Chapter Six
Before the driver can make it around the car, the rear door swings open.
A pair of long, taut legs wink into existence, clad in multipocketed canvas expedition shorts that hit at the precise point on her midthigh where a pair of six-guns should be strapped.
Those cream socks ruched over black leather hiking boots will stay clean for about six minutes out here.
Her cropped olive-green jacket sits just off her shoulders, her body-skimming tank top teasing her Hollywood collarbones and news anchor arms. The breeze feels engineered to ruffle her thick platinum bob.
The entire camp stands riveted by the performance.
Valid—Sloane is an actor. Or she was, and she will be again soon, if Nighthawke —her new movie—does well.
She plays the titular character, a dystopian future James Bond type.
In the trailer, she’s dirty, bloody, and constantly biting some kind of ordnance.
She’s far from dirty now. Sloane Summers is seven years older than me—forty, if her birth date on IMDb is correct—but my sister’s skin is as smooth and glowing as the epidermis of a freshly decanted cyborg.
“Ahhhh, Lara Croft!” Lori blurts, pointing.
“Lori!” Mitch mutters, grabbing her arm.
“But…” Lori mimes operating a video game controller.
I can’t help barking out a nervous laugh.
Sloane’s dawn-sky eyes swing to me, jumping from my identical pale-blue irises to my hair, chin, clothes, shoes. For a long, silent second, her flat mouth makes me think she’s going to get right back in the car and drive away.
But she tips her head back and laughs, throaty and musical, and wow , can she project.
Everyone laughs with her. Even me, albeit through gut-churning emotion. I knew we looked alike, but actually seeing my cheekbones on her face feels like staring at an alternate-universe version of myself.
What if my mom, like Sloane’s, had had the good sense to leave my dad in time to keep his name off my birth certificate? What if Mom had taken me far away, and we, too, had had lawyers to keep us safe?
A stupidly handsome man, maybe thirtyish, joins Sloane.
His light brown skin and wavy black hair shine with the same Hollywood glow she has, and in the most moneyed flex I’ve ever seen, he’s holding a smartphone with no case.
Dereck Burgos plays Nighthawke’s doomed lover—a very James Bond touch, killing off the love interest—in the film that’s supposed to launch both of them to silver-screen stardom.
According to the websites I definitely do not use to stalk Sloane’s career, they’ve been dating since filming wrapped last summer.
“Hi, everyone, sorry we’re late! I’m Sloane, and this is Dereck. We’re so excited to be here!”
McHuge makes his way through the swarm of curious people.
Sloane’s cut her hair since Cow Pie High , and her face has morphed from its softer, rounder teenaged shape to a sharper cheekbones-forward look, but she’s recognizable enough that some of the guests are squinting, obviously trying to place her.
“Dr. McHugh! I can’t believe it’s you,” she squeals, pulling him into a hug. That’s another favor I owe her—for acting like McHuge is a celebrity in front of the other guests.
Delighted, he squeezes her in return. I see the moment Sloane stops acting and lets her back bow into the pleasure of McHuge’s embrace.
I can’t imagine he’s gotten less good at hugging since last year.
It’s like he can sense some change in your vibrations when he’s reached the perfect amount of pressure, holding it steady until you’re high on wraparound warmth and security.
Sloane laughs as she steps away, glowing.
Dereck pockets his naked phone and reaches out for a quick handshake.
I dart forward. “Welcome to the Love Boat! I’m Stellar. I’ll bring your bags to the Sunset Dome.”
“I can carry my own—” Sloane begins, reaching for the designer-logoed weekender topmost on the stack assembled by the driver.
“I insist,” I say, grabbing it.
“Of course. Thank you.” Her gaze moves from my serviceable French braid, across the darkening roots of my undercut, to the stainless steel barbells in my cartilage piercings.
Her eyes pause on a twining hexagonal circuit in my sleeve tattoo.
I feel the differences between us settle hard on my shoulders.
“The camp is beautiful . I can’t tell you how excited I am about your program.” She’s got a sanitized, placeless accent that immediately makes me hyperaware of the way I pronounce the letter O . Canadian accents are cute. I prefer not to be cute.
Dereck seems less excited to be here, tapping his phone restlessly through the pocket of his streamlined joggers.
“Where can I get a signal around here?” He sounds straight out of Brooklyn or the Bronx or possibly Queens—someplace where, if you guess the wrong borough, they never speak to you again.
