Page 79 of Cuts like a Knife
Maylee catches sight of my face and just laughs.
“I’m not worried. I’m sure you have a million other things to write about. Besides, you’re one of the good ones, I can tell257.”
The sun’s started to dip toward the horizon and as we walk, the beach takes on a near-magical quality. The white sand shifts to shades of pink and gold as the last rays of the sun dance across the waves, casting a serene and peaceful glow over the entire scene.
At least, until you turn toward the resort. When you turn your back to the sea, you can see the barbecue set for Hot Slice. The lone PA has been joined by a gaggle of other show workers, and the big portable lights are blazing on the makeshift kitchens. People in black scurry to and fro like rats. Or crabs, maybe, considering the setting. A man’s voice drifts over to us on the warm Bahamian breeze.
“I don’t fucking care what her agent said, tell that b— to get her lazy a— down here right now right now,” the voice says, mingling with the beautiful sound of walkie-talkies crackling in the evening air.
Chapter Twenty One
“I suppose it’s time to get back,” Maylee says, setting off across the sand in the direction of the cabanas. “Back to life, back to un-reality,” she sings in a low voice to the tune of the Soul II Soul classic.
“I guess,” I say. “It’s been nice talking to you. You’re too good for this show, honestly.”
“It’s a necessary evil, I guess,” she replies. “Hey, who are you covering tomorrow? For the dates?”
Tomorrow, according to the schedule, is “date day”. Small crews will be heading out with various show “couples” to film them doing typical Bahamian tourist things, like feeding the pigs on Big Major Cay, swimming with nurse sharks at Compass Cay, or visiting the iguanas at Nicolas Cages Island. One couple will be going to the James Bond Thunder Ball Grotto.
Not me, though. I haven’t been invited. Journalists are invite-only for dates. Only the biggest publication reps allowed.
“Nobody. I’ll be hanging out here with the rest of the nobodies. I’m not high profile enough to cover any of the dates first-hand258.”
“Me too,” she says.
“What? You’re not going on a date?”
“Not for the show. Haven’t you noticed the cameras don’t really love me? I’m not working out on Hot Slice. I’m disposable. If this show had eliminations, I’d have been sent home on the first day.”
I laugh.
“I’m serious! I’m not starting fires or throwing eggs or having crying fits. I don’t warrant date footage. Which is fine. I’m planning on slipping away, doing something on my own like a regular person. You want to come? You and your boyfriend?”
“My boyfriend?”
“Dark-haired, tall, very foxy? I thought I saw you taking off with him last night. Then arriving back with him this morning. I figured. Do you work at the same place?”
She’s surprisingly observant.
“Hey, you’re the celebrity,” I say. “I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on you, not the other way around.”
“Sorry,” she shrugs. “Hard not to notice a guy who looks like that.”
“He’s just a friend. Old family friend. Adjacent industries. We happened to both end up here this week, and then there was an issue with my room and he—”
“You don’t have to explain. Just bring him. Tomorrow. Day trip. Normal. We can pretend we’re actually on vacation. Get away from the bullshit for awhile.”
It’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for. Relative private time to really nurture the connection and get some dirt. And a fun vacation activity as well. Of course, I’d been planning on slipping away alone, but as I watch the activity on the barbecue set, I think about how nice it sounds to have something planned with company. And not just company, but company and a buffer. If Drew’s available, I’ll be able to hang with him without giving the wrong idea or getting too romantic, we’ll get to enjoy the island a little, and I’ll be working at the same time. It’s … ideal, really.
I nod.
“Great,” she says. “So give me your phone.” I watch as she punches in her personal number and texts herself before handing my phone back to me.
MW: Hi. This is me.
“There. Now we have each other’s info,” she says. “I’ll text you in the morning.”
“You just … give your personal cell out like that? To a journalist?” I say, incredulous.
