Chapter 17 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing
SEVENTEEN
EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE LIKE YOU — SNOW
“Do you think Carly is actually into Duncan?”
Instead, I grunt noncommittally. I’m not even going to pretend to know where she’s going with this conversation.
“Or do you think Greta is helping Carly manipulate him into liking her, so that she doesn’t get kicked off at the next elimination ceremony?
” I glance over to where Sora is sitting cross-legged on my unmade bed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger as she stares at the wall, lost in thought.
“That would make sense, actually. She hasn’t made headway with any other relationships, and I feel like Greta knows better than to wait for something to happen organically, you know what I mean? ”
“Uhh…who?” I ask distractedly, swiping a glob of tinted sunscreen across my face and massaging it into my skin aggressively, as if the harder I rub, the more awake I’ll feel.
Sora frowns. “Carly. Greta’s contestant?”
“Right,” I say, unconvincingly. Sora’s frown deepens in disappointment as she shakes her head, as if to say, typical Chloe.
Which—rude.
But also…fair.
I assume Carly is a contestant, which would make Greta her producer, but the women still all kind of look the same to me: tall blonds in short dresses with similar-sounding names that were popular in the ’90s.
“You’ve got to start getting better at remembering the contestants and their producers, Chloe, especially since you’re a DOP now.” Sora stands up from my bed and crosses the room to lean against the doorway to the bathroom.
I make sure our gazes connect before I give her the most sarcastic eyeroll I’ve quite possibly ever delivered, and say, “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Mom.”
Bill, the DOP who had cornered Molly at the bar and laughed with her at me from across the deck, had been benched the day after that scene at the pool—he’d gotten drunk at karaoke night and said something dumb to a producer.
From what Sora’s heard, Glen hasn’t decided if he’s going to fire him or not, so, in the meantime, Bill’s been holed up in his room while I’ve been promoted. Not that Glen actually said the word “promoted,” exactly. Or promised me a corresponding pay raise. Or any other kind of job perks.
Instead, he just asked me to “take one for the team” and help with the extra workload by handling all the same duties a DOP would—filming confessionals, following contestants, and working closely with the producers.
I guess this is what Glen meant by wanting to be prepared for the worst. With Bill in TV jail, the crew would have been down a DOP until the production company could hire and get someone out here. Now Glen looks like a fast-acting exec with a knack for noticing talent.
At least I no longer have to pretend I’m a potted plant when someone looks my way.
As much as I’m still annoyed with Glen—not just for how he treated me before filming began, but also for still not seeing my worth even now, with the extra responsibilities—I’m thrilled.
Because I finally get to leave this stupid fucking ship.
So, as it stands, Sora’s point that I may need to work on my people skills is, sadly, valid.
My phone vibrates on the tiny counter in front of me, rattling itself off the edge and nearly falling into the open toilet. I grumble as I pick it up off the floor, expecting Kyla’s name—I haven’t heard from her in a few days. But my expression changes as soon as I see who the message is from.
Nolan.
Our almost-kiss—and the unfortunate run-in with Molly—has haunted me all week.
We’ve yet to pick up where we left off, thanks in part to his hectic work schedule, as well as a few late nights and very early mornings for me.
But our flirting has evolved from handwritten letters on my breakfast tray to cute texts throughout the day.
NOLAN: I actually have a night off. You free tonight?
CHLOE: Only if you can give me one fun fact about yourself that no one else knows. Consider it my next question.
NOLAN: Hmm. Alright…I have a third nipple.
CHLOE: Really?!
NOLAN: No. My mum already knows about that, so…
NOLAN: Just kidding!
NOLAN: OK, uhhhh…I’m very afraid of spiders.
CHLOE: Aren’t you Australian?
NOLAN: Not by choice!
I don’t realize I’m grinning like an idiot until I catch Sora’s quirked brow out of the corner of my eye as she glances my way.
“I wish I could find someone who made me smile like that,” she teases, and my grin twists into a wry smirk.
“Shush. For all you know, I could have been texting a friend,” I reply, gathering my thick curls into a high ponytail at the top of my head.
“You told me you don’t have any friends other than me.”
“Well, maybe I made a new one, Sora.”
She snorts, then heads back to the unmade bed and digs around for her bag, which has been swallowed by the comforter. Once she locates it, she shrugs it over her shoulder.
