I roll my eyes every time I come across an especially snarky one. But then I skim a few rebuttals from Penelope and smile to myself. It feels good to have a friend again.
A notification pops up that I have a message from a new follower. When I open the message, I almost drop my phone in my soup bowl. It’s from Madeline, my old housemate in Portland and one of my best friends from my old job. She and I spent countless late nights and busy shifts together, always laughing and venting about our days when we arrived home.
Hey, Nikki! I know it’s been ages, but I follow Chic TV on Instagram and I saw that you and your mom won the Maui Food Festival! Congratulations!! So incredibly happy for you both! And I’m super excited to see that you’re going to be in a commercial too! Just wanted to say that I’ve been rooting for you this whole time and I’m so, so proud of you
With teary eyes, I find the last text she sent me, which was more than eight months ago. I never even bothered to answer her.
MADELINE: Hey. I just want you to know that I’m still thinking of you. Always. I don’t mean to bother you when you’re grieving, but please reach out when you’re ready. Take all the time you need, okay? I’ll always be here for you, Nikki.
My eyes burn. When I blink, a tear falls. But I’m not sad. I’m hopeful. If spending time with Penelope has shown me anything, it’s that friendship is worth the effort.
I can still have my friend back. All I have to do is reach out. And that’s exactly what I do. I open Instagram again and reply to her message.
Hey, Madeline. Thank you so much. You have no idea what it means that you reached out to me I know it’s been forever . . . I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. Life’s been kicking my ass, but I’m figuring it out. I totally understand if you’re not up for reconnecting, but I wanted to say that I really miss you, I hope you’re doing well, and I’d love to call you sometime if you’re up for it.
I hit send and hope for a miracle.
* * *
• • •
“Not again,” I mutter, looking down at my phone.
The number flashing across the screen makes me want to chuck it out the food truck window.
Still no contact from Callum. The only phone calls I seem to get lately are from bloggers wanting details about my and Callum’s failed relationship or because they want us to name-drop them during our commercial slot with Chic TV, which we’re filming at the end of the summer.
I dismiss the call and shove my phone back in my pocket. I don’t have time for this madness when I have a gaggle of nosy vloggers and wannabe paparazzi crowding my food truck space. They’ve been hanging around, cutting in front of the customers in line, shoving people aside, and shouting questions at me sporadically throughout the day.
How any of them obtained my phone number is beyond me. Apparently, some of these food vloggers in Maui are aspiring to be paparazzi scum given how ruthlessly they’ve been behaving.
The warmth of Mom’s hand on my arm is a tiny comfort. She looks up at me. “You ready to start the day, anak?”
I take a breath and nod.
When I open the window to the food truck, I’m promptly greeted with our usual line of customers. But at the very front are a handful of food vloggers I recognize from local blogs and YouTube channels elbowing one another. When they look up and see me, they shove their phones and cameras in my face.
“Nikki! Congrats on your win at the Maui Food Festival! Would you be willing to mention my blog in your commercial?” a high school–aged boy asks. I roll my eyes and say nothing.
A woman in sunglasses and a fedora shoves the high school kid to the side with her free arm, her other hand pointing her phone at my face. “Was your relationship with Callum real, Nikki? Or did you do it for the publicity?”
Mrs. Tokushige and Penelope stare daggers at the back of the fedora’s head. Seeing them show up here day after day is much-needed comfort in this madness. There are a few more questions shouted from the crowd. And then someone asks if Callum is as skilled