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As we tried to make our way out of Italy, we missed three non-refundable flights because of bad wind. Caroline saved the day.

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I was barely holding my life together. Besides, there was something I liked about being bound closer to her, forced to stay in her life through our arrangement. It was , and the internet felt like the future of writing, at least for girls. The boys from our classes were churning out different versions of Fear and Loathing in Bushwick, but I believed Caroline and I were busting open the form of nonfiction. Instagram is memoir in real time. Our arrangement came to an end as the summer did.

That fall, things in the Gowanus apartment deteriorated. Caroline agreed. But a week before I was supposed to move in, she called with a change of plans, something about the value of gold having dropped and her family being low on money. Now she had to rent the apartment on Airbnb and needed me as the super — greet the guests, clean the bedding.

I balled the comforter up, stuffed it under the bed, and sank to the ground. The night before, I had been on a date with an older man. He bought me a few drinks and took me back to his place in Bay Ridge, where he called me a whore and hit and choked me in bed.

Caroline Kennedy

If I were more like Caroline, I thought, more beautiful and fun, if I radiated girlishness, then men would view me as someone worthy of care. I would have my own midnight adventures with Italian gentlemen, my life so enviable that my only job would be living it to its fullest.

As a recent graduate and without a place to live, I moved back in with my parents. I eventually put my B. It was my greatest fear: Caroline was leaving me behind. Let me know! I just wanna check in and be your ally and do some planning! That September, I finally got the call. Caroline was back in New York, her book proposal was due after the weekend, and she needed my help.

I grabbed my toothbrush and headed up to her apartment to get to work. We fit right back into our roles: the protagonist and the punch-up writer. We wrote giddily through the night, our laptops burning into our thighs. We were high off our asses on working together again and being 23, and also Adderall, which Caroline paid cash for from a doctor near Washington Square Park whose waiting room was exclusively homeless men and NYU girls in Lululemon.

By sunrise, cracked-open pill capsules rolled across the coffee table and we smoked joints to be hungry enough to eat the burritos we ordered.


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Around hour 35, Caroline turned to me and officially asked me to come on as a paid editor. I was so tired I was hallucinating the tools I had used at my landscaping job the Friday we began. She agreed. I woke up next to Caroline in her big fluffy bed. Nothing we wrote that night was usable, and the life-changing deal Caroline and I had struck was legally nothing more than a stoned handshake.

But it was still real to us, and I got right to work. Caroline loved to read our pages aloud, and I loved to listen. But when we finally finished the page proposal, I was sure it was good. The first week of November, Caroline and Byrd took the proposal out to publishing houses while I waited for updates. The good news rolled in — the executives loved the writing, loved Caroline. I knew my job was to be present but invisible, but it still hurt to hear secondhand about the high-powered meetings, the gushing over pages I half-wrote.

But how could I complain? Caroline and I kept our promise and celebrated at the Waverly Inn.

Caroline Lucas | Standing up for what matters

We ordered the New York strip and truffle mac and cheese, got drunk off Manhattans and a bottle of Champagne. A table of Wall Street guys sent over tequila shots, and at the end of the meal, I excused myself and went over. They all wore Oxford shirts with those Gordon Gekko white collars and cuffs. None of them said anything. I went back to our table, but Caroline was gone.

I checked the bathroom and wandered the restaurant holding our glasses of Champagne. Finally she answered her cell phone. She had gone to meet up with Byrd, she said, and I should come. I spent my first couple of days adjusting from jet lag and pulling shards of wood from my feet with nail clippers.

But Caroline was so happy to see me I was almost taken aback. She had been so down, like everything was falling apart, she told me, but now that I was here, she felt rejuvenated and she wanted to show me everything. Students lived and went to class in stone Gothic buildings, which loomed over a great lawn that was brighter than I thought grass could be. My goal was to finish a draft in the two-to-three months I planned to visit, but the longer I was there, the more I saw the gap widening between the story we told and the situation on the ground.

I went to the communal bathroom and sat on the stone floor with my knees to my chest. I reached out to Cambridge about therapy, spoke with her mom about her prescription-pill use. When she wore the same lace gown for two and a half days, even sleeping in it, I forced her into the shower. I pulled open her desk drawer to find a pen, and empty Adderall capsules skittered around like cockroaches exposed to light. The manuscript was due in six months, and my notes were just lists of funny British foods Scotch eggs, juicy bits.

I began to worry. It was around this time that Caroline revealed to me that for all these years, she had been lying about her origin story. The real story, she told me, is she took a series of meetings with literary professionals who informed her that no one would buy a memoir from a girl with no claim to fame and no fan base.

And so Caroline made one online, taking out ads designed to look like posts to promote her account and buying tens of thousands of followers. Caroline says this was before the Federal Trade Commission published guides for influencers.

This could ruin everything, I thought. But to Caroline the ploy was a statement of intent: She was a self-made woman exploiting a new form of media. Even knowing that Caroline was the ultimate unreliable narrator, I still trusted her. After all, she was constantly calling me her best friend and work wife, telling me she loved me. I thought we were in this together.

That began to change the weekend we went to Amsterdam.