Chapter 10
TEN
SEMI-CHARMED LIFE — THIRD EYE BLIND
“What the hell was that?!”
Demi’s tone is biting as I turn away from the camera to face her. Her expression is one of irritation, bordering on anger, but I try to appear as unruffled by her tone as possible.
“What do you mean?”
Obviously, I know exactly what she means.
My interjection during the confessional wasn’t just unwelcome—it was inappropriate.
Usually, there’s an understanding that, unless the camera operator and producer have discussed it prior to the interview, the producer will ask the questions, and the camera operator (especially one hired specifically to not stand out) keeps their focus on the shot and their mouth shut.
But I just couldn’t help myself.
Molly was intentionally goading me. I had been perfectly content—happy, even!
—to lay low, do my job, and not say a word.
But something bubbled up inside me when Molly’s answers started feeling like they were less about her thoughts on Duncan or William, and more of a commentary on me.
That, plus the way she treated me before we even started filming, had me seething with rage.
I wouldn’t have expected her to grovel at my feet and beg for forgiveness. But to act like I was the one who cheated? Like I was the one who trashed our names?
It was infuriating.
If I had been able to move to California, to complete that Netflix internship, who knows where I’d be by now? It’s wholly possible that I would be somewhere else entirely—instead of on this stupid ship, being told to pretend I don’t exist by someone who is supposed to be my friend.
“Chloe…do you know Molly?” Glen asks from behind Demi. Tentatively, I meet his eyes—and notice they’re not full of anger. Rather, he’s intrigued. “Because it definitely seemed like you knew her.”
“I…suppose?” I hedge. “I mean, I’ve talked to her around the ship.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Glen says slowly, his gaze piercing. “You wouldn’t talk to just any contestant like that. I’ve seen you try to make small talk with other contestants. It’s polite. It’s self-deprecating. It’s a little awkward. That was…something else entirely.”
He’s got me there.
“Fine,” I give in with a huff. “Yes, I know her.”
Demi shoots me an exasperated look while a smile slowly creeps across Glen’s face.
“Spill,” he demands, shuffling closer.
“It’s nothing. I went to college with her, that’s all.”
Glen is already shaking his head. “That’s all? No way, I don’t buy it. If looks could kill, you would’ve murdered her with the glare you gave her! There’s history there.”
I hesitate, glancing between the three of them—Glen, with his ravenous smirk; Demi, with her haughty indignation; and Sora, shifting awkwardly behind them, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. I even catch sight of Probably-Mark trying to eavesdrop unobtrusively from several feet away.
“We used to be friends,” I finally admit with a sigh. “Things didn’t…end very well. We haven’t talked in almost ten years.”
“So, what? You’re, like…enemies, or something?” Demi asks, the iciness in her tone melting into something else—something crackling with electricity.
Before they can even say it, I already know what they’re thinking. Because I would be thinking it, too.
When you’re a storyteller, especially in this industry, you’re always looking for the makings of a plot twist; whether one already exists, just waiting to be coaxed out of the story, or whether there’s an opportunity to create one.
So, with the knowledge that Molly and I have a history and are on not-so-great terms, Glen and Demi start to look at me like hungry wolves, salivating greedily, ready to devour any morsel of information I can throw at them.
At this point, I know I have to be careful; to choose my words very wisely. Because whatever I say can, and will, be used against Molly…and maybe even against me.
“Oh, you know how these things go.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Sometimes we just grow out of the friendships we had when we were younger. It was basically that,” I explain, trying to placate them.
“That didn’t look like growing out of a friendship,” Glen argues.
“Well, it was,” I volley back, trying to appear as confident as possible. “We just stopped getting along, and things faded. Nothing major—but I guess she’s holding on to some kind of grudge.”
They don’t look convinced.
I glance at Sora desperately, and our eyes meet. As if reading my mind, she cuts in.
“Hey, uh, I hate to interrupt, but we’re behind schedule for our next confessional. Isn’t Jean-Luc supposed to be here?” she says, flipping through the pages on her clipboard as if she’s looking for something.
Glen whirls, swiping the clipboard from Sora and scratching the stubble along his jaw nervously as he peers down at it.
“Shit, you’re right.” Glen marches to the phone on the wall beside the door and punches in a few numbers. Before I can sneak away, Demi steps closer to me, placing a delicate hand on my arm. Her skin is soft, but her grip on me is firm.
“You really know her?” she presses, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes?” I shake off her grip, and she lets her hand fall to her side.
“Interesting.” Demi considers this, and I can practically hear the gears of her brain whirring behind her narrowed eyes. “Do you have any information that might help with her, uh, character development?”
