I cried for days after her betrayal with Colin Wakelin, typing, erasing, and re-typing message after message to her, all of them left unsent.
“There’s something you need to understand about Molly Spencer,” I say to Demi, as I hoist my camera bag over myshoulder. “There’s nothing I can give you—no valuable piece of keyinformation—that you can use against her. Because she doesn’t have a heart. She doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself. I don’t think she ever did. So, stop asking me. I’m done.”
FOURTEEN
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
YOU GET WHAT YOU GIVE — NEW RADICALS
By the following day,I still hadn’t been able to satiate the anger that had consumed me since my conversation with Demi. The few hours that followed the scene at the pool were mostly spent pacing in my stateroom, buzzing with restless energy as I wracked my brain for something that might soothe the bitter burn in my chest—chocolate cake, a spicy burrito, a stiff drink—none of which were accessible in that moment.
After stress-eating three packets of peanuts I had nicked from the airplane, I finally decided that a scalding shower might help. But as I let the water stream over my head and sluice down my face, plugging my ears with the muffled sound of running water, only one thought repeated in my head:I hate Molly Spencer.
So, despite my best attempts at calming myself, I wake up on Sunday still feeling terrible. I don’t see many of the cast before we dock in Malta, and with Molly on a shore excursion, the likelihood that I’ll run into her is slim. Still, Ifeel jumpy and weird as I film B-roll of a few contestants at the pickleball court, and I manage to bump into a server carrying approximately twenty bottles of beer on her tray, most of which crash to the ground during our collision.
By the time Sora knocks on my door that evening, my nerves are completely shot.
“You look like hell,” she says casually. Her thick black hair is pulled into two short, low pigtails, and she has a messenger bag slung over her shoulder in preparation for our foray into the kitchens for B-roll. She looks chipper, as usual.
“Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically. It’s not lost on me that I have large dark circles under my eyes and I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick.
Not exactly how I want to look before seeing Nolan again tonight.
Sora plops down on my bed as if it’s her own and pulls a muffin out of her bag to munch on as I continue my half-hearted attempt at applying makeup—an attempt I finally give up on after poking myself in the eye for the third time with the mascara brush.
“Tonight’s elimination ceremony waswild. I swear, there was about to be a fight on deck, and then…wait. What’s with the makeover?” Sora asks suspiciously, her gaze narrowing. While I try to think of an excuse, I notice she pops the top of the muffin off its base, then tucks the bottom back in its paper bag and tosses it into the garbage can by the door.
“Huh? Oh. I, uh…just figured I should look a little less like hell than I feel. Also, why did you just throw out that muffin?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
She shrugs. “It’s just the bottom. The best part is the top. And they don’t sell muffin tops separately. Which is weird, don’t you think?”
“You’reweird,” I say with a chuckle.
A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “I know. Anyway, why do you want to look nice? I haven’t known youthat long, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing makeup before.”
What is it with Gen Z kids—sorry,young adults—not having anytactwhen it comes to asking a grown-ass woman why she’s trying to look less like a swamp creature and more like an attractive and somewhat-desirable single lady? For a moment, I consider lying to her, but I’m too drained to come up with anything believable.
I sigh.
“Look, this doesn’t leave this room, okay?”
Her face brightens excitedly, as if I’ve just revealed to her that I have floor seats for the next Taylor Swift concert and she’s coming with me.
“Of course, my lips are sealed!” she exclaims, then mimes zipping her lips.
I turn my attention back to the mirror, focusing on my reflection instead of Sora’s eager face. Squirting a small dollop of mousse into my hands, I carefully comb my fingers through my hair, breaking up a few curls to create a bit of volume. After that, I muss my hair with a technique I call “scruffing”—half fluffing, half scrunching—and survey the final product.Not bad.
“One of the chefs asked to make me dinner after I finish filming in the kitchen tonight,” I finally say.
“No way!” Sora practically shouts. I wince at her excitement, and my cheeks flush. She repeats herself, this time in a whisper. “No way…wait, which one?”
“What do you mean, ‘which one?’” I glance at her incredulously.
“Whichchef?”
“Have you even been to the kitchens yet?” I parry, turning to face her and leaning back against the counter.
“No, but, like—I want to know before we get there, so I don’t say anythingawkward.”
