her face as we slide into the back of the car.

"You're out! You're not a corpse, you're my plus-one," I correct her, staring straight ahead at the road.

"Which means we are going to the salon, getting our hair done, and then we are getting this cafe appearance over with so I can get back into my sweatpants."

Thirty minutes later, we are sitting in the plush chairs of the salon. Usually, I hate leaving my house, but this small, developing cafe is practically begging for me to stop by.

They are willing to hand over piles of free merchandise and whatever else I want just for a single post on my page. It's too easy to pass up.

The stylist is currently working on my long, wavy brunette hair, smoothing out the frizz from last night. Next to me, True is flat out under the cape. Her signature, bright curly red hair is pinned up under a diffuser, and she is so deeply half-asleep from the hangover that she has absolutely no idea what is happening around her.

Everything is peaceful until the girls a few chairs down start whispering.

I don't know who they are—just some random, hyper-trendy girls who clearly spend too much time scrolling through gossip feeds—but they are huddled over a single phone, giggling and throwing sharp, amused glances right at True's sleeping form.

My phone buzzes on the armrest.

I pick it up, expecting a polite message from the cafe owners. Instead, my i********: notifications are absolutely melting down. Intrigued, I open a local gossip page, and my stomach completely drops.

Right there, in crisp high-definition, is True's mugshot. Her eyeliner is smudged, her feral red curls are sticking up in every direction, and she looks completely unhinged from her early morning arrest. The caption reads: "Spotted: Looks like socialite True had a little too much fun last night. Orange is definitely the new black."

The random girls across the room burst into another round of hushed, suffocating laughter, intentionally looking over at us.

Anxiety flares hot in my chest. I need to keep up appearances so this new cafe doesn't get cold feet about my visit, but my hands are shaking. I desperately need to vent. I can't talk to True while she's practically comatose, and I definitely can't text anyone in my actual social circle without starting a massive rumor mill.

My eyes land back on the text from the unknown number.

For the record, I don't wear boat shoes, and I definitely don't wear that 'other polo stuff' you mentioned. I stick to standard men's steel-toed boots and a hard hat.

He is a complete stranger. A guy who clearly works a real job, completely disconnected from my toxic online world. To him, I'm just a random wrong number. He is the only safe place to drop the act.

Before my anxiety can stop me, I type a reckless response to the nameless number.

You're right, you shouldn't wear them. They're tacky, I text back, my thumbs flying.

Anyway, please tell me your life is less of a public disaster than mine is right now. I am currently stuck in a salon while a pack of random hyenas laugh at my best friend's fresh mugshot. Tell me something boring about your day so I don't lose my mind.

I hit send. It's a total digital confession, but right now, a complete stranger typing from the shadows feels a million times safer than the real world.

My phone buzzes almost instantly against my palm, a steady anchor against the rising tide of salon gossip. I look down to see a reply from the hard-hat stranger.

Currently reviewing the load-bearing calculations I'm staring at spreadsheets and trying to figure out why concrete refuses to behave the way it's supposed to. Is that boring enough for you?

A small, genuine smile breaks through my panic. Perfect, I text back.

Don't stop. Tell me more about the concrete.

"All done, señorita," my stylist announces, snapping me back to reality. I look in the mirror. My long brunette waves are glossy, bouncy, and perfectly styled. Next to me, the diffuser is finally switched off, and True blinks open her eyes, her bright red curls falling into a flawless, voluminous frame around her face.

She pushes her Chanel sunglasses down her nose, glancing over at the random girls who are still desperately trying to whisper. True delivers a cold, blindingly beautiful socialite smile that shuts them up instantly.

"Let's go get you paid, Leah," she mutters, her voice still a little raspy.

Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Pinkpals—the new, aesthetic little cafe. The owners practically trip over themselves running out the front door to greet us. They lead us inside to a gorgeous, pastel-pink sunlit corner table decorated with fresh white roses and a massive spread of free merchandise.

I immediately get to work. I set up my phone, framing the shots with the practiced eye of a homebody who knows exactly how to make the real world look effortless. But the second I try to take a test photo of myself holding a drink, I realize I look far too put-together for the vibe.

I look over at True. The hangover is catching up to her, making her eyes look slightly glassy, but the salon blowout makes her look like a high-fashion model who just rolled out of bed.

"True," I say, a brilliant marketing scheme sparking in my brain. "Sit here. Put your hands around this iced green tea."

"Leah, I am actively dying," she whispers, but she slides into the seat anyway.

"Exactly. Trust me." I hit record on my camera, capturing a quick, high-quality video snippet of True taking a slow, appreciative sip of the vibrant green drink. Her pale skin, fiery red hair, and oversized sunglasses pop perfectly against the cafe's pastel-pink backdrop. She looks absolutely stunning—the effortless star of the show.

I quickly edit the clip on my phone, type out a catchy caption tagging their account, and hit upload.

The second the post goes live, the owners huddle behind the counter, staring at their iPad with wide eyes.

"Oh my gosh, Leah!" one of them squeals, running over to our table in sheer excitement.

"Our phone is vibrating off the hook! Our page just gained five hundred followers in the last five minutes, and people are already commenting that they're on their way down here!"

"It's the green tea," True blinks, her cheeks losing their pale tint and returning to a healthy pink. She looks down at the empty glass in genuine shock. "Wait... my headache is actually gone. What is in this stuff? It's a literal hangover cure."

"Pure profit," I smirk.

While True and the owners chat about the sudden wave of online engagement, my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down, expecting another message from the engineer about his concrete formulas. Instead, a completely different notification lights up the screen.

Whoa! This chapter is the longest so far! 💕😄

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