“Or their technical side,” Ian chimes. “This camp lets youth explore a variety of talents and interests, is that right?”
“Absolutely.” Brinley gets a look in her eyes that makes me weak and warm with nostalgia. It’s her signature flare that captivates even the least likely crowd.
“Kids as young as eleven years old can sign up for an incredible, week-long adventure,” she says. “There, they’ll explore several of the industry’s trades such as filming, directing, performing…”
“And special effects makeup,” Ian adds.
Brinley gives him an appreciative nod. “Yes, that too.”
“SinceOpportunity Plusis a charitable organization,” Ian says, “can we assume it’s open to youth regardless of financial status?”
“Yes,” Brinley assures. She tells them about the scholarship program, then finishes by adding one final detail. “The foundation’s website will show at the beginning and end of each episode in case viewers would like to support a good cause.”
Huh. That’s good.
So why exactly did that nugget throw a wrench in my warm and fuzzy time? Why does the fact that her foundation will be getting continual exposure on the show turn that deep nostalgia into cold hard suspicion?
Because, I realize, it makes her motivation clear—it’s all about her charity.
No, I doubt that. Except, it makes sense. Brinley turned down the first offer to come on the show, so Marsha had to sweeten the deal. Not only am I donating a huge sum to her charity, which I’m happy about, but I’m also missing the Emmys, which I’m not so happy about. All for a second chance with Brinley that she might not even be willing to give.
That bites.
I want to be ticked off. I want to accuse her of being selfish for doing this with some freaking motive in mind, but that doesn’t exactly work since she’s gaining nothing for herself.
“Well, it’s time to walk through those doors and discover what you’re in for,” I hear Daisy say. It sounds like an afterthought.Oh yeah, now you’ve got to do what you supposedly came for. Wink, wink.
Ian reiterates that this season will be vastly different from the others. Gone is the host, Colt Findlay, which I’m both bummed and glad about. The guy’s entertaining and makes for good TV, but I don’t want him poking fun at us or ticking off Brinley. It’ll be interesting to see the alternative they’ve come up with. They likely won’t leave us to our own devices the whole time.
I glance over my shoulder as Brinley hoists the lively carrier off the ground. “You ready?” I ask, but the question comes out sounding wobbly and weak—a reflection of my resolve at that moment. At least the hiccups seem to be gone.
She holds my gaze for only a beat, fragments of doubt flickering behind their greenish-blue depths. I glance at the curbside to ensure that Janis has, in fact, already driven away. She has.Good.
Not that Brinley couldn’t still back out.
The pulse beneath my Adam’s apple spikes into double rhythm. I hope it doesn’t trigger round two. Her extended pause begs crickets to quit their nocturnal ways and chirp in the mid-day sun. I can practically hear her inner voice,come on, Brinley, it’s all for the charity.
“Yes,” she finally says. “I think I am.”
I sigh, then gulp. I’ll probably walk away from this with a heart more broken than it was the first time. My chest is tight. My mind is crowded. And my hopes are all but dashed. But I know how to fake it.
I flash her a wink and a smile. “Let’s do this.” And with that, I lead the way through the front door and onto an entirely different set. A home with cameras and mics at every angle. I work very hard to regain the confidence I once had coming into this.
Brinley might have her own reasons for agreeing to come, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win her over. I did it before and, with the right approach—I remind myself—hopefully, I can do it again.
CHAPTER6
Brinley
Daisy and Ian said that Colt Findlay wouldn’t be hosting the show this season, but that doesn’t mean he’s out altogether, I realize as I step inside. The bright foyer, which is sectioned off with a decorative wall screen, boasts a tall digital photo frame with a life-sized image of Colt on full display. He’s dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh with a stretch of digitized pyramids at his back. Chin high, eyes lined thick like Janis’s, neck fully adorned with gold.
“Hey,” Dawson says with a nod. “Looks like Colt Findlay made an appearance after all.”
I look closer at the digital photo and notice what I think is a small twitch in his cheek. “I think this is live,” I say. “Like a video feed maybe.”
Suddenly Colt’s gaze shoots to us.
Dawson jumps back slightly.
