Suddenly, I feel so exposed.
How had I gotten so distracted?
I came onto this stupid ship intending to keep my head down and just do my job. Kyla was relying on me to make sure we could survive for the next few months. Instead, I got sidetracked by a workplace romance and chased away the one contestant the showneeds,risking my job in the long run.
“N-no,” I sputter, “I can’t do that. I shouldn’t have even…I didn’t…ugh!” I’m so frustrated that I turn away from him. In an instant, his hand is on my shoulder, gentle and comforting, but something inside me snaps and I pull away, whirling to face him again. “I can’t do this right now, Nolan. This isn’tme. I care—about my job, about what people think of me. I can’t just blow everything off to…to…hang out with you.”
Nolan’s lips are etched into a frown and, for a moment, I’m not sure who I’m really upset with—Nolan, or myself.
“I didn’t mean that, Chloe?—”
“I have to go,” I mumble quickly, cutting him off as my throat tightens and tears sting my eyes.
Nolan opens his mouth to say something else, but I’m already pushing pasthim and out into the hallway, leaving him behind in my own room, as I go off in search of something, anything, that will allow me to fix this shipwreck of a situation.
TWENTY-TWO
Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing:
BLAME IT ON THE WEATHERMAN — B*WITCHED
Molly’s roomis an absolutedisaster.
Clothes are draped across nearly every surface—most with price tags still sticking out the back—and a trio of suitcases is sprawled open on the bed, with more gauzy, sparkly fabric slithering over the sides.
I peek at the dress Molly wore the first night, the only one hanging in the closet, and my jaw practically unhinges when I spot the tag.
It’s a seven-thousand-dollar dress.
“Holy shit, Molly,” I whisper incredulously.
It’s normal for contestants to buy a wardrobe of designer clothes before coming on the show—a new outfit for every cocktail party, dinner date, or excursion—but the ones who keep the price tags on usually only do it for one reason.
Because they’re not here for love. They’re here for the prize money.
As I look around the cramped space, the messiness gives me the sense that, despite her cool exterior, thingsfor Molly have been more turbulent than she’s been letting on. She wasn’t exactly a neat freak when I knew her, but a room this messy was uncharacteristic.
After twenty minutes of poking around her stuff, I don’t find much of anything that might give me a sense of where she’s gone. I slump against the wall, next to a pile of Lululemon leggings.
“Where are you, Molly Spencer?” I murmur to myself, allowing a groan to escape my lips as my head falls back to rest against the wall. I stare just above the bed at a massive framed photo of a solitary ship sailing across an expanse of sparkling blue water. The sea beyond the ship’s hull darkens as the cresting waves fade away.
It makes me feel…alone.
I miss Kyla.
I miss Dad desperately.
But in my defeat, most of all…I miss Mom.
I close my eyes and try to conjure the sound of her voice, or the image of her long black hair and the complicated knot she’d tie it into at the nape of her neck. “To keep grabby hands away,” she would say with a laugh, giving Kyla a little tap on her nose.
But tears begin to well and overflow when I realize I can no longer coax these small details to the surface like I used to. Slumped against the wall in that messy room, I mourn the parts of my mother that are gone, like I would a magnificent tree that’s been chopped down at its base. I grieve the protection and shade her limbs offered, the beauty that would leave me in awe, and the fruit that sustained us.
But I realize, now, that despite her absence…her roots are still here. Even if I can’t recall the physical traits that made her real, I can stillfeelher. Even now, the thought of her makes me feel safe and loved. And it reminds me that I have another piece of her here, still. I let the tears dry up and pull my phonefrom my pocket, tapping the first person on my speed dial, and the last connection I have to my mother—Kyla.
“Chloe? What’s wrong?” Kyla’s sleepy voice answers on the second ring. She’s only six hours behind me, but I’m not surprised she’s still asleep, even though it’s early afternoon in Toronto.
“Shit, I’m sorry—I forgot that you still sleep like a teenager. I should have texted first,” I say, and I can hear her moving around on the other line, as if she’s sitting up in bed.