“You can’t even remember the names of most of the people you meet,” Sora points out.
“It’s not that I can’t, I just…” I struggle to find a diplomatic way to say what I’m thinking.
“Don’t want to?” Sora offers, a single brow arched.
I wince. “It feels worse when you say it out loud.”
“Right…well, hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
“Remember when you used to talk to me like I was your mentor, not your irresponsible little sister?” I quip, finishing in the bathroom and grabbing my gear bag from its perch on the desk. Sora pulls the heavy door of the stateroom open and gestures to the hallway like Vanna White.
“I don’t recall,” she replies cheerily.
With my bag strapped across my chest, I hoist the tripod leaning against the wall over my shoulder and edge past Sora, being careful not to hit her in the head.
Although maybe a mild concussion would reset her brain back to the Sora I met on the plane. She might have talked nonstop, but at least that Sora still respected her elders.
“So, what’s the plan for the day?” I ask, as we make our way single file down the narrow hallway toward the bank of elevators, her muffled footsteps on the plush carpeting signaling that she’s still behind me.
“How do you feel about a blindfolded relay race in Barcelona? The contestants have all been told to dress up. They think they’re going to a film premiere.
” Sora’s voice is bright, with a familiar note of elation vibrating in her tone, as if she’s trying not to give away how excited she is about this excursion in particular.
Her enthusiasm is contagious though, and I find a slight feeling of giddiness bubbles up within me. This time, I don’t try to hide it.
“Uh—that sounds like my kind of day.”
And for once, it actually does.
A bead of sweat clings to the tip of my nose as I steady my stance on the hot sand of Nova Icaria Beach.
My camera has been perched on my shoulder now for approximately forty-five long, torturous minutes as I’ve followed Molly and Duncan from one side of the strip to the other, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve either peed myself and didn’t realize it, or if I really am just that sweaty in those places.
Honestly, you’d think that a three-legged race down the beach would be a simple enough task for two people, even blindfolded, as they are. Forty-five minutes seems unreasonable for a race.
But the beach is busy, with tourists and nationals alike. I mean, of course it is. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is beating down on one of the most gorgeous cities on the Mediterranean coast. Where else would you go, except the beach?
So, while Molly and Duncan may be slightly better at stumbling through sand while wearing a gown and tux, respectively, than the other contestants, they’re not as self-aware.
Meaning that, even though the pair have bumped into nearly every slow-reacting tourist that has crossed their path, they somehow haven’t yet learned that slowing down so people have enough time to see them coming may result in less time spent falling into the sand.
It makes me curse the idiot who designed this task, probably sitting somewhere in an air-conditioned office in LA.
The worst part about the whole ordeal is that all contestants have to finish the race if they want to enjoy the tapas and sangria that await them at the finish line.
So, even though everyone else is already done, I get to keep filming Dumb and Dumber as they attempt to make it to the end without drowning or getting a concussion.
“Come on, Duncan. We’re so close…I think,” Molly says, dragging her partner up from the sand for the umpteenth time. And then she shouts, to anyone—producer or otherwise—who might answer her, “We are close, right?”
I’m the only one nearby, but I don’t say a word.
Mostly because I’m practically panting, following them through the sand.
But also because I want Molly to suffer. Even just a little bit.
Finally, after what feels like another forty-five minutes, but is probably only five, they reach the end.
Tomlinson claps Duncan on the back as he rips off his blindfold, his face red and sweaty.
There’s a local medic standing nearby, eyeing Duncan wearily, in case he passes out—and I don’t blame him.
I can’t even begin to imagine how soaked his heavy suit jacket must be.
“Great job, you two. It was slow going, but you made it. How do you feel?”
Duncan just throws out a thumbs-up and then wipes his face with his sleeve.
Molly ignores Tomlinson. She swipes her thumb under each eye, wiping away sweat and a few streaks of mascara that had run from the heat.
She then turns her focus on the rest of the cast, all of whom are already seated at the long dining table that has been set up on the sandy beach, white tablecloth swaying gently in the wind, and linen umbrellas providing badly needed shade.
A few contestants have stripped down to their underwear and Molly does the same, showing off a tiny leopard-print bra and matching panties that I think might actually be a bathing suit.
Sneaky. I wonder who tipped her off.
She probably threatened a PA.