Chapter 14 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing
FOURTEEN
YOU GET WHAT YOU GIVE — NEW RADICALS
By the following day, I still hadn’t been able to satiate the anger that had consumed me since my conversation with Demi.
The few hours that followed the scene at the pool were mostly spent pacing in my stateroom, buzzing with restless energy as I wracked my brain for something that might soothe the bitter burn in my chest—chocolate cake, a spicy burrito, a stiff drink—none of which were accessible in that moment.
After stress-eating three packets of peanuts I had nicked from the airplane, I finally decided that a scalding shower might help.
But as I let the water stream over my head and sluice down my face, plugging my ears with the muffled sound of running water, only one thought repeated in my head: I hate Molly Spencer.
So, despite my best attempts at calming myself, I wake up on Sunday still feeling terrible.
I don’t see many of the cast before we dock in Malta, and with Molly on a shore excursion, the likelihood that I’ll run into her is slim.
Still, I feel jumpy and weird as I film B-roll of a few contestants at the pickleball court, and I manage to bump into a server carrying approximately twenty bottles of beer on her tray, most of which crash to the ground during our collision.
By the time Sora knocks on my door that evening, my nerves are completely shot.
“You look like hell,” she says casually. Her thick black hair is pulled into two short, low pigtails, and she has a messenger bag slung over her shoulder in preparation for our foray into the kitchens for B-roll. She looks chipper, as usual.
“Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically. It’s not lost on me that I have large dark circles under my eyes and I’ve bitten my nails down to the quick.
Not exactly how I want to look before seeing Nolan again tonight.
Sora plops down on my bed as if it’s her own and pulls a muffin out of her bag to munch on as I continue my half-hearted attempt at applying makeup—an attempt I finally give up on after poking myself in the eye for the third time with the mascara brush.
“Tonight’s elimination ceremony was wild.
I swear, there was about to be a fight on deck, and then…
wait. What’s with the makeover?” Sora asks suspiciously, her gaze narrowing.
While I try to think of an excuse, I notice she pops the top of the muffin off its base, then tucks the bottom back in its paper bag and tosses it into the garbage can by the door.
“Huh? Oh. I, uh…just figured I should look a little less like hell than I feel. Also, why did you just throw out that muffin?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
She shrugs. “It’s just the bottom. The best part is the top. And they don’t sell muffin tops separately. Which is weird, don’t you think?”
“You’re weird,” I say with a chuckle.
A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “I know. Anyway, why do you want to look nice? I haven’t known you that long, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing makeup before.”
What is it with Gen Z kids—sorry, young adults—not having any tact when it comes to asking a grown-ass woman why she’s trying to look less like a swamp creature and more like an attractive and somewhat-desirable single lady?
For a moment, I consider lying to her, but I’m too drained to come up with anything believable.
I sigh.
“Look, this doesn’t leave this room, okay?”
Her face brightens excitedly, as if I’ve just revealed to her that I have floor seats for the next Taylor Swift concert and she’s coming with me.
“Of course, my lips are sealed!” she exclaims, then mimes zipping her lips.
I turn my attention back to the mirror, focusing on my reflection instead of Sora’s eager face.
Squirting a small dollop of mousse into my hands, I carefully comb my fingers through my hair, breaking up a few curls to create a bit of volume.
After that, I muss my hair with a technique I call “scruffing”—half fluffing, half scrunching—and survey the final product. Not bad.
“One of the chefs asked to make me dinner after I finish filming in the kitchen tonight,” I finally say.
“No way!” Sora practically shouts. I wince at her excitement, and my cheeks flush. She repeats herself, this time in a whisper. “No way…wait, which one?”
“What do you mean, ‘which one?’” I glance at her incredulously.
“Which chef?”
“Have you even been to the kitchens yet?” I parry, turning to face her and leaning back against the counter.
“No, but, like—I want to know before we get there, so I don’t say anything awkward.”
I can see this is, honestly, a very real concern for Sora. I consider giving her a name, then realize it won’t mean anything to her. Plus, most of the chefs I had seen were tattooed, so that description wouldn’t help either.
“Believe me…you’ll know. He’ll probably say something about melons.”
“O…kay? Gross?” She makes a face, her brows knit together in concern.
