Because at this moment, I very much donotwant to be stuck on this ship, with one of my biggest errors in judgment staring me in the face, for six long weeks.
Idly, I wonder how hard it would be to get home. Would I have to pay for my own flight? Probably. And not only would Glen never work with me again, but he would also likely be pissed enough to blacklist me.
And Kyla and I need this money. Desperately.
Fuck.
It slowly dawns on me how deep into this I am already. I think I have to see this thing through.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be filming that?” Sora’s voice interrupts my train of thought, and I notice I’ve been rolling this whole time while not paying any attention to what’s going on.
Thankfully, Molly is still at her perch, but just across from her a fight has broken out between two of the male contestants. The brawl escalates, and suddenly they’re barreling right toward her.
Shit. This isn’t good.
Molly is going to notice them too late.
Time seems to slow, and a twinge of panic—and, even more alarming, worry—hits me right in the chest as I see what’s about to happen. I might be able to alert her in time, but something tells me Glen would be pissed at me for stepping in and ruining a shot like that.
Still, I’m not a monster…
Just as I open my mouth to shout her name, a figure moves into the frame in a flash, pulling Molly into their arms and dragging her out of harm’s way. They both land on the soft fake grass behind her just as the two men slam into the high-top she had been sitting at, sending it crashing to the floor.
I keep my camera trained on Molly, noticing her savior is Yacht Guy. I zoom in so that both their faces fill the frame. He gently brushes a strand of hair out of her face and leans down, saying something to her that I can’t hear. Her gaze flicks to the camera nearest them, but in an instant her attention is back on Yacht Guy, and she gives him a dazzling smile.
The shot is perfect.
Almost too perfect.
Romantic, without feeling heavy-handed.
Heroic, yet tender.
I can see two other cameras trained on Molly, catching different angles of Yacht Guy hovering over her protectively. This was going to be the perfect opening for the first episode.
Keeping my hand steady and the camera rolling, I lean away from the viewfinder just enough to spot Demi. The smug look on her face—vastly different from her panicked frustration of a few minutes earlier—tells me everything I need to know.
Nothing is ever a coincidence in reality TV.
EIGHT
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
STEAL MY SUNSHINE — LEN
Makingmy way to the ship’s main galley the next morning proves to be a bit of a challenge.
Despite the fact that I haven’t even introduced myself to another person on the crew since filming began, I keep getting stopped by nervous PAs and camera assistants whose questions range from “Doyou know how Dan takes his coffee?” (I do not, and I don’t even know who Dan is) to “I have a headache today, do you think they’d let me take the morning off?” (Wouldn’t count on it, Brad—better pop some Advil and get to work).
I don’t know how these people know my name when I’ve never even seen their faces before, but something tells me I have Sora to thank for my newfound fame. After filming the rest of the sailaway party yesterday, plus about six hours of capturing B-roll around the ship, Sora and I met for a drink in her room. She proceeded to tell me how much she’s appreciated my help over the last few days, and I told her I’m always happy to help someone who’s just starting out.
I guessshe took that to mean I’m happy to helpanyonewho needs it. Because by the time I get to the main galley, I’ve handed out hallway pep talks to two PAs, three camera assistants, and a sound guy who I’m pretty sure has been in this industry for a few years already. I’m starting to feel like the Pied Piper of entry-level Gen Zs.
Untucking the crew tag around my neck from beneath my shirt—so it’s obvious I’m not just some guest who has wandered into the bowels of the ship—I scan the busy kitchen space for some sort of office. Sora’s handwriting is hard to make out, so I’m not exactly surewhoI’m meeting, only that I’m to meet them at 7 AM sharp in the main culinary office to drop off the collected crew menus.
The kitchen is deeper than I expect it to be, with two long stainless-steel prep stations sitting parallel to a huge flat top grill, where several chefs are frying something that smells like bacon and potatoes. On the other side of the room, three sets of oversized white doors house industrial fridges and freezers, and a large portion of the stark white wall is covered in laminated photos of menus and dishes with names scribbled underneath.
“Can I help you?” calls a low feminine voice from one of the prep stations. I snap my head to the right to see a woman dressed in black pants and a bright yellow dress shirt, the standard uniform for servers in the main dining room. But before I can fully commit to that assumption, I see her hands are moving deftly across a cutting board, slicing up veggies and tossing them into a big plastic tub.
