mix-up
MARLEY
It’s the day before Carina and Gavin’s wedding.
Collette should be tending to the last-minute emergencies for her daughter’s wedding, but instead she sits across from me at the table beneath an oversized umbrella, a pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, and a stack of documents and glossy photos spread across our table.
Lo and Siobhan join us from Savannah via Zoom, their faces taking up opposite corners of my MacBook screen.
Together, the four of us work through ideas for Mod’s exclusive wedding feature.
I’m buzzing with delight that I’m sitting here working with Collette. Lo and Siobhan look elated. Their cheesy grins and excitement are practically spilling out of my laptop screen.
We sift through photos of Carina and Gavin taken during their first day in Maui.
Intimate, editorial-style optics that are every bit as glamorous and romantic.
Looking through them, you can tell that their relationship is no publicity stunt.
It’s the real deal, and I smile at the fact that Carina, a high-profile celebrity, found love in a guy who is so refreshingly normal.
My personal favorite is the photo shot beside a secluded waterfall tucked deep within a rainforest. Carina’s white designer sundress clings to her curves, damp from the mist, while strands of her jet-black hair frame her face.
She stares directly into the camera, confident and breathtaking.
Gavin stands behind her with one arm wrapped around her waist, his attention mesmerized and fixed entirely on her.
The look in his eye gets me every time because it was the kind of look I’ve caught Othello giving me on more than one occasion.
“So, have we agreed that this will be an eight-page spread?” Siobhan asks, scribbling on a legal pad.
“Eight feels right,” I say.
“Yes, just eight,” Collette agrees. “It needs to feel exclusive, not excessive.”
Lo nods from her square on my laptop screen.
“I can’t wait to see the ceremony photos. We should be able to have this magazine ready for publication by mid-March.”
“Perfect,” I say, making notes.
For the next 20 minutes, we work through photo selections and potential story angles. By the time we’re finished, we’ve outlined the entire feature from beginning to end.
“This was way too much fun.”
“Yes! I agree. The best Zoom call I’ve ever encountered, and I know it has a lot to do with your grace, Mrs. Randolph,” Lo gushes.
This brings out a hearty, rich laugh from Collette, who peels off her sunglasses. “Ladies, it was honestly my pleasure. The three have been a joy to work with. Thank you for letting me be a part of my daughter's story.”
“Thank you for trusting us with your story,” Siobhan adds. “This is going to fly off the shelves. I can feel it.”
“I wish you guys were here to share a bottle of champagne with us,” Collette says, as she picks up her champagne flute filled with Ace of Spades Rose.
“Oh, honey, I keeps me a bottle of champagne on deck,” Siobhan kids.
Lo laughs. “Look, I don’t have champs, but I will absolutely be pouring a glass of wine after this call.”
“Duly noted,” I say.
We exchange a few final thoughts before ending the meeting.
The second that Lo and Siobhan’s faces disappear from my screen, I close my laptop and lean back in my chair.
“Thank you for trusting Mod with your story,” I tell Collette.
“This will be a wonderful feature. One that will be talked about for years to come. Let’s make a toast.”
We hold up our glasses of wine. During our meeting, I tell Collette, “Thank you for trusting Mod with your story.
“This will be a wonderful feature. One that will be talked about for years to come. Let’s make a toast.”
We hold up our glasses of wine. During our meeting, we’d ordered light appetizers and drinks. A server appeared to refresh our drinks, replacing empty glasses with chilled flutes of champagne. The bottle now sits in an ice bucket between us, beads of condensation sliding down the glass.
“To Mod magazine and great partnerships,” Collette cheers. I repeat the sentiment, and we sip our bubbly.
“Ms. Jacobs?”
I glance up. It takes me a second to recognize the face of the manager from my first night at the resort. Sabrina stands beside our table in her pressed navy blue uniform, a nervous smile stretching across her face.
“Hi,” I smile.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, placing a hand against her chest.
“I just wanted to apologize again for the room situation at the beginning of your stay. We felt terrible about the mix-up.”
My stomach drops.
Immediately.
Beside me, Collette looks up from her glass.
Sabrina continues before I can stop her.
“We were scrambling trying to find you another room after the extension. I’m just grateful Mr. Kingston was willing to share his suite while we worked everything out.”
The air leaves my lungs. Slowly. Painfully.
Sabrina laughs.
“Honestly, I don’t know what we would’ve done if he hadn’t offered. The resort was completely booked.”
I force out a laugh while cringing on the inside.
Please stop talking.
Please.
“Oh, yes, well. It all worked out,” I say weakly.
“Great. Trust me, we felt awful. And we’d like to offer you a $1,000 resort credit toward your next stay with us. It’s the least we can do after all the inconvenience we caused.”
I glance at Collette, whose expression has shifted from polite interest to visible confusion. Sabrina, who can’t read the room, stands waiting for my reply.
“Wow, thank you,” I manage after clearing my throat.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
“Again, sorry. And I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here at the Grand Palms.”
I manage a strained smile as she disappears, completely oblivious to the damage she has just done. I feel an excruciating warmth rush through my body. The Hawaii heat suddenly feels suffocating.
“What is she talking about?” Collette probes.
I gulp the rest of my champagne. “It’s a long story, really.” I set my glass on the table and gather all the loose ends, stuffing them into a folder.
Collette leans across the table, her eyes pinned on me. “Why would the front desk be scrambling to find accommodations for you if you were staying with your boyfriend?”
I open my mouth to speak but don’t know what to say or how to say it.
“Didn’t you and Othello come here together?”
My mouth goes dry, and I curse myself for drinking the last of my champagne. There’s no way I can lie to this woman again.
“We… didn’t come here together, Collette.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “I see.”
“I’m so sorry. Othello is not my boyfriend.”
Seconds go by. Collette is mute. Processing everything that just happened. Digesting my lie. The disappointment in her eyes is worse than anger. I feel nauseous.
The silence stretches between us, growing heavier with every passing second.
“So, you let me believe something that wasn’t true?”
I can’t even bring myself to look her in the eye.
“I”m sorry, Collette.”
A phone vibrates. Hers. And she answers, but not before giving me one last look.
A look I can’t quite read.
Anger.
Hurt.
Disgust.
Maybe all three.