I click my mic back on, gesturing to her with a nod that she should do the same, and step out of the blind spot like the conversation never happened.
The afternoon drags in that slow, forced way the show loves—meals, small talk, everyone pretending this new coed bullshit is normal. By evening, the novelty’s worn off and everyone is simply tired.
I keep eyes on Lyla the whole time. She sticks close to Emily, laughing when she’s supposed to, nodding at the right spots. A perfect performance. But I know her. She’s confused, spiraling. And right now I’m probably the last person on earth she wants anywhere near her.
The shared room, designed barrack style, fills up as night rolls in. Seven beds in two rows on opposite sides facing each other, ceiling fans turn lazily, ocean rumbling through the louvered windows. Everyone begins to settle into the awkward dynamic no one asked for.
Out of habit, I take the bed nearest the window on the left. My back to the wall, with a clear line to the door. Valerie climbs in on the other side of the bed without a word. We just exist next to each other like two people who already said everything that needed saying.
Those fucking producers. Manipulating Valerie like that, finding the exact crack in her head, twisting until picking me sounded like the brave choice instead of the safe one. Misinformation getting to Lyla before I even finished dinner. The challenge that paired me with Valerie in the first place, handing her the advantage without realizing it’d kick off this whole chain reaction.
The lights drop to almost nothing.
I look across and see Lyla in the bed third from the left. On her side, she faces away, her hair loose on the pillow. Her shoulders seem tight, like she’s forcing herself to stay still. She’s wide awake and pretending she’s not. The same way she was at seventeen when she didn’t want anyone to see her break.
Their corner goes dark.
I stare back up at the ceiling again. She’s ten feet away, and I can’t say a fucking word. Not without the whole room being in on it. Not without production catching it and giving them ammunition to make things worse.
I can’t win in here.
The thought hits hard and sticks. Staying won’t change shit. Even if I somehow get her to talk to me again, the show will just keep twisting things. Producers will poke another crack, and cameras will catch whatever they need for ratings and spin it. I’m willing to eat all this bullshit for her, but right now, it feels like using a stationary bike as transportation. It doesn’t prove a damn thing.
She needs something this place can’t give her.
And so do I.
Only one move comes to mind. One thing they can’t redirect or reframe if I do it just right. One gesture that’s completely mine and irreversible. I’d be risking everything doing this, but what choice do I have?
I need to leave.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Eight
* * *
Lyla
* * *
I register the consuming warmth beside me before my eyes are even open.
Another body’s familiar weight. The slow, even rhythm of breathing that isn’t mine. The particular slant of morning light slicing through the windows. For one unguarded heartbeat, suspended between sleep and waking, I almost let myself sink into that warmth?—
Then reality crashes in. Yesterday’s debacle. The ceremony, watching Scott climb into bed, then lay beside Valerie until the lights went out.
I snap open my eyes.
Damon lies with his back facing me, his breathing slow and even in the deep, untroubled sleep of a man that has nothing left unresolved. I watch the steady rhythm too long, and the old hollow in my chest cracks wider, goes deeper than before, raw and gnawing, like teeth working bone from the inside.
Nothing about this feels right.
I turn my head. Across the room, Scott is already awake. Flat on his back, one arm cocked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s been mapping every crack for hours. Valerie sleeps deeply on the far side of the mattress, as though she tried not to touch him.
He must sense I’m awake because he turns his head in my direction. Our gazes lock across the distance.
Nothing moves except the lazy spin of the ceiling fan. Outside, the ocean exhales against the shore. That familiar pull to him ignites in my chest.
