Two point three weeks, eh? Even though work helps me put Decker out of mind for the moment, I can’t help but think: Will the ashes of my dead husband still be sitting in my house in 2.3 weeks? What aha moment could I possibly have about this thing in the next 2.3 weeks? Time. Is. Ticking.

“Are you okay? Can I get you a cold towel or something?”

“Everything’s fine,” I tell Gemma, our client who’s caught me skipping out of the spin class extra early. “I just needed to grab my computer and run a quick script on the social media engagement going on inside the room.”

I hope that my über-flushed cheeks don’t completely contradict the very chill excuse I just gave for abandoning my spin bike.

“What was your name again?” she asks in a semicondescending way.

“Charlotte.”

“Do you think there will be stats generating already, Charlotte? The class just started seven minutes ago.” Gemma taps her Apple Watch and flashes the time my way. It’s a techy move on her part—probably to counter the social media jargon I was just throwing down—but I have one of those fancy watches, too. I’ve been on the wearables train ever since these things were available for preorder, so I’m not all that impressed. I tap mine to bring it into frame as well. Except mine is showing another new Tinder message first instead of the time.

Despite Gemma’s concern, this is what I do for a living. And for the record, posts have been accruing since @PrettyNFun007 uploaded a mirror selfie this morning with the caption Heading to @WeHotLA to get my sweat on! and therefore—

“Stats are coming in, yes. Now I need to make sure everyone’s Snapchatting like they’re supposed to be,” I confidently say back to her. “I’m sure your account executive, Monica, told you before she left for her honeymoon that impressions are everything if you want WeHot to take off. After all, that’s what you’re paying The Influencer Firm to do, right?”

I shoot her a little wink, then bury myself back into my screen. A subtle reminder of the hefty price she has paid to be popular on social media is exactly what I needed to put a pin in that judgmental stare of hers. Now if I can just get her to leave me entirely to my devices, that would be the icing on this half-baked, kill-her-with-kindness cake.

“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’m going to sanitize the bathrooms.” Gemma places an iced-lavender waffle weave towel on the bench next to me. I wonder for a moment if I’m supposed to wring it out and drink the flavored water that it’s soaked in like it’s some kind of Starbucks specialty drink. She whips her perfect Ariana-Grande-esque ponytail around and heads back to the front desk. Not a single inch of her body jiggles, especially not her fake double Ds. That’s the difference between a New York girl like myself and an LA chick like Gemma. My closet has Spanx, hers does not.