Chapter 22
I have no idea whose brilliant idea it was to take the official wedding photos in Cozumel.
An island.
One you can only get to by boat.
After an hour-long car ride to Playa del Carmen.
And that’s if you’re lucky, considering the chaotic traffic in the hotel zone, which turned our entire trip here into one long traffic jam surrounded by water on both sides.
But fine, deep breath. We made it.
First came the van carrying the photography team, followed by a convoy of rental cars for the occasion.
Besides the same twenty people who are crammed into the villa turning this whole experience into a full-on Big Brother episode, today we’re also joined by more of the bride and groom’s close friends and the rest of the family.
Uncles, distant cousins, and a parade of adorable 3-feet-tall flower girls.
The sea is just as blue and crystal clear as the one we left behind in Cancún, I know. But it’s gorgeous all the same. People spend hours on Photoshop trying to get this perfect shade of greenish blue, bright and translucent like a tourmaline gemstone.
So here we are. Sun outside, us trying to control the oiliness on our faces with layer after layer of powder while we’re surrounded by one giant, refreshing tourmaline.
Mila hired two teams for the wedding. One for the official photos, where we all have to look cute and coordinated.
So today, the photographer brought two makeup artists (which, considering my sunburned face, Connor’s scorched eyebrows, and the bride’s black eye, still feels like there’s not enough assistance), a hairstylist, a wardrobe stylist, and the cameraman with his assistant for the ground and drone footage.
The second team is for the candid shots, and it’s composed of a half-hippie bearded guy and his girlfriend in a long dress with flowers in her hair. And that’s not even counting the staff serving snacks and drinks during the boat ride.
Yeah, we’re definitely way over capacity right now.
At this point, I’m just grateful the sea is calm, because somehow we managed to make it to Cozumel in one piece.
From afar, you’d think we’re just a group of tourists enjoying the white sandy beach, visiting the island’s ruins and lagoons, and then heading to a beach club for seafood with a privileged view. But don’t be fooled, I’ve already changed my outfit four times.
All of them in different shades of pink.
Long dress, dusty rose.
Short dress, baby pink.
Swimsuit, hot pink.
Cover-up, blush pink.
I’m never wearing pink again in my life.
I don’t even want to imagine how the groomsmen feel in their matching baby-pink shorts. Well, Jasper has already had seventeen Mimosas today, so I don’t think any of them are feeling much of anything.
The island photos wrap exactly forty minutes before sunset, because that’s the scheduled time for us to head back to the boat and prepare for another million photos bathed in the warm colors of the sky as the sun sets over the water.
Off I go to put on yet another pink outfit and get a quick round of hair and makeup. It’s a long, hot, chaotic day, and I’m exhausted.
Mr. Kyle has already called me three times, but I couldn’t answer because I was too busy holding glasses of warm Champagne and forcing a smile of profound joy while ignoring the fact that sweat was dripping from absolutely every orifice on my body.
I also spent the day avoiding Jasper Hassmann like he was the plague, pretending my heart didn’t skip a beat every time he walked by. Or every time he looked at me. Or even in the simplest moments when I merely remembered his existence.
Just hearing his name was enough to make the stupid butterflies in my stomach start jumping up and down like crazy – something you absolutely do not want happening after eating an absurd amount of shellfish and hopping onto a crowded boat.
While the other guests are finishing getting ready for the sunset photoshoot, I manage to escape so I could answer call number four.
How the hell is it that my shitty phone company won’t let me send a single message because I forgot to activate international roaming before traveling, but has absolutely no problem letting me receive calls when I’m apparently in the middle of the fucking ocean?
I go searching for an empty corner on the boat, which is almost impossible, and end up in a narrow hallway with a wooden bench separating the laundry room from a tiny bathroom. No one is here, at least, so it’ll have to do.
“Sawyer?” he exclaims before I can even say hello.
I sit on the bench, wearing an expression that’s a mix of boredom and impatience as I ask, “Let me guess, there’s some emergency only I can fix, Mr. Kyle?”
“You read my mind!”
Of course I did.
I stand up, suddenly tempted to throw my phone out the tiny window. I don’t even know if the stupid little thing opens, but it’s all I wanna do right now.
“The argument between Federer and Nadal in the stands at the French tournament,” he informs me, in that flustered tone of someone who’s talking, sure, but has absolutely zero interest in hearing what you have to say in response.
The what now? I want to ask, but I remember that, the last time I did that, I got a lecture for not knowing what was going on in the company that pays all my bills.
When was I ever na?ve enough to believe Julie Sawyer could take a week off without needing to be up to date on every piece of sports news in the world? And apparently, when I say every piece, I really mean every piece.
And that includes gossip involving two retired tennis players.
Probably the greatest male tennis players of all time, sure, but still… retired.
“We secured a private interview after the press conference, but Nadal said he’ll only speak if it’s with you, so I need your info to book the flight.”
I push on the window to see if it opens.
“My flight?” I ask, completely disoriented.
“The tournament isn’t over and the press conference is in Paris on Saturday.”
Saturday.
I swallow hard, my body collapsing back onto the bench.
“Saturday is my best friend’s wedding, Mr. Kyle.”
“I know, Sawyer. But we’re talking about your career here.”
