Chapter Thirty-Two
CHARTER CONFESSIONAL
CLOSE QUARTERS
FINN PEARSON: HEAD CHEF
PRODUCER
That was some speech you gave at the table last night.
FINN
I guess. I was just speaking my truth, since I doubt you lot will tell it.
PRODUCER
We just show the footage we have— hey, wait, we’re not done yet.
Finn unwraps mic.
PRODUCER
Wait. Finn, please, just one more moment of your time.
Finn stands, places mic on chair.
AUDIO SWITCHED TO BOOM MIC
FINN
Listen, my friend — I said goodbye to Cap. Ember has already filmed her last shot and she’s waiting for me on the deck. You’ve had your pound of flesh.
Finn stands.
FINN
But I get to take control of the story now, and your time in it is over.
PRODUCER
You’re contractually obligated to attend the reunion.
FINN
Then you can feck off until then, can’t you?
Finn exits.
The lights above were hot and relentless, washing out every feature, every flaw, and somehow still highlighting them all at once. I swore the makeup artist had caked on a full jar of foundation, but even that wasn’t enough to hide the months of stress that lined my face.
I was wishing an ill-timed wedgie was still the worst of my problems, but alas, it was this damn reunion.
The cameras were already rolling in the backstage holding area, mostly phones held up capturing exclusive live content for social media. Nothing was sacred. I knew better than to pull up the stream on my own phone and read the comments rolling in.
No doubt, more than half of them would be shitting on me and Finn.
Speaking of the handsome Irish devil, where I was trembling, he was solid, standing beside me like an old oak tree with roots too deep for even the strongest storm to disturb.
He was sexy as ever, his golden-brown hair tussled, the navy-blue suit he wore bringing out the deep aqua of his eyes.
His stubble was a well-grown beard now, trimmed short and tight to his jaw but thick and purposeful.
He had one hand stuffed into his pocket, the other linked tightly with mine.
He hadn’t let go since we arrived.
In fact, he’d rarely let me go since the day we left the Sinking Sun.
For the first two months, we worked. We found a gig together on a yacht in Greece, for old time’s sake, and threw ourselves into doing what we do best. Fortunately for us, we were with an older, more experienced crew — and there wasn’t a single ounce of drama.
Which was great, because we’d had enough of that to last our entire lifetime.
When it was getting close to the show airing, we holed up together at my apartment in South Florida, laying as low as we possibly could. We would watch the episodes when they aired, but Finn kept me from spiraling when I saw what I already knew would happen.
The production crew made us look awful.
Not that we were innocent — we were far from it.
But the show had attacked not only our character, but our professional abilities, too.
They somehow twisted the footage to make me look like a micromanaging perfectionist who was putting all the work on Bernard and Leah as opposed to taking it on myself.
I wanted to cry when I saw the post-production interviews where Leah and Bernard were weaseled into saying just enough that the production team could use it against me.
Bernard had texted me when the third episode aired, apologizing profusely and promising me they’d twisted his words.
I believed him, of course — but the damage was already done.
Still, it was nice to have at least one member of the crew reaching out to us, and Bernard even came over to watch an episode with us when he was in the States for a tour the show had set up for him.
Turned out he’d made quite the splash and had fans demanding more of him.
Bernard was happy to oblige.
The show wasn’t nice to Finn, either. They highlighted the smallest comments from the guests about something they didn’t like about his food rather than the mountain of compliments he received all season.
It didn’t even make sense. We wouldn’t have had as big of tips as we had if the food sucked.
My team wouldn’t have run so smoothly until the very end if I was a bitch.
But it was good television, and the viewing public ate it right up.
The episode we watched when Bernard visited was the one where Finn had his one weak moment of the season and broke down in the galley.
But of course, they’d edited out anything soft and sincere between us.
Instead, it was all about Finn throwing a fit and then painted to seem as if it was the rest of the crew who saved dinner while Finn and I sat on the floor and did nothing.
Bernard had cringed, shaking his head where he sat next to me on our couch. He had made us strong martinis, and they were all that was getting us through the carnage.
“That was brutal,” he said. Then he smiled, shimmying. “But hey — my arse looks fantastic, dunnit?”
