Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
WANNABE — SPICE GIRLS
By the time Molly and I emerge from what can only be described as a Sad-Girl Beach Cry?, most of the nearby loungers have been claimed by boisterous (and, frankly, very nosy) families. It’s not exactly the ideal backdrop for a trauma dump a decade in the making.
But it doesn’t matter. I really didn’t care who heard us. Being with her, talking, sharing what each of our lives had looked like without the other one in them…it was cathartic.
I hadn’t planned to go into too much detail about my dad, but when I revealed that he’d died and she asked how I was doing, it all just came pouring out.
His stroke, the hospital stays, finances and bills, medical charts, research into what he would need to come home, and then, when that no longer looked possible, having tough conversations about what would come next.
So many memories that I had buried were unearthed the moment Molly’s arm snaked around my shoulder and pulled me close.
And she just listened. I knew she would. It was all I had wanted from the people around me when he passed. I needed them, not to try to fix things, but to sit with me in my grief, let me experience it for as long as I needed to without trying to pull me out, distract me, or change the subject.
We also talked about Colin, and what had happened. Apparently, she had tried to get him to change my mark. She spent the hour after he kicked us out of his office banging on his door, and then she showed up at his apartment later that night and they argued.
“Why didn’t you go to the school and explain what happened?” I asked.
“I tried, but they didn’t believe me. Everything he submitted looked legit.
He was buddies with a few of the deans on the academic integrity council as well, and I just felt like there was no use.
And then…I was too embarrassed to face you.
If I couldn’t prove it to them, how could I prove it to you? ”
“I would have believed you,” I murmured.
“Would you?”
“I should have.”
She had just given me a glassy, knowing smile and pulled me in tighter.
After two hours of talking, crying, and hugging, I finally start to notice our lounger sinking into the rocks, slanting slightly toward the shore. I curl precariously into Molly, our shoulders pressing into one another—something that should feel weird, but doesn’t anymore.
Just as I move to stand up, the pebbles behind us crunch. I know it’s Nolan before I even turn to see him—his familiar scent of spicy citrus mixing faintly with the brine of the sea on the breeze.
While my heart feels full from my talk with Molly, I’m relieved to see Nolan. His kind eyes find mine immediately, and a lopsided, cocky grin blooms across his face. All of it—all of him—makes my pulse race. I want to throw my arms around his neck and tackle him to the ground.
Obviously, I don’t.
I play it cool—sort of.
Spotting the tray of coffee he’s holding in one hand, and a bag of what I’m praying is pastries in the other, I practically moan.
“Oh, baby, you have never looked so good. Come here—”
But instead of reaching for Nolan, I swipe a coffee from the tray, pressing it against my cheek with a gentle caress like a tactless maniac.
“I see you’ve been reunited with your one true love,” Molly smirks, then turns to Nolan. “And you’re the chef.”
“Nolan,” he says, flashing her a warm smile. “I got you coffee, too.”
“Oh, Chlo, this guy is a keeper.” Molly’s head swivels toward me, eyes wide, as if astonished by the existence of such a man—one who brings coffee, unbidden, to his not-girlfriend’s-ex-best-friend-turned-archnemesis-turned-friend-again.
It’s thoughtful, is all I’m saying.
“I had a feeling you two would sort things out,” Nolan says, handing her a cup and passing me the bag. “And I know we’re not in France, but—”
I rip it open and am immediately hit with the most heavenly aroma known to man. “Chocolate croissants!”
“Figured you’d like that,” he chuckles as I dig aggressively into the bag. I pass Molly a pastry and practically inhale my own in under a minute.
“So…what’s the plan?” Nolan asks, giving me a cautious look.
I appreciate his trepidation, because in the two hours we’ve spent together this morning, I still haven’t brought up going back to the ship with Molly.
“I know you came to get me,” Molly says, her mouth half-full of croissant. “But I don’t know if I want to go back.”
“Why not?” It’s Nolan who asks instead of me, and I’m grateful. I need to look out for my job, but I’m not going to push Molly to go back if she doesn’t want to. I already wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. I won’t make that mistake again.
“I’m not stupid—I know what Demi is trying to do,” Molly says, rolling her eyes and taking a long sip of her coffee.
“I didn’t really care at first. I get how this business works, so I gave her what she wanted because I’m hoping that whatever goes on with this season will help me score some brand deals. ”
“You’re an influencer?” I ask, surprised.
“Not yet,” she smirks, but it fades quickly. “I played up the villain role for Demi. I acted out when she wanted me to, I gave her good sound bites and reactions, things that I know will make it into the show. But the more I give her, the more…aggressive…she’s getting with her demands.”