“We encourage clients to unplug, but if you need to call or text, we can drive you to a place where there’s reception. Usually.”
“What about streaming?”
“Um, that can be tricky on the cellular network up here. But we have a movie night planned, weather permitting.”
“Right.” He drops behind, waving his phone overhead, trying to catch stray bars.
We enter the clearing for Sunset Dome—an audacious name for a tent, but McHuge claims language inspires thought.
“I’m sorry our flight was delayed,” Sloane says. “I hoped we’d have some time to hang out privately.”
“It’s fine,” I say, not meaning for it to sound like “ fine ,” but it does. “I appreciate you being here.”
A faint line dares to pop up between her eyebrows. “Stellar. I don’t know why it feels like we’re fighting. I’m not here for that. I’m here because I promised I’d always help you, if I could. And because I’d like to get to know you.”
I hoped for something from her once. Since then, I’ve learned you can’t solve problems by trying the same thing over and over again.
I set Sloane’s luggage on the raised platform, unzip the front opening of her tent, and heft the bags onto the chest of drawers to the right of the entrance.
“Sloane, if you’re worried I’m harboring resentment, that’s really not the case.
I know the value of your time, and I promise to pay you back the second I’m able.
” Sloane might call this a favor, but we both know I’ve taken out a loan against our scrap of shared DNA.
Like mine, Sloane’s features aren’t exactly pretty. A hundred years ago, her high cheekbones, strong nose, wide mouth, and Dad’s square jaw would’ve gotten her called handsome . An injured expression works well on her precisely because you’d expect a face like that to stay stoic.
“You don’t have to pay me back for anything. You’re my only—”
My finger flies to my lips: Shhhh .
Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper. “Sister.”
The Love Boat crew all know who Sloane is, but she and I agreed not to reveal our relationship to the other guests. An endorsement will look stronger if it’s not a family affair.
“I already have a sister,” I say, because Liz would call me her sister too.
“Like I said, this means the world to McHuge and me. We’re here to provide a transformative experience and to ensure our future brand will reflect positively on yours.
For now, I’d better let you change. I suggest a long-sleeved sun shirt, a hat that won’t blow away, and water shoes.
Don’t put sunscreen above your eyebrows; it’ll get in your eyes. I’ll see you at the shore in five.”
Sloane’s chin tightens a fraction, her lips pressing together.
I know that face. I’ve seen it in the mirror during my residency, on days I ducked into the bathroom to stop myself from crying after particularly harsh criticism from my staff. It’s not sad, though. It’s a Terminator robot calculating where it can reacquire Sarah Connor.
“Sure,” Sloane agrees, sounding damn disingenuous for someone with years of acting experience. “Oh, isn’t it pretty in here. You did a beautiful job.”
Until this moment, I thought the tents were beautiful.
The Sunset Dome is every shade of orange, from the pale-coral gauze draped in generous swoops against the white walls to the warm ginger-brown of the rug.
It’s stuffed with luxe throws and fat cushions Jasvinder taught me to fluff, then chop with my hand to make soft folds.
There’s real furniture—a metal dresser with faux leather pulls, a pair of canvas chairs in bright tangerine.
But Sloane standing here with her sleek neutral outfit and her lips pressed together makes the Sunset Dome look lesser-than. Country. Cheap.
I can’t imagine her staying at my crappy apartment. Or see myself in her Malibu guesthouse, picking out the perfect shoes for a dinner that costs more than I make in a month.
I don’t want a future where I’m eager to keep in touch with her, like I was eager to be hired at Grey Tusk General—excited to join committees and take the projects no one wanted and let a million sketchy things slide in the name of paying my dues.
A year from now, I don’t want to look at our texts and realize I’m initiating all the conversations.
It’s better if we understand exactly what we have to offer each other and for how long. It can be like a one-night stand: she wants forgiveness or whatever; I need a celebrity jump start for the Love Boat. We can part ways once our conditions are satisfied.
“Who’s in the tent next door?” Dereck asks, ducking through the flap.
“In the Sky Dome? Our guests had a last-minute scheduling conflict and won’t be here.” Goodbye to Renee’s team, hello to my new secret bedroom. Chores mean McHuge and I get up first and go to bed last. No one will know if I bunk in there for a night or six.
“Would you mind if I use it? Sloane and I prefer to stretch out.”
My fantasy of curling up safely alone wafts away, replaced with a sleeping bag barely an arm’s reach from McHuge.