Whenever it got to be too much, Finn would wordlessly turn the TV off and grab for my hand. He’d ground me back in the present moment, in what was real, in who knew me best.
Those were some of my favorite months.
We worked local jobs — Finn at a Michelin-Star restaurant as a sous, and me on whatever charters needed help — and then we’d come home to each other and get lost in the world we were creating. We stayed off social media. We let the rumors fly.
We made our own peace.
But there was no running from the reunion.
It was part of our contracts, the last part we had to uphold. The second half of our payment to be on the show would hit our bank accounts within a week, and then we could wipe our hands of this forever.
The buzz of the crowd filtered through the black curtain just ahead of us — muffled cheers and chatter from fans who had waited all season to find out what happened to everyone once the cameras stopped rolling.
I’d done my best to stay completely offline, but there were times, in my weakness, that I’d log on just to see what the comments were.
I always regretted it.
The people waiting in that audience, the people watching at home? They wanted my head on a stake.
There were some who loved us, some who cheered us on from the beginning. Maybe they saw what the cameras and production crew tried to hide — that we were in love, that we didn’t mean to hurt anyone, that Gisella wasn’t innocent in all this.
It was easy to say who cares, but it was harder to watch a lie play out about you and be powerless to stop it.
Knowing my father was part of that viewing audience had been the hardest part of the equation. Fortunately, he’d lost interest after episode three — or so he told me. I had a feeling he knew what was coming even before I did.
He hadn’t said a bad word about it to me, though I knew he had plenty to say. There was no way he hadn’t heard about the scandal. Someone close to him would know. We just chose to ignore it whenever we spoke, and I was fine with that.
There was a roar of applause mixed with a very loud symphony of jeers, and I blinked back to the present, my hand sweating where Finn held it tight.
He gave me a squeeze. “Ready?”
“Absolutely not.”
The corner of Finn’s lips tilted up, and he leaned in for a quick kiss on my cheek.
“You and me against the world, remember?”
“Quite literally in this moment,” I mumbled.
He chuckled, gave my hand another tight embrace, and then the showrunners were ushering us through the curtain.
We stepped out onto the soundstage to a cacophony of noise that quickly turned to a ringing in my ears. I tuned out any jeers, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
The reunion set was the same as every other season: sleek white couches, nautical theme, giant Close Quarters logo projected behind the host’s seat. Overhead, cameras slid on their tracks like vultures waiting for the moment we’d finally crack.
I hoped I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
Finn and I sat side by side on the left couch, the rest of the crew already in place on the opposite side.
Leah caught my eye first, then Bernard. Gisella was dressed like she was walking the runway in a crimson red dress, her nails filed into pointed stilettos so sharp they could draw blood.
Who knew. Maybe they would by the night’s end.
Eli offered me a tight smile. Cameron didn’t look at me at all.
Captain Gary was the only one who really beamed at us, and when he saw my expression, he nodded, his brows folding in. It was like he was silently dismissing any worry I might have, telling me I had this.
Glad one of us was confident.
The host was Graham Lavender. Tanned, toothy, and as practiced as any politician, he’d been steering these reunions since season one. And while he was good at his job, I knew better than to believe he’d tell our story the way it actually happened.
I didn’t trust a damn person here except Finn, of course.
“Welcome back to the Close Quarters reunion!” he said, his voice booming. “We’re here with the full Season 4 crew, now — welcome to Finn and Ember — and... we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Cue the salacious grin from him, the laughter and mumbled agreement from the crowd, and the somersault of my gut.
Finn’s thumb traced a slow, steady rhythm against my knuckles. He was my grounding force — always.
Without wasting any time, Graham sat back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and tapping his notecards on the sole of his polished dress shoe.
“Ember. Finn.” He shook his head, laughing a little at the audience before he turned back to us. “Where do we even start?”
“How about from the part where my chief stew and roommate faked nice to my face before BLEEP my boyfriend behind my back?”
That from Gisella, who was now smiling victoriously as she got the reaction she wanted from the crowd. I was sure the production crew advised her to really play into the dramatics, and she looked all-too pleased to oblige.