“You mean, her ‘villain arc’?” I quip flatly, folding my arms over my chest. She sighs and glances over her shoulder at Sora and Glen, who are conversing rapidly with their heads bowed over the clipboard, likely trying to reconfigure their confessional timeline.
I can hazard a guess that, based on his absence, Jean-Luc might be too hungover from last night to get out of bed.
When she turns back to speak to me, her tone is bitter.
“Look, you don’t have to act like this whole thing is beneath you. I get that you think you’re better than this show, better than me, but for some of us…this is our career.”
I reel back like I’ve been slapped. Have I really been that transparent about my distaste for Love at First Sail? I can admit that I haven’t exactly been a ray of sunshine, but who can blame me?
“I don’t think it’s beneath me,” I say carefully. “I just don’t agree with selling out someone I know so you can humiliate her on TV.”
Even if that someone is the spawn of Satan.
Demi sighs, and her expression softens slightly.
“This is the kind of TV she signed up for, Chloe. You know that. I know that. You don’t go through the multiple levels of casting interviews, psychological testing, and background checks if you’re not fully expecting to bare yourself to the world.
Besides, I’m not going to humiliate her.
That’s not part of my job, and she’s perfectly capable of doing that herself as is.
I’d just like to get to know her better; find out what makes her tick, what she believes about herself, or the world around her, so I can nudge her to make decisions that will be more layered, more real. You know what I mean?”
“Go ask her, then,” I mutter. “You’ve heard her talk. She’s not keeping anything to herself.”
“You know that’s not how this works.”
I roll my eyes. This is ridiculous. Why would I tell Demi—the one person who seems to hate me only slightly less than Molly herself—how to emotionally blackmail my ex-best friend?
She’s right, though. I do have information.
Maybe I don’t know Molly as a twenty-something, but I knew her completely in high school and college: the years that made her.
I know about her home life, and the trauma her parents inflicted on her.
I know how she craves attention, as a salve for whatever wound is still festering from her parents’ emotional and verbal abuse.
But to take that pain and use it to help a producer on some trashy dating show push her to a breaking point? Or make her do something she doesn’t want to?
I can’t do that.
I won’t do that.
“Look, Demi. I don’t know much about her other than she’s kind of a bitch. Which I’m sure is already painfully obvious to you and literally everyone else on this ship.” That, at least, isn’t a lie. “If I think of anything, I’ll tell you. But right now, nothing helpful is coming to mind.”
“Alright,” she concedes. For a second, I think she’s actually going to drop it, but then she takes my forearm again.
This time her touch is gentle, and she levels me with a look that almost feels…
sincere. “But if something does come to mind, you should reach out. I know reality TV isn’t your thing, but Glen mentioned you’re hoping to break into docs.
I have a few contacts who are high up at Key Five.
I’d be happy to introduce you—we women have to help each other out in this industry, right? ”
I freeze.
Key Five Productions is a big name to drop. It’s the production house for documentary filmmaking. Their last ten docs won numerous awards, they work closely with Netflix for most of their originals, and their mentorship program has become one of the best in the industry.
You don’t just throw around an offer like that—unless you can follow through.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
As Demi drops her hand from my arm, her lips curl into a coy, knowing smile, and it tells me exactly what she’s thinking.
That I can be bought.
Or, at least, that she believes I can be bought.
And, while the idea of selling Molly’s secrets to someone like Demi makes my skin crawl…
I still can’t help but admit how appealing the offer is.
An introduction to a producer at Key Five could go a long way.
I could pitch my documentary, and my idea of having an all-woman-identifying crew.
Or maybe they’d accept me into their mentorship program and I could finally start the career I’ve been dreaming about.
I’m not above starting from the beginning again.
At the end of the day, an intro is an in.
And, honestly, I’m so far out that this might be exactly what I need to pull my career dreams back from the brink of death.
Without another word, Demi turns to join Sora and Glen’s huddle across the room, and I go to pull my SD card from the camera so I can log Molly’s footage back in my room. But I’m interrupted before I can finish.
“Oh—hey, Chloe? We’re going to need you to stay on the ship today and get some footage of the contestants who stay behind. They’ll just be at the pool. You good for 8 AM?”
I give Glen a polite smile and nod. “Of course, no problem.”
I’ll just stare at the Acropolis from the deck, then, and wish I was there instead.
After slipping the memory card into my bag, I turn and nearly collide with Probably-Mark. He clearly had no trouble overhearing the entire conversation, based on the way he lets out a low wolf whistle and says, in a sing-song voice, “Draaamaaaa.”
I blink at him, and he smirks.
“Um…right. Have a nice day, Mark,” I say awkwardly.
To which he replies, “My name is Greg.”