Chapter 7 #2
At that exact moment, Tom Tomlinson, the host of Love at First Sail, pushes dramatically through the double doors.
A camera operator is tracking his graceful movements across the deck as he makes his way toward the contestants.
At this point some are already relaxing in the loungers, a few are chatting around the high-top tables, and others are flitting between the groups.
When they notice Tomlinson, however, the contestants erupt into hoots and applause, some of the women whistling.
Tomlinson has been the host of Love at First Sail since its inception.
He’s hot in a way that isn’t overwhelming and doesn’t usually compete with the male contestants vying for love.
With sandy blond hair and a completely clean-shaven face, he carries himself more like a man who would be hosting an island survival show.
He’s also in his early forties, so it’s less likely he’d appeal to the young twenty-somethings that usually make up the bulk of the cast.
But I can’t help but smirk as I notice that he’s drawing a few interested looks tonight.
It’s probably because the batch of men this season all look the same: gym bros and tanned real estate agent–types who probably listen to Joe Rogan and talk about their macros all day long.
I don’t know if I’m just starting to get more out of touch with what twenty-somethings are into, or if there’s a bigger strategy at play here that I’m not seeing—either way, all I can think when I glance between the men on deck is, Would it hurt the casting director to add some diversity to the mix?
At this point, I realize my camera is still recording, pointed at…a wall.
Shit.
I had been too thrown off by Molly to even remember why I was standing here in the first place.
Readjusting my grip, I pull my focus back to framing the scene below me, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine to take the brunt of the camera’s weight off my upper back.
Lugging a camera around all day isn’t just exhausting; it can also be painful if I’m not paying attention to my posture.
Which, when I’m really absorbed in what I’m filming, can be most of the time.
I notice that Molly’s glass is empty as she leans against a table, positioned next to a guy who looks like he just stepped off a yacht in the south of France. Her eyes are glued to Tomlinson, despite Yacht Guy obviously trying to start a conversation with her.
“Hello, Love Sailors!” Tomlinson booms as he reaches the cheering group of contestants.
They aren’t drunk yet, but it’s obvious the producers had them pregaming, based on how a few of the women are teetering unsteadily in their sparkly heels.
Several guys clink their glasses together, and Tomlinson slaps one of them on the back in a way that says, we’re totally bros—even though I, along with every other crew member on deck, can tell they totally aren’t.
He steps back to grin warmly at the group, then gestures at their luxurious surroundings.
“Welcome to the ninth season of Love at First Sail, where you and your fellow contestants will spend six weeks wining, dining, and exploring the best of what the Mediterranean coast has to offer, all while trying to reel in someone special. We’ve got a great season ahead of us on the Mediterranean Gemstone.
So now, I’ve got to know: Who here is ready to find love? ”
Tomlinson’s usual monologue sounds even more clichéd in person, but it doesn’t seem to faze the group. Cheers and whoops erupt, and a speaker hidden somewhere nearby starts playing what can only be described as “copyright-friendly Muzak.”
As the contestants begin to mingle, my camera is still trained on Molly, who hasn’t moved from her perch.
Her piercing gray eyes dart around the group.
I know she’s surveying the situation before she acts, and she won’t hesitate for long, at the risk of appearing weak.
But a familiar flash of…something…crosses her face for less than a second.
Boredom? No…
Fear? Sort of, but not quite that visceral.
I watch her raise her hand to her head, almost unknowingly—as if to scratch at a stubborn itch—and a memory rushes back to me.
Molly always had a tell: Whenever she was nervous, she would pick at her skin—usually her cuticles or her scalp—but it was something she never noticed she was doing unless someone pointed it out.
She had done it since she was a kid, and it would always get much worse when she was feeling judged—so, basically anytime she was around her parents.
They had high expectations for Molly and even higher opinions of themselves.
Honestly, they were certified assholes. I never understood why she was equally as desperate for their approval as she was to strike out against them.
Even though it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her do this, its fleeting existence feels like a relief.
Maybe if she’s more focused on her role on the show and how to survive until the end—winning both the prize money and a future husband—I won’t have to worry as much about her attention being on me.
That is, if I decide to stay.
Because at this moment, I very much do not want to be stuck on this ship, with one of my biggest errors in judgment staring me in the face, for six long weeks.
Idly, I wonder how hard it would be to get home. Would I have to pay for my own flight? Probably. And not only would Glen never work with me again, but he would also likely be pissed enough to blacklist me.
And Kyla and I need this money. Desperately.
Fuck.
It slowly dawns on me how deep into this I am already. I think I have to see this thing through.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be filming that?” Sora’s voice interrupts my train of thought, and I notice I’ve been rolling this whole time while not paying any attention to what’s going on.
Thankfully, Molly is still at her perch, but just across from her a fight has broken out between two of the male contestants. The brawl escalates, and suddenly they’re barreling right toward her.
Shit. This isn’t good.
Molly is going to notice them too late.
Time seems to slow, and a twinge of panic—and, even more alarming, worry—hits me right in the chest as I see what’s about to happen. I might be able to alert her in time, but something tells me Glen would be pissed at me for stepping in and ruining a shot like that.
Still, I’m not a monster…
Just as I open my mouth to shout her name, a figure moves into the frame in a flash, pulling Molly into their arms and dragging her out of harm’s way.
They both land on the soft fake grass behind her just as the two men slam into the high-top she had been sitting at, sending it crashing to the floor.
I keep my camera trained on Molly, noticing her savior is Yacht Guy.
I zoom in so that both their faces fill the frame.
He gently brushes a strand of hair out of her face and leans down, saying something to her that I can’t hear.
Her gaze flicks to the camera nearest them, but in an instant her attention is back on Yacht Guy, and she gives him a dazzling smile.
The shot is perfect.
Almost too perfect.
Romantic, without feeling heavy-handed.
Heroic, yet tender.
I can see two other cameras trained on Molly, catching different angles of Yacht Guy hovering over her protectively. This was going to be the perfect opening for the first episode.
Keeping my hand steady and the camera rolling, I lean away from the viewfinder just enough to spot Demi. The smug look on her face—vastly different from her panicked frustration of a few minutes earlier—tells me everything I need to know.
Nothing is ever a coincidence in reality TV.