I choke out a laugh. “No, not those melons. Like, the actual melons that you eat. Watermelons, honeydew melons…you know. Melons.”
Sora peers up at me. “Are you having a stroke?”
“Look, don’t be all weird about it, okay? I don’t really date much, so this is already incredibly uncomfortable for me.”
“You don’t?” Her eyes widen at my confession, and she breaks off a piece of her muffin top, then pops it in her mouth.
“No, I…” I think back to the last time I went on a date.
It was a few months after Dad died, and I ended up ugly crying into my soup when a man, who looked so much like him out of the corner of my eye, walked into the restaurant we were eating at.
Obviously, the date didn’t end with any future plans being made, and later, when I checked the app we’d met on, the guy had blocked me. “It’s…complicated.”
“For the same reason throwing a penny into the Trevi Fountain and making a wish is complicated?”
I pause. I didn’t realize how perceptive Sora was. She truly has the makings of a great producer yet.
“Touché.” I sigh and cross the room to the desk, starting to put my kit together so we can head to the kitchens. “My dad died last year. It’s been hard to talk about it…and it doesn’t exactly make for upbeat conversation on a date.”
“Oh, Chloe…I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” Sora offers.
“No, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry. I guess I just try to keep it to myself, because people don’t really get it unless they’re also a member of the Dead Parents Club, you know?”
“I get it,” she says softly. “I mean, I don’t get it, get it. But I do understand why you’d prefer to keep that sort of thing to yourself.”
“Thanks, Sora. Anyway, we should probably head downstairs.”
She stands, then pauses for a moment, pursing her lips. Suddenly, she holds a finger up at me—as if to say, one moment, please—as she scrounges around in her bag for something.
A second later, she pulls out a tube of liquid lipstick.
“You need to add at least a little bit of color to your lips,” she says. “This is my favorite shade—dusty rose. I swear it looks good on everyone, but it will be absolutely perfect with your skin tone.”
She hands me the tube, and I fiddle with it for a second, deciding whether to put it on. I glance at Sora, and she looks hopeful. So, even though I’m not really a lipstick-wearing kind of gal, I stride back over to the mirror and take my time applying it, then step back to scrutinize my face.
She’s right. The shade is perfect.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely appreciative of this young woman who has somehow strong-armed her way into my life.
I realize that not only has it been a long time since I’ve made a friend at work, but it’s been ages since I’ve made any kind of friend.
Someone who lends you their lipstick and picks up on little things. Sora beams at me.
“I promise I won’t embarrass you in front of…um…what should I call him?” she asks.
“Melon Man will do,” I say with a smirk.
“Just like that, Karl. Keep doing what you’re doing,” I say to the older chef, who’s slicing carrots at a speed I didn’t even know was possible.
My camera is mounted on a bulky Sachtler tripod, lowered to about waist height, the lens aimed at his weathered hands in a tight shot that emphasizes the fast movement of his fingers.
I pan to the right slightly, zooming out and re-focusing to show the full bin of chopped vegetables.
I record this same shot a few times, then reverse the pan, pushing in on his hands before I finally turn off the camera, pull my face away from the viewfinder, and offer him a polite smile.
“Thanks so much, that was great!”
He offers me his own polite smile, then rests his knife on the cutting board and wipes his hands on his apron.
“So, when I see my hands on TV, I can tell everyone that I’m a hand model, right?”
I chuckle and give him a nod. “For sure, you can definitely do that. I just can’t promise this shot will make it into the show—or, if it does, which episode, exactly.”
“I’ll just have to watch the whole season, I guess,” Karl says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile widens.
He looks to be in his early sixties, but it’s hard to say.
There’s a youthful energy to him that makes the grays in his hair feel stylish instead of drab, and his corded forearms tell me that Karl was probably a total babe in his youth.
“Marla will just love it when she hears about this. I have to text her.”
I assume, by the excited way he scurries off, that Marla is his wife.
His phone is already in his hand, his thumbs moving slowly across the screen—ironic, given the quick work he made of the veggies.
It’s refreshing, though, after spending so much time surrounded by young PAs who are constantly on their phones, thumbs tap-tap-tapping away at a speed that makes my hands cramp just looking at them.
“What’s next?” Shayla asks from behind me. Sora stands next to her, holding a clipboard.