“Let this be a lesson for you, Chloe,” Colin said, his eyes dragging over to Molly as he spoke. “Don’t chain yourself to dead weight, and don’t let another person be in control of your future. You both have failed this assignment. Plagiarism will not be tolerated.”
“But I didn’t plagiarizeanything!” I bit out through gritted teeth, trying not to let my anger get the best of me.
“Look, I can’t be certain whether or not you knew about this, so I have to give you both the same grade, according to academic policy. My hands are tied,” he sighed, giving me apained expression that still felt hollow, as if he were trying to appear empathetic against his better judgment. “If it were up to me, it would be different for you, Chloe. But it appears you have your friend Molly here to thank for you both failing this class.”
I sat there in shock for a few moments, until finally Colin dismissed us.
And that was it. The end of my dream. All because Molly didn’t actually come up with the idea on her own. She had stolen it.
Deep down, I knew I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was always more interested in taking the easy way out—finding the shortcut to success.
I’d known her since high school, and this was the first time she had ever appeared to take an assignment seriously. I had been truly impressed by the amount of work I thought she had done—to get us not only a passing grade, but genuine respect from our mentor.
I had been proud of her.
And then, just like that, I felt like a fool.
News of the plagiarism rippled through our graduating class. It even somehow made it to my future boss at my Netflix internship, and I was let go before I even had a chance to start. Since it was a first offense for both of us and the class was for extra credit, we graduated…but only barely. After that meeting, I never spoke to Molly again.
Until, I realize, today.
Because—unless I can get out of this gig and off this ship—I’m going to be required to speak to her again, without a doubt.
At that exact moment, Tom Tomlinson, the host ofLove at First Sail, pushes dramatically through the double doors. A camera operator is tracking his graceful movements across the deck as he makes his way toward the contestants. At this point some are already relaxing in the loungers, a few are chattingaround the high-top tables, and others are flitting between the groups. When they notice Tomlinson, however, the contestants erupt into hoots and applause, some of the women whistling.
Tomlinson has been the host ofLove at First Sailsince its inception. He’s hot in a way that isn’t overwhelming and doesn’t usually compete with the male contestants vying for love. With sandy blond hair and a completely clean-shaven face, he carries himself more like a man who would be hosting an island survival show. He’s also in his early forties, so it’s less likely he’d appeal to the young twenty-somethings that usually make up the bulk of the cast.
But I can’t help but smirk as I notice that he’s drawing a few interested looks tonight. It’s probably because the batch of men this season all look the same: gym bros and tanned real estate agent–types who probably listen to Joe Rogan and talk about their macros all day long. I don’t know if I’m just starting to get more out of touch with what twenty-somethings are into, or if there’s a bigger strategy at play here that I’m not seeing—either way, all I can think when I glance between the men on deck is,Would it hurt the casting director to add some diversity to the mix?
At this point, I realize my camera is still recording, pointed at…a wall.
Shit.
I had been too thrown off by Molly to even remember why I was standing here in the first place.
Readjusting my grip, I pull my focus back to framing the scene below me, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine to take the brunt of the camera’s weight off my upper back. Lugging a camera around all day isn’t just exhausting; it can also be painful if I’m not paying attention to my posture. Which, when I’m really absorbed in what I’m filming, can be most of the time.
I notice that Molly’s glass is empty as she leans against a table, positioned next to a guy who looks like he just steppedoff a yacht in the south of France. Her eyes are glued to Tomlinson, despite Yacht Guy obviously trying to start a conversation with her.
“Hello, Love Sailors!” Tomlinson booms as he reaches the cheering group of contestants. They aren’t drunk yet, but it’s obvious the producers had them pregaming, based on how a few of the women are teetering unsteadily in their sparkly heels. Several guys clink their glasses together, and Tomlinson slaps one of them on the back in a way that says,we’re totally bros—even though I, along with every other crew member on deck, can tell they totallyaren’t. He steps back to grin warmly at the group, then gestures at their luxurious surroundings.
“Welcome to the ninth season ofLove at First Sail, where you and your fellow contestants will spend six weeks wining, dining, and exploring the best of what the Mediterranean coast has to offer, all while trying to reel in someone special. We’ve got a great season ahead of us on the Mediterranean Gemstone. So now, I’ve got to know: Who here is ready to find love?”
Tomlinson’s usual monologue sounds even more clichéd in person, but it doesn’t seem to faze the group. Cheers and whoops erupt, and a speaker hidden somewhere nearby starts playing what can only be described as “copyright-friendly Muzak.”
As the contestants begin to mingle, my camera is still trained on Molly, who hasn’t moved from her perch. Her piercing gray eyes dart around the group. I know she’s surveying the situation before she acts, and she won’t hesitate for long, at the risk of appearing weak. But a familiar flash of…something…crosses her face for less than a second.
Boredom? No…
Fear? Sort of, but not quite that visceral.
I watch her raise her hand to her head, almost unknowingly—as if to scratch at a stubborn itch—and a memory rushes back to me. Molly always had a tell: Whenevershe was nervous, she would pick at her skin—usually her cuticles or her scalp—but it was something she never noticed she was doing unless someone pointed it out.
She had done it since she was a kid, and it would always get much worse when she was feeling judged—so, basically anytime she was around her parents. They had high expectations for Molly and even higher opinions of themselves. Honestly, they were certified assholes. I never understood why she was equally as desperate for their approval as she was to strike out against them.
Even though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her do this, its fleeting existence feels like a relief. Maybe if she’s more focused on her role on the show and how to survive until the end—winning both the prize money and a future husband—I won’t have to worry as much about her attention being on me.
That is, if I decide to stay.