No, we’re not, Mr. Kyle. We’re talking about yours.
About the sponsors who’ll be dying to invest in a newspaper that gets an exclusive with the greatest tennis player in the world after a controversy.
I’m almost certain Nadal remembers me because of a charity kayak race we participated in last year, when his life-jacket buckle got tangled in my hair, and that’s why he agreed to the interview. Even so, that does absolutely nothing for me.
It does everything for him.
I want to answer immediately, but two things happen at the same time that stop me. First, my body seems to act on its own, standing abruptly to try the window again. Second, Jasper walks down the stairs on his way to the bathroom. He freezes the moment he sees me.
His skin is even more tanned now, contrasting with the loose white linen shirt he’s wearing, sleeves rolled up, looking cool and effortless. It also contrasts with the white-and-pink striped swim shorts he has on.
Looking like a fucking Ken doll – Mila’s fault – and still absolutely gorgeous.
He takes a second to analyze what I’m doing: hand on the window, a stunned expression on my face. I pull my hand back immediately, freeing it so I can wave frantically, trying to shoo him away.
And what does he do, you may ask? Does he leave?
No. Of course not.
He leans against the wall and crosses his arms, basically saying he’s not going anywhere.
Jasper knows exactly who I’m talking to.
“Miss Sawyer, are you listening to me?” my boss asks on the other end of the line, and Jasper rolls his eyes.
And here we go again! What does he think he’s going to do this time? Turn on the boat’s speakers? Call the coast guard?
Get out, I mouth silently to Jasper.
“I’m here,” I answer that one out loud, trying to buy time and think.
Hang up, Jasper mouths back.
And, to make sure I understand, he lifts an invisible phone with his hand, looks at the invisible screen, taps the invisible button, then pretends to toss the invisible phone out the window.
He knows exactly who I’m talking to.
I wave him off again.
I’m busy, I mouth again.
“I already notified the travel department and they’re just waiting for your passport number, Miss Sawyer.”
My God, I can’t believe this.
Is he serious?
Is he really serious?
I know it’s Paris and I know it’s Rafael Nadal, and my boss would never, never ever, let me take a trip if Nadal had agreed to talk to him instead of me.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. One I’ll probably never get again within the All-Star Chronicles.
But honestly, what he’s asking… I just can’t do it.
“Mr. Kyle, I really can’t…”
Hang up already, Jasper gestures.
Shut up. Which is stupid to say, because technically he’s not saying anything.
“There has to be another way.”
“There is no other way.”
There’s always another way, Jasper joins the conversation.
Jasper, go away!
No, he responds, completely unfazed.
I roll my eyes at him, trying to ignore his presence and focus on the call with my boss. I’m already distressed enough about all of this without having to deal with the Assman.
“I can do an online interview,” I suggest, almost begging now. “I can reschedule with him on any of the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year, Mr. Kyle, but I can’t–“
“It’s almost like you don’t care about the job we do, Miss Sawyer,” Mr. Kyle cuts me off immediately.
He can go fuck himself, Jasper mouths again.
And all I can do is huff even harder.
“Shut the fuck up!” I explode.
Jasper’s eyes widen. My heart immediately skips a million beats.
Oh shit!
I said that out loud, didn’t I?
“Excuse me, Miss Sawyer?”
Shit!
The Assman, of course, just shrugs, innocent as ever.
He could at least give me some half-assed excuse to help me out of this, but he doesn’t want to.
He wants me to get screwed just like Mr. Kyle does.
I take a deep breath, trying to control my heart while pinching the bridge of my nose, because somehow it feels like that might keep my head from exploding.
“Miss Sawyer!” my boss yells on the other end.
His voice makes my whole body jolt, reminding me of every stressful, desperate moment I’ve lived in the six years I’ve worked at the Chronicles, all of which made me feel exactly like this.
Suddenly, I realize I’ve never been as happy to have said something out loud as I am right now.
“You know what, Mr. Kyle?” my mouth says, everything out loud now, faster than my brain can process.
“It’s exactly what you heard: Shut the fuck up!
Not once. Not once in the six years I’ve worked for you, six years of dedication and hard work, have I gotten a bonus or a promotion. I’ve never even gotten a thank you.”
I breathe, trying to recover.
And right when I think I’m about to regret everything I’ve said, my mouth decides to keep going, “I asked for one week, Mr. Kyle. One week off to be a bridesmaid at my friend’s wedding.
And I didn’t even get that, because it’s obvious to both of us that nothing on this shitty website works without me.
Whether it’s fixing some article about some dead athlete that looks like it was written by a five-year-old.
Or interviewing the greatest tennis player of all time because he hates everyone in that office except me, ever since that fiasco over the Australian Open that you wrote and I had to fix.
That’s why he agreed to be interviewed by me. Because he said on international television that Nadal was the most overrated athlete of the moment, and I was the only one able to smooth things over because I almost lost half my hair in his life jacket at a charity event.
“So if that’s what you think, that I don’t care about the job, then you can take my paycheck with that shitty salary you give me every month and shove it straight up your ass.
” Jasper chokes on his own saliva when I say that.
And even then, I can’t stop the next words from coming out, “Because I am, as of right now, quitting.”
And instead of hanging up, I throw the phone with all the strength I have through the window.