I watch the roaring fire that I’ve managed to build with a growing sense of satisfaction. The orange, curling flames lick the insides of the chimney and cascade a beautiful golden glow onto my arms.

Ugh. I crinkle my nose in disgust as I notice the soot streaked over the sides of my hands and up my arms. I sweep my eyes over the simple cabin searching for something to wash up with. I hate being dirty.

I walk across the room to the kitchenette and take a look around. I’ve already explored the tiny bedroom and closet behind doors number one and two earlier. This place doesn’t show any signs of being used in years. I was shocked to find out that there is no bathroom in this place. There’s no plumbing at all that I can see. Instead, I’ve been subjected to the indignity of using an outhouse. I could begin to wrap my brain around the Pinterest-type rustic vibe of this place before I learned that. There’s nothing rustic about a pit toilet. It’s practically inhumane.

I crouch down and peer into the lower cupboard smiling as I pluck the package of wet wipes from the cupboard. Perfect. Opening the plastic cover, I’m relieved to see that this has never been used. I plunge my sharp nail through the thin barrier and pull a couple of sheets out, washing my arms like I’m trying to rub my skin off.

“Ashy Ashley! Look at how dirty she is,” Hannah Kirkland pointed at me while her posse of popular girls laughed.

“I’m not dirty!” I ran my hands over my ratty goodwill shirt. Not that they knew it was second hand. I did my best to keep my clothes clean. To keep myself clean.

“You’re so gross. Isn’t she gross, Tessa?” she spurred on her second in command.

“Totally gross,” Tessa agreed with a glint in her green eyes.

“Like, have you even heard of soap?” Hannah continued while I tried to shrink up inside myself.

The half hour before junior high classes started was always the worst. I pretty much had the entire school to myself until then. Only the janitor shared the empty halls with me, and he never did speak a word to me. He always held the door for me when we both showed up there at six in the morning, he gave me a kind look of understanding. However, he kept his distance.

“Or, like deodorant? Oh my god, I ran behind you in the last gym class and almost gagged.” Tessa added helpfully.

I crossed my arms self-consciously. Smelly sweat was just another way my body was beginning to betray me. My parents barely kept me fed most days, so asking them to pick up a stick of Degree was like asking them to lasso the moon and bring it closer to my window at night. A nice idea, but not happening. Of course, body odor was the least of my worries after getting my first period and having no pads or tampons to deal with it. Wads of toilet paper layered on handfuls of paper towel was a messy solution.

“Ewww, look at her finger nails,” Hannah continued to pick me apart, like an owl pulling the flesh off a rabbit. “Ashy Ashley, you’re so disgusting.” She tossed her shiny, long hair over her shoulder and snorted. Finally, the bell rang, telling us all to shuffle off to class.

I looked down at my jagged nails with dirt under the edges and jammed them into the pockets of my worn corduroys.

It was hard to keep clean when your parents used your only bathroom at home to cook meth. Hell, half the time if I had to piss, I had to go in a can in the hall. I shudder at the thought, remembering where my loathing of non-flushing toilets came from.

I would never tell anyone that though. I never breathed a word. It was my deepest fear to be taken away from my parents. Even though the day I was finally carted off by child services, I didn’t see the same horror and distress etched to their hardened faces. Instead, I saw relief.

I snap my eyes back into focus and stop scrubbing my hands. My skin is fiery and the cloth I’ve been scrubbing with is worn through. I hate being dirty. Hate it. I push the memories away, but the terrible feeling in my gut stays with me.

I take a deep breath as my eyes land on my phone I left on the coffee table by the fireplace. I practically leap over to it, clutching it against me like a precious newborn against my chest.

My thumb runs across the smooth screen and calm begins to wash over me. Who cares where I came from? All that matters is where I am now.

Trapped in a snow storm in a cabin with a strange man? The thought intrudes on my moment of optimism.

“No,” I shake my head and answer the negative ghost haunting my mind. “What matters is my career. My followers love me. I just need to make some lemonade from lemons.” I channel my inner Beyoncé and throw back my shoulders with determination. I’m not a kid anymore. If I could survive then, when I didn’t know shit about the world and had assholes like Hannah Kirkland tormenting me everyday, then I can do this.

I look out the window at the blizzard swirling around and can almost feel the cold prickling my flesh. I hope Sawyer is ok out there.

I push the thought from my mind. Of course he is. From the looks of him, he lives for this shit. Right now, I just need to focus. I absentmindedly check my signal while I try to envision the perfect picture in my new surroundings. No signal bars. Still.

I tilt my head and try to figure out how I can mix up a big old jug of tasty lemonade from this craziness.

Picking up my dry bikini bottoms from where I hung them on the mantle earlier, I strip down and put them back on. I tie Sawyer’s plaid shirt up under my breasts. Next to the fireplace, I grab the little hatchet used to cut down kindling and get myself set up beside the flattering glow of the flames.

As I take photo after photo of myself contorted into the most flattering angles I can manage for my ass, I remember how hard this was before I had professional lighting and a nice camera. Back when I started on Instagram, it was all shaky cellphone selfies and ingenuity. Now, it’s like a Vogue photoshoot in my apartment every time I take new pics for my profile.

I have to say, I enjoy the challenge. People can laugh all they want, but it’s not easy to get flattering and creative pictures of one subject over and over again. In this case the subject is my curvy ass. It might sound shallow, but it pays my bills.

And made you famous, the hungry voice cries inside me. I get a tingle as I imagine how my followers are going to eat this up when I get back. All fifty-seven million of them.

What’s Hannah fucking Kirkland doing with her life?

Exactly. No one gives a shit.

I twist toward the fire and snap some pictures. I sit with my butt resting on my legs, pushing it out with my heels and try to look over my shoulder like I just happened to be sitting like this when someone caught me.

Time disappears as do my swirling anxieties and the thoughts of my childhood.

When the door squeaks open angrily and Sawyer stomps his snowy boots on the floor I jump.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He wipes the ice clinging to his beard and flings it down to the ground.

“I, uh,” my face is burning up and it has nothing to do with the fire. “I’m taking a picture,” I turn away from him to hide my embarrassment. To hide from his judgement. “Not that it’s your business.”

“Oh well, excuse me. I didn’t realize I stumbled into a photoshoot. Here I thought we were trying to survive and really it turns out it’s all just a backdrop for your next album,” he mocks me.

“It’s not for an album,” I roll my eyes, “it’s for Instagram.”

“Well, la-dee-dah,” he smirks. I want to shrink away. To disappear. I can’t stand how he’s looking at me. Like I’m the stupidest person he’s ever met. Like he’s better than me.

“Well, don’t let me interrupt. In fact, here” he tosses a streak of brown across the room at me and it lands with a thud beside my leg. “I’ve even got some props for you.”

I look down and shriek, jumping to my feet. He threw a couple of dead rabbits at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Oh my god!” I yell.

“What, you don’t like rabbit? I thought you might want to take a few more pictures before I turn them into dinner?” His eyes flash at me and I can see his disgust tattooed across his face.

“I’m not eating that.” I jump away from them.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, tugging off his layers of winter wear. “If you want to starve to death, that’s on you.” He answers nonchalantly.

I grab the pants he lent me earlier and storm off into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Tears streak down my cheeks as I hear him chuckle at me in the other room. This storm can’t be over soon enough. I stare out the window at the whiteout conditions. However, I know that in my heart, the storm inside is just beginning.