Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I nodded. “You can sleep in the back. As long as you take your shoes off first, we’re cool.”
I pulled out my phone to check the time and saw two notifications I’d never seen before. I furrowed my brow as I opened them, seeing that Sam had posted two photos that he’d tagged me in—one from inside the RV and one of him eating ice cream. In the background of the second photo, there I was, staring at Sam as he licked the strawberry cone.
“Sam,” I said. “Are you serious with this shit? Do you really have to post everything?”
“I… don’t get it,” he said blankly. “What’s the big deal?”
“A picture from inside my RV? And me in the background of this other photo? I didn’t ask for this.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Why is it such a problem?”
“Because it’s private. People don’t need to know my business. That’s why I don’t post.”
“Why do you have an account if you don’t want to be tagged?”
“I got the damn account when I was thinking about buying Instagram,” I said. “But Facebook ended up doing that a couple of years later.”
His eyes went wide. “You were going to buy the whole company?”
“And I wish I had actually done it,” I said. “I could be retired by now.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m untagging these. I should delete my account, anyway.”
Even as I said it, I knew I wouldn’t go through with it. Over the past few days, I’d liked having an Instagram account, being able to see what Sam was posting. I felt like a voyeur, but I knew everybody used social media these days, unlike my old-school ass.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Who is it that you don’t want knowing about your life?” he asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll never tag you again. Mostly because I think you might be about to rip my head off, but also because I begrudgingly understand that not everyone’s as picture-happy as I am.”
“Yeah, they’re really not,” I said, my voice still sounding harsher than I meant it to.
I didn’t really have an answer to Sam’s question. I wasn’t trying to hide my life from anyone in particular, but the thought of people from New York being able to stumble over photos of me felt like an invasion of privacy.
“Fine,” Sam said. “Be cagey and weird again. I didn’t expect you to open up. At least not without some whiskey.”
“That’s harsh,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “But you’re being a prick again, too.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “I just have an image to uphold. Sam. And it doesn’t involve being in small, rural towns eating cheap hot dogs.”
His eyes went wide. “And you said I was being harsh?”
I pulled in a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts before I blurted out something mean. I felt like I was being rude even though it was the last thing on Earth I wanted to do. “You post pictures of yourself half naked every day,” I said carefully. “And on your account, that’s fantastic, and you look hot as hell, and that’s your decision, but when you tag my account—”
“You… don’t want your name to be associated with me,” Sam said slowly, realization falling over his face. “You think it’ll make you look less legitimate. To some investor people, or something, if they happen to stumble on it.”
Something fell inside of my chest. He was really hurt, and this time it was fully my fault. “I actually wasn’t even thinking about business interests at all, Sam.”
He looked at me like he didn’t quite believe me. “Your image, then. Your brand. It may as well be the same thing. You’re always thinking about business interests,” he said. “Maybe I should just ride with Mom and Greg.”
My chest felt tight all of a sudden. I felt like a prick. Sam wasn’t entirely wrong—I didn’t want anybody to see me on social media, but not at all because I was ashamed of being with him. Hell, being with Sam in the RV had been better than being alone.
I knew I had to explain myself, but talking about how I felt was like a foreign language to me. I was used to surface-level talk and deals, negotiations and breezy jokes. But with Sam, something breezy could become something deep at any moment, and I didn’t know how to handle that. Certainly not while I was sober.
I swallowed. “Listen. Earlier this morning, I told my assistant to cancel all of my phone meetings for the next week,” I said.
His expression softened from bitterness to surprise. “Did you really?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have not done that ever. Not once. And I meant every word of it.”
“Nicholas Fox, trying to get out of business deals?” Sam said, his eyebrows slightly raised.
“I guess I am,” I said. “Even though that feels weird to think, let alone say out loud.”