I look up at him, raising my eyebrow expectantly.
“Nolan,” he replies smugly, offering his free hand. I wipe mine against my shirt as inconspicuously as I can before shaking his. His palms are soft and cool, his fingers calloused.
“Chloe. I’m with the TV crew.” He nods, glancing at the camera on my shoulder.
“I gathered. I’m with the kitchen crew.”
“I gathered,” I parrot, nodding at his white jacket. “Anyway, thank you for saving me from that forklift.”
“Don’t mention it.” He smiles, then glances over his shoulder at the boxes of produce being loaded into the belly of the ship. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Chloe-the-Melon-Murderer.”
“I thought I made it clear that I’mnota melon murderer.”
“Sorry, Chloe-the-Not-Melon-Murderer. For both our sakes, I hope the next time I run into you, my produce remains unharmed.”
“Don’t count on it,” I fire back, a playful smile pulling at my lips. He flashes me a conspiratorial grin and a wink, then jogs away. I watch as Nolan calls out to another chef on the dock and points to a skid of stacked cardboard fruit boxes. I would bet a stupid amount of money that they probably hold melons.
Nolan seems much more at ease here than I do, but as I watch him out of the corner of my eye, somehow I feel more at ease, too.
Which is a good thing, since I haven’t actually held a camera in a year.
I drop to one knee and open my bag, pulling out my scuffed Sony XDCAM and snapping a full battery onto the back. I turn it on, adjust a few settings, and hike it up onto myshoulder.
As soon as my eye slips comfortably into the groove of the viewfinder, a knot I hadn’t even noticed sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach seems to loosen and uncoil.
The familiar comfort of doing something I love, that Ihaveloved for so long, wraps around me like an embrace from an old friend.
It feels like coming home.
Trying not to get too emotional about the moment, I work on framing a shot of the kitchen crew carrying boxes into the ship, then pan upward to the scrolling black letters that spell outMediterranean Gemstone.
I pause for a moment, letting the tape roll to record ambient sound.
The beeping of a forklift backing up. Indistinguishable shouts and chatter from the busy crew. Seagulls squawking in the distance as they swoop down to the waves. I close my eyes for a second, immersing myself in the soundtrack of the port. Then I take a deep breath.
And here’s where our story begins, I think to myself.
SIX
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
BITCH — MEREDITH BROOKS
It only takesa few hours for me to get the shots of the dock that I want. By the time I actually board, most of the crew and contestants have arrived and are already preparing for the sailaway party, the first official activity of the show. Granted, I haven’t watched many of the recent seasons, but I know the format well enough.
Tonight, the contestants will meet one another for the first time on the dedicatedLove at First Saildeck before the ship departs. With sixteen contestants, half men and half women, it will be all hands on deck—literally—so, I want to be sure that I’m prepared and ready. With that many personalities in one very small space, something dramatic is sure to happen—whether by accident or by design.
As I enter the grand atrium in the center of the ship, my attention is immediately drawn to the vibrant shades of neon purple and blue that bathe the entire space in an ethereal glow. Several balconies overlook this area, and two expansivesilver staircases twine up toward each level, their banisters lit with neon lights and a column of what looks like falling stars draped in a looping descent at the center of the spiral.
A nod to the ship’s namesake, one half of a huge amethyst geode, its center exposed to reveal hundreds of sparkling purple gems, sits in the middle of the space, deep purple benches lining the display. Its twin half is recessed into a solid section of the atrium’s glass ceiling, forming the centerpiece of a huge, glittering silver chandelier that extends nearly down to the floor.
I wonder if, in another life, I could enjoy a space like this—decadent in its own luxurious way, and a true master class in lighting. And yet, all I can think about is how distracting all the neon lights are. So unnatural. Unnecessary. My mind wanders back to the streets of Rome, with its sunbaked terracotta rooftops and creamy limestone and ochre buildings, and I’m suddenly sad that I didn’t have more time with Sora during our excursion to the city center.
I find the main concierge desk without issue, tucked discreetly behind a gleaming column of silver, and check in. I take my key card, quickly forming a plan to go repack my kit in my room and maybe get changed, but before I can even attempt to find my way, Glen has me cornered.
I’m still not over our conversation from this morning, despite the fake smile I’ve got plastered on my face, and I can feel heat clawing its way up my neck.
It suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees in here.