“What do you mean?” I hiss, my temper starting to flare. I already hated Demi, but if she had done anything cruel to Molly…I don’t know that I can let it go.
“Every time we’ve shot a confessional recently, she’s asked questions she knows will trigger me,” Molly explains.
“Like what?” Nolan asks as Molly stands, the chaise creaking mercilessly as she shifts her weight—what are these things made of, birch bark?
“Well, yesterday, before that stupid excursion, she decided to do a last-minute confessional. I don’t even know how she found out about Morgan—I never told anyone about her.
And she’s been staying with her friend’s family for the last three weeks—they think I’m working overseas.
So, when she brought up my daughter, I was confused.
It caught me off guard. She started making comments about my ‘priorities,’ insinuating that I’m a bad mother who abandoned my daughter for clout. ”
There are tears in Molly’s eyes as she recounts what happened. I, on the other hand, am seething. Demi isn’t just being manipulative now. She sees someone who is willing to do what she asks and is taking advantage of that, demanding far more than she needs to. She’s greedy for emotional turmoil.
“I think she wants to break you,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “She wants a meltdown.”
“That’s how it feels,” Molly agrees, nodding. “She’s not just turning me into a villain anymore, Chloe. She’s going to make me look like an irresponsible mother. And she’s going to drag Morgan into all of this.”
“No, she won’t,” I say, wringing my hands distractedly. “Demi wanted to turn you into a villain, Molly. But like she told me, a villain without emotion is just evil. It’s not earned.”
It’s the same way that reality TV isn’t really about what happens on the show, on the ship, with those people.
It’s about the audience—the narratives they want to see played out for them so they can live out their fantasy, or see someone acting worse than they do to feel better about themselves.
To feel justified. That’s why it works, that’s why reality TV is such a sensation—because it’s sensational.
It speaks to a part of ourselves that we never really give voice to.
“The problem is that your villain arc isn’t believable,” I continue.
“Why?” Molly and Nolan ask at the same time.
“Because… You’re not a villain, not yet. A bitch? Sure. Catty? Maybe.” Molly smirks, and Nolan chuckles. “But nothing you’ve done so far has made you villainous enough. It’s why Demi wouldn’t stop hounding me for information that might trigger you once she realized we knew each other.”
“She did?” Molly asks, genuine shock flashing in her eyes.
“Yeah. I couldn’t figure out why she was so insistent…”
I had guessed it was because Demi surmised that I already thought of Molly as a villain myself.
But I realize now it was because she needed more information.
She needed ammo that would help make Molly act the part.
Molly didn’t sound like a villain; she just sounded like a flawed human being. Demi knew this, and she was desperate.
“Demi didn’t think that I was interested enough in Duncan—or at least, that’s what she said to me, anyway.”
“Yeah, and it was strange that Duncan’s choice for the wine tour was made the night before… Obviously, that was a producer move. What did you say when Demi brought up Morgan?” I ask thoughtfully.
A flicker of an idea, like kindling sparking into flame, begins to build in my mind.
“I told her to fuck off.” Nolan snorts mid-sip of coffee, and I have to beat on his back until he stops coughing.
When he can breathe again, he croaks out, “’Atta girl,” and I smile.
“I think Demi and Greta have been working together to get you voted off tonight. Whatever you said to Demi pissed her off—she knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted from you, so she figured if they could get Duncan interested in Carly, you’ll get voted off tonight.”
“So, I’m done, then,” Molly says solemnly. “I can go home. I don’t need to go back to the ship.” Relief seems to wash over her face, and I wince.
“But…you do,” I say hesitantly.
“Why?”
“You’re under contract. If you don’t go back, even if you’re just going back to get eliminated, you’ll be in breach of that contract and they can sue you.”
“Shit.” Molly looks gutted. Panic creases her brows, and she begins to wring her hands. “Okay, well, that part is not good. But…I could get a lawyer. I could explain to them what Demi was doing. I could fight it.”
Nolan clears his throat, catching Molly’s attention briefly enough to say, “Chloe will also lose her job if you don’t go back.”
Molly freezes, whipping her head around to look at me in concern.
“Nolan! I wasn’t going to tell her that part,” I huff.
“What? Why not?” Molly asks, aghast.
“Because I don’t want you to make a decision based on my fate.”
“Respectfully, Chloe? But fuck that,” she scoffs. “Obviously, I don’t want to get you fired. I just…I don’t know if I have it in me to go back just to get kicked off. It’s the principle of it. I’d go back, if I knew I had a shot at staying.”
“And I don’t care if I lose this job. Not if you don’t want to return to the ship. But…I think I might have an idea,” I say carefully. She looks at me, her head cocked and her gaze sharp, a single, sculpted brow arched high.
“I’m listening…”
“How do you feel about grand gestures?”