Don't Pester The Ski Patrol • L.S.

15

"The fans don't feel connected with you anymore, Louis. You're too distant on social media. You're not as personable as you were before."

"I wonder why that is," I murmur into the phone that is on speaker laying on the pillow next to me. This has been my exact position for the past forty-eight hours straight.

"Post more about your vacation so that people know where you are and know you're relaxing."

"Sure."

"And you never posted the Daisy Leach cover. Do that today."

"Hmm."

"Oh, and I just got the new pictures from my publicist to approve - what's this picture of you holding a baby?"

I had not realised that those were the last words I ever wanted to hear in my life until they had already been said to me.

I shoot up at this, grabbing the phone and holding it to my ear. "What? What?"

"There's a picture of you walking into some sort of lodge with a baby on your hip and a man behind you holding a baby bag. What's that all about?"

"I - Jo - mom - you can't approve those pictures. Please. Make them go away, I'm begging." I scramble desperately.

"Why? What's wrong with them?"

"It doesn't matter! Mom, please. They don't deserve to have their faces posted everywhere and theorised about. Approve whatever you want of just me, just not them. Please. Please. You know what will happen."

"Relax, love!" She exclaims in the midst of my rambling. "I wasn't going to approve them anyways. We don't want people thinking you're a stepdad, do we?"

I let out a huge breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "Yes, yes. Thank you."

"Of course, love. They go away. Crisis averted." She says sweetly. "Now, since I'm doing you such a huge favour, let's talk about what you can do in return."

And, yeah, of course we're going to talk about what we can do in return. See, I made the stupid, foolish, novice mistake of showing too much emotion for her deleting those photos. If I had acted like it didn't matter to me, she wouldn't demand retribution. This is my own fault. This is how it's always been, and I should have known better.

"Go ahead."

"Two words - product line."

Of fucking course.

"Sure, whatever." I can't be bothered anymore. I've already learned I don't stand a chance at happiness or any sense of fulfillment, so might as well obey my mother's demands. Who needs free will when you have money, right?

"Perfect! So, you'll come home next week, and we'll begin development."

"But wait," I stop her. "If we start developing a product line, I'm not going to be able to leave California for months."

I say this because it's what I've observed in my sisters - when Lottie had started her beauty brand, she was in constant meetings almost every day until its launch. A product line of any type requires strenuous hours of conception and approval. In other words, my personal hell.

"I suppose that's true." She tells me like I've just given her news, but I know she's ecstatic that I can't leave. "Well, I'll send over some security and a car for you to leave on Monday. Ta-ta!"

She hangs up. I try not to cry as I hop into motion.