Page 90 of Cuts like a Knife
“Ah, I see why you’re confused,” Danny says. “It’s the American thing again. University in Canada is relatively affordable. You don’t go into debt for the rest of your life to attend. And I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I was eighteen. Didn’t figure it out until later.”
“What did you study?” I ask.
JP answers before Danny can. “Econ. We were both in Economics in undergrad, in addition to being waterpolo bros. And we both had kitchen jobs on the side. Learned the chef skills on the job. I wasn’t so interested in the fine dining thing. That’s his jam.”
“Fine dining!” Danny scoffs. “I don’t give a s— about fine dining. I just care about food.” He pauses for a second, looking at his forearms. Up close I can see that the sleeves of tattoos he has are all food-themed. There’s a red lobster, wielding a chef’s knife in it’s claw, a cob of corn, a whisk, various seafoods, candy colored macarons, a stove … it’s wild. “Obviously,” he adds with a laugh.
“And money,” says Maylee. “Don’t let them fool you. They’re both plenty interested in making money.”
“It’s hardly a secret, babe,” says Danny, taking her small hand in his