But lately, I’ve been feeling like just being myself is still “too much.” And a person can only shrink themselves so much before they end up disappearing altogether.
I thought I had pushed these feelings down a long time ago—of being not enough and too much all at once—but now they hollow me out as I blink back tears.
Ugh. Not here. Not now.
I want to run back to the airport, get on a plane, and go home.
But I need to get a grip, before some macho alpha camera guy clocks me on day one as the girl who can’t handle the heat.
I turn toward the wall and pretend I have something in my eye.
This is just a job. Just a paycheck. For a trashy reality show I didn’t even want to work on.
I think about Kyla—at home, pacing her room at 6 AM, worried about rent.
I think about Dad, and the way his last words broke me when he asked me to take care of her.
I start to think about Mom…but a mental door immediately slams shut.
Nope. Not going there.
Once I feel the emotions retreat back into the sturdy mental boxes I’ve always relegated them to, I let out a deep breath and turn around.
Before I can make a plan to escape this situation and pull myself together, I notice Sora across the room, standing, frozen, near the check-in desk. I instantly recognize the same emotion that I’m feeling written in her panicked eyes and pale face.
What the hell am I doing here?
I head over to Sora and spin her toward the stairs, looping my arm through hers before she can protest.
“Come help me bring down my equipment,” I whisper, as I pull her along. “It will give you something to do so you don’t look like you’re floundering. Then you can take a minute for yourself.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide with distress. Tears brim just above her lash line.
“Thank you,” she breathes. I just give her arm a gentle squeeze.
FIVE
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
SHE’S SO HIGH — TAL BACHMAN
The sun isa welcome sight as I slide out of the black van, a camera slung over one shoulder and the strap of my bulky crossbody gear bag cutting into my chest. My eyes are still puffy from my early-morning cry—thanks, Glen—but the heat of the sun on my skin feels glorious. I always miss its warmth in the winter. Even the most delicate kiss from its rays when it greets me again is enough to lift my mood.
But, I quickly realize that my last-minute decision to throw on cargo pants before leaving the hotel may have been unwise—I’m really regretting choosing the utility of pockets over the practicality of shorts in this heat. Still, I’ll take clear skies and sunshine over the snowy spring weather back home any day. Even if I’m sweating my ass off.
The photo Kyla sent on the way to the port of the ice-encased tree in front of our apartment is proof that I’m really in no position to complain.
As I stretch my achy limbs on the sidewalk beside the van, heat prickles up my scalp, and I can literallyfeelmycurly hair frizzing. I smooth back an errant ringlet and pull the rest into a high ponytail to get it off the back of my neck.
Shade is scarce at the port of Civitavecchia today, but the vast open sky reaching across the shimmering waves is such a startling shade of blue that I lower my sunglasses briefly to see if the polarized lenses are playing tricks on me.
How is it that everything is somehow more beautiful in Italy?
The two camera assistants who hitched a ride in my taxi have begun hauling cases out of the trunk and onto a dolly. While they begin the tedious task of transporting equipment to the ship, I form a plan in my mind. A GoPro mounted to the side of the ship, probably just above the loading bay, will be the perfect vantage point for passive B-roll footage of the crew getting ready to set sail. I’ll have to figure out how to mount it without getting in someone’s way, but I always seem to make it work.
Then I can focus on shooting B-roll of the ship from the dock—waves lapping against the clean white ship, a staff member cleaning a balcony, a bird flying over the funnel stacks that rise above the decks. Little details that help set the scene. In TV, these shots will only make up a few seconds of the episode, but they help tell the viewer, in clear terms: This is where our story begins.
I spot the ship after only a couple of steps down the wide, concrete dock—it rises like a mountain on the horizon: the Mediterranean Gemstone.
