As an up-and-coming social media influencer, Sadie Dwyer has had enough of the expectations thrust upon her and is finally ready to start living life on her own terms. Goodbye cushy corporate finance job, goodbye Los Angeles, and hello fresh start...
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"Hi guys! Welcome back to another DIY extravaganza on my channel, and this time, I'll be walking you through how to refresh a basic jean jacket with our good friend: acrylic paint. This is going to be a super simple walkthrough, while also still being customizable enough to work with really any denim item and design you want. So, let's get started."
Replaying the intro once more, I felt myself scrutinizing it harder than I needed to. For most people, it would've been perfectly acceptable—the camera angle was good, I didn't stumble over my words, and I was enthusiastic as I spoke—and I had a feeling my readers wouldn't be able to pinpoint that there was anything wrong. But as I sat on my couch, huddled under a blanket while I sifted through the footage I'd filmed earlier today, I couldn't help but notice that my heart just hadn't seemed into it.
Maybe because it had been trounced on.
It'd been just over twenty-four hours since I'd left Rhett's in a flurry of anger, feeling as though he'd cut through my invisible armor and shot an arrow at my heart. Yesterday had been spent mostly moping around my apartment, consuming copious amounts of ice cream and wine while allowing the tears to fall when I thought about the painful words that'd come flying my way. Reliving the shock that had coursed me. The confusion and disappointment. Dealing with the realization that I had been on my way to falling for him and he'd detonated that in one fell swoop.
Suffice to say, it had not been a productive day.
But this morning I wanted to change that. To go on with the day as I had always planned—by filming a video. And I had. I'd gotten footage that was 100% usable, but there was now a voice in the back of my head saying it wasn't good enough.
All thanks to Rhett.
Slamming my laptop shut, I pushed it to the corner of the couch. Fuck the games that my mind was playing on me. Fuck what Rhett had said. There was nothing wrong with me and I just needed to shake myself out of this funk. In hopes that it would do me some good, I changed into a pair of polka dot leggings with a matching sports bra and a zip-up hoodie, slipped on my running shoes, queued up an upbeat playlist, and headed out for a run in hopes of clearing my head.
Keeping a steady pace, I headed north and ran along the lake, enjoying the fresh sea air and allowing the myriad of twisted thoughts in my mind to slip away. When I came across a small park around a mile and a half in, I took a quick breather on one of the open benches and pulled out my phone to get a good shot of the lakefront—which wasn't hard considering it was a rare day where not a cloud was found in the sky. It barely needed an edit, just a slight adjustment for the vibrancy of the colors before I posted to Instagram.
What I'd failed to remember before opening the app, however, was that the last post I'd made had been one highlighting the event at Dawson's.
Closing the app quickly, I ignored the spark of sadness seeing the post had caused as I tucked my phone away and reversed course, making my way home.
