I smirk and follow him down the stairs.
TWELVE
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
MMMBOP — HANSON
“Ugh,this sea air iskillingmy hair,” Maddi, a young PA, groans from across the table as she pulls her platinum blond locks into a high ponytail. Her pretty face is contorted in a grimace as her fingers catch on the knots, and she whimpers slightly while Sora fixes a few of the strands that are snagged in the elastic band.
“I have a leave-in conditioner I can lend you,” Sora offers, an encouraging smile on her face as her friend lets out a long, low sigh. “I’ll bring it to your room later, okay?”
Maddi nods, defeated.
Of all the crew members aboard the Gemstone, it’s the production and camera assistants I’ve talked to the most. Well, they’ve talked to me. In the halls. On deck. While I’m filming. While they’re supposed to be assisting someoneelsefilming.
What I’m trying to say is that I know a lot about them.
For example, I know that Maddi originally applied to be a camera assistant but was offered a PA role.Obviously it still bothers her, based on the way she’s spent the past twenty minutes glaring at the table of young men across the room who got those jobs instead. It’s probably why the usually chipper young woman is in such a cranky mood today, complaining about her hair instead of raging over the insidious misogyny pervading the industry. You know, like I would be.
It’s part of why I hate small talk. Iknowthere’s something else bothering her, percolating beneath the surface, but she’s talking about her hair instead. It just feels so…inauthentic.
But what am I supposed to say?
I can’t just come out and tell her to drop the act and give me somethingreal. Most people don’t react well to that kind of gesture. Well, except Nolan, it seems.
“Don’t you find the salt air messes with your curls, Chloe?” Maddi asks, jostling me from my thoughts. I flick my eyes to hers over my beer glass, not expecting to be dragged into the conversation between the two women in front of me. I’m really only sitting with them because Sora forced me to come tonight, claiming it was “so totally awkward” and she “needed the extra moral support” to hang out with the rest of the crew.
I see now that this was a completely false narrative, made up by a sneaky wannabe producer who is, apparently, also keen on producingme.
At least I know her intentions are good. She just wants me to be more sociable, to come out of my cranky little cave occasionally. And a small—verysmall—part of me wants to…for her. I see the way she looks at me when I’m giving her advice. I’m not clueless. She looks up to me. And because of that, I don’t want to give her any reason to be disappointed.
So, I finish my sip, smile at Maddi, and nod.
“Uh, yeah, it’s been frizzy as hell,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sora beaming at me like a proud mother hen.
Nerd.
“Was it this bad the first time you shotLove at First Sail?” Sora asks, and I squint, attempting to recall. I hadn’t been thatconcerned with my appearance on that shoot. Not that I am now, but back then I was so distracted by all the new things I had to learn that I probably could have had a penis drawn on my forehead and I wouldn’t have noticed or cared how many eyes it drew to my face.
Now, things are a little different. Being at this bar is harder than I expected it to be. Not just because I feel like I’m breaking the rules Glen gave me to stay behind the scenes, but because connecting with others still feels difficult. I imagined I might come out of my shell more by now—I had with Sora and with Nolan, but I’m starting to wonder if connection will just always look different for me now. There are more walls to break down, more layers that need to be carefully pulled away, before I can truly be myself.
“I don’t remember, to be honest,” I reply with a subtle shrug. “It was such a long time ago. But…now that I think of it, yeah, that sounds about right. I think a leave-in conditioner definitely helped.”
This satisfies the women, who turn their attention to the rest of the crew partying across the room as they chat jovially about something a contestant did earlier in the day.
I take the opportunity to slide out of the booth and circle around the other side of the table to the bar, where I order a Diet Coke—to go.
Glen has a standing invitation, open to any crew members who aren’t filming, to meet every Saturday for late-night drinks and a meal at the Italian restaurant on board. It’s a beautiful space—terracotta walls and twinkly lights wrapped around a hanging latticed ceiling and intertwined with faux greenery. While the kitchen typically closes around 10 PM for guests, it’s kept open late for theLovecrew meet-ups.
The bartender slides me the unopened can and I give her a quick wave in thanks. But before I can hop off the stool and bolt, a familiar figure appears next to me.
“Chloe, babes, I’msohappy to see you here,” Glen’s voice purrs, and I can tell he’s already had a few drinks tonight.
“Oh, hey Glen,” I say as coolly as I can muster while eyeing the exit over his shoulder. I was so close. “Sorry, I know you wanted me to lay low as much as possible, but Sora asked me to come tonight, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt.”
Glen’s eyes widen and he places his hand on my arm. “Oh, it’stotallyfine. I haven’t so much asheardsomeone mention your name. You’re a ghost, Chlo! So, we might be out of the woods for now.”
Ouch. My jaw tightens as I force a smile. Had Glen lost his fucking marbles? Or at least any ounce of self-awareness the robot factory might have programmed him with? Because anyone with even a shred of empathy would know they can’t say something like that without realizing it might be hurtful.
