Candy shrugs. “I have no idea what she meant, but Bertha used her scary voice.”
I know the voice all too well. It’s the one that makes waiters apologize for things they didn’t do and small children hide behind their parents.
A rooster crows from somewhere in the jungle, because obviously, he too isn’t a fan of Bertha’s intimidation techniques.
“Anyway, Erwin was super stressed about the whole thing, too,” Candy adds, not realizing she’s making her new husband sound like a prime suspect in a murder investigation. “He kept having these mysterious phone calls about financial arrangements and handling the situation.”
My mouth falls open as I turn to the dirty rat I once chained myself to legally.
“Candy, honey,” Erwin says with the panicked laugh of a man watching his fiancée accidentally provide evidence against him, “maybe we shouldn’t?—”
“And he was like, totally obsessed with making sure Alana understood her boundaries or whatever,” Candy barrels on ahead, digging Erwin’s grave just a little bit deeper. “I thought it was sweet that he was protecting me from business stress, but now...”
“Now what?” Erwin and I say in unison.
“He kept talking about how much money we werespending and whether it was worth it and if certain people deserved to be paid their full fees.”
“That’s a completely normal wedding planning conversation!” Erwin protests at top volume as if his defense strategy involves drowning out inconvenient evidence. “Everyone talks about budgets!”
Candy pulls away to get a better look at the oaf. “But you said Alana was overcharging for minimal services and that someone needed to put her in her place before she got out of hand,” she points out with the helpful precision of a fiancée providing ammunition for her fiancé’s prosecution.
And in this moment right here, I can honestly say, I think I like her.
Erwin’s face turns purple as poi. “I never said?—”
“GERONIMO!” someone calls from across the pool, and we look over to see Ruby launching herself from the top of a rock formation with zero regard for physics or the integrity of her hips. She hits the water with enough force to create waves that temporarily disrupt all serious conversation and probably traumatize local fish populations.
The splash she creates sends water flying in every direction and provides the perfect interruption for Erwin’s increasingly desperate damage control efforts.
Not to be outdone by Ruby’s aquatic theatrics, Bertha appears on a lower rock formation, deciding that dignified poolside observation is overrated.
“I’m going in next. I need to clean this muck off,” she callsout like a threat, then belly flops into the water like she’s got a personal grudge against gravity.
The sound of Bertha hitting the water echoes through the jungle like a very large, very wet slap that registers on seismic equipment across three islands. Birds flee from nearby trees, concluding that natural disasters are imminent and evacuation procedures should commence immediately.
“Okay, everyone!” Candy announces, surfacing from Ruby’s splash zone with a renewed vigor that most likely has to do with a camera. “Time for group photos!” Knew it. “This lighting is absolutely perfect for authentic adventure content!”
“Authentic?” I mutter, watching Candy transform from vulnerable mourner back to social media maven faster than you can say brand management.
“Everyone in the water!” she barks at every soul in the vicinity. “Pretend you’re having the time of your lives! This needs to look spontaneous and joyful! Natural paradise vibes only!”
Despite everyone’s exhaustion, dishevelment, and desire to continue either recovering or drowning, Candy begins orchestrating an elaborate photo session with the efficiency of a drill sergeant.
“Closer together! Smile bigger,” she thunders. “Show those tropical adventure feelings! This is going viral, people!Viral!”
While everyone else attempts to look naturally delighted for Candy’s follower engagement empire, Ruby decides toadd her own commentary. In every single shot, she sticks her tongue out with the dedication of a woman conducting a one-person protest against forced happiness documentation. Okay, fine, I might have done the same.
“Ruby,” Candy says with strained patience, “could you maybe not?—”
“Nope,” Ruby replies cheerfully, tongue still extended for maximum photographic disruption. “This is my authentic self. Natural paradise vibes, remember?”
The resulting photos capture this moment in our little Hawaiian paradise forever—a group of muddy, exhausted people pretending to be having fun while one or two rebels provide honest thoughts on the entire hellish experience. Future social media historians will use these images as evidence of the disconnect between influencer reality and actual human experience. And I like to think I played a small part in it.
“Perfect!” Candy declares, having achieved whatever aesthetic goal that justifies forcing traumatized hikers into performance art. “These are going to get amazing engagement! Nothing says real island experience like surviving a hike through the jungle!”
She might be right.
A rooster crows from somewhere, agreeing that a real island experience is indeed the goal, though probably not the kind Candy has in mind.
