“It’s Europe, dude. Everything’s expensive. And I’d like to enjoy myself when I’m off the ship and not working twelve-hour days lugging gear. I’m not going to be eating McDonald’s in Rome.”
Although, to be fair, I had before. And I would again. European McDonald’s is much better than most North American fast food.
“Oh, one sec, Ky,” I say as I spot a convenience store out of the corner of my eye. I veer toward it and hover in front of a small display of paperbacks, scanning the covers until I see something I recognize. I pluck it off the shelf and head to the counter, securing what will hopefully be a decent distraction from the reality of being trapped in a tin can hurtling through the air at 35,000 feet.
The cashier raises a brow at my choice of reading material—pure, unadulterated smut—and rings me through.I give him a pointed look and tap my smartwatch to pay. Guilt creeps up my spine at the thought of spending money I don’t have on a book I don’t need while Kyla is stressed out about rent, but I shake it off. It’s not my fault I’m the only one of us working right now.
Book secured, I turn and beeline in the direction of my gate, dodging slow walkers and stressed families. The strap of my gear bag digs deeper into my shoulder as I hustle through the crowds, and I think about how much better I’ll feel once it’s crammed into the overhead bin and not crushing my body and soul.
I glance down at my watch as I lift my phone back to my ear. Six minutes until boarding. I still have to find the Starbucks I sent my mobile order to.
“Sorry, you were saying?” I ask, scanning the overhead signs for the logo that will deliver me to caffeine. It takes a moment for Kyla to reply, and I wonder if she’s fallen asleep.
Then she mumbles around a yawn, “I don’t remember. Sorry, I’m just stressed. I guess…I just need to know that we’ll be okay.”
“We will,” I say firmly, nearly cutting her off again. “I’ll transfer the money to you as soon as I get it. I already talked to Tony and he knows we’ll be late. Kyla, I got you.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding resigned. “I just hate this. I’ve never been late for a billin my life. And now I can’t even pay rent.”
Kyla’s anxiety has been worse in the year since Dad’s death. It’s not entirely her fault—she was coddled a lot growing up. Not in a way that made me jealous—because, honestly, I was one of the people coddling her—but in a way that made me aware of how different our formative years were.
Mom’s death when Kyla was little, combined with Kyla being Mensa-level smart, meant that Dad never wanted her to worry. Not about school, not about either of us, and definitely not about money. She was supposed to focus her education, onmaking something of thegiftshe was given, as Dad liked to put it—whatever that meant…
So, Kyla paid her own bills—like her phone bill, or her car insurance—and that was it. She wasn’t expected to pay rent to Dad, and she never needed much outside of her textbooks or paint supplies, which her part-time job always covered. Having to survive by the skin of her teeth, as we’re trying to do now, is completely new to Kyla.
I, on the other hand, am nine years older than her and nowhere near as academically gifted. I had to pay my own tuition and cover my own rent when I moved into the city to go to school, instead of staying local and living at home. So, I’m well-acquainted with terrible financial decisions and late bill payments. And while Iusuallyfind a way to pay rent on time, I try not to panic too much about our current situation. Tony, our landlord, is a decent guy and has granted us an exception.
Thisonetime.
Does it matter that, in exchange, I agreed to film a promotional video for his side hustle,Toned by Tony? No. It does not. Because I’m used to doing much worse for much less.
Case in point: I’m traveling halfway around the world to film a trashy reality TV show—forwellbelow my usual rate—because I am desperate. And because I have zero shame.
Love at First Sailhas been on the air for the same amount of time I’ve been in the industry, and it has earned a bit of a reputation for attracting ruthless and intensely competitive individuals, both on the crew and in the cast. I was contracted to join the crew for one season just after I graduated from film school, and those six weeks told me all I needed to know about working in reality TV. Basically, you need thick skin—a quality I definitely do not possess.
However, work has been really scarce lately. And, since I’m already agreeing to make no-charge promos for a very tall, very hairy, middle-aged man whose vanity license plate reads BROSQACH, I suppose I can suck it up for a few weeks to filmhot twenty- and thirty-somethings as they attempt to find love. I clench my phone a little tighter in my hand and exhale.
“Ky, I’ll send the per diem when it comes through. That should cover you for groceries and whatever else you need. Once my first paycheck is in, I’ll set up an auto-transfer. Give it a few weeks. Rent will befully paidbefore you know it.”
Kyla lets loose a relieved sigh, and the vice that was gripping my chest loosens.
“Thanks, Chloe. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Starve, probably,” I say with a chuckle. I’m mostly joking, but a part of meisworried that Kyla may never grow up.
Thankfully, she laughs—a real laugh—and I feel better about leaving. I’m still not thrilled about this job in particular, but it will cover our rent and, at the very least, I can trade the uncharacteristic-for-April snowflakes swirling outside the airport windows for some warmth and sunshine.
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
She’s quiet for a second. When she speaks again, her tone is earnest—as if tuning into my mood like a radio.
“I know this isn’t the type of gig you want to be doing, Chloe. I know you gave up this kind of work so you could focus on your documentary. But I…appreciate it. I appreciate you, sissy. I hope you know that.”
I frown.
Taking care of my anxious baby sister by cracking jokes and talking her off the ledge? Easy.
Covering our rent and bills while she tries to find a job? Even easier.
