You can’t make that assessment until you’ve seen me handle a whip.

I can picture her making a face.

Anyway . . . You need to fix this. Show them just a little bit of the real you.

Sitting up, I hesitate for a second before answering.

What is the real me?

Little dots appear on my screen, then pause, then appear again like she’s deliberating on how she wants to respond. I sweat it out, needing to know. When the text finally appears, though, I’m almost afraid to read it.

Better than what you show. You’re funny when you want to be. You know, in a sarcastic way.

Oh, well, thank you. [Insert my sarcasm here]

I’d never admit it, and I’m suddenly grateful no one can see me, but her words leave me uncomfortably warm. I’ve never been good with compliments. I don’t know how to handle them from Delilah. At all.

I cover the moment by quickly texting before she can.

Consider social media another addition to your duties.

You want me to pretend to be you? Are you feeling all right?

Yes. And yes. Why do you ask?

Because I could make your life hell. I could post ANYTHING.

Snorting again, I shake my head.

But you won’t.

I know Delilah too well. Everything she does, she makes sure to do perfectly. It would hurt her soul to put out bad or embarrassing content. Not because she’d worry about how it reflected on me but because she’d know it was her work, and it couldn’t be subpar.

Damn it, you’re right. Ugh. Okay. I’ll help you. But I’m not doing it on my own. I’ll give you tips, but it has to come from you for the content to be authentic.

I could push the issue, insist she take it over entirely. And then I’d feel like a dick. I already feel like that enough around her anyway.

Deal. But I’m NOT posting torso shots or crap like that.

Another eye-roll emoji follows.

You always thought too highly of yourself, Macon. And you will if I say you will. Abs = love.

So . . . you love my abs? I knew it. My butt is pretty awesome too, isn’t it?

Sorry, Delilah has left the building.

Look, you don’t have to beg. I’ll send you a picture.

Don’t you dare!

I lift up my shirt, take a quick picture of my abs, and send it.

Asshole!

Now, Delilah, don’t get kinky with your requests. I draw the line at ass shots.

ARGH!

Laughing, I leave it at that. She doesn’t respond again, which is kind of a disappointment, and I’m left not knowing what to do. Ordinarily, I’d be out—visiting acquaintances, jogging along the mountain paths, whatever I could to occupy my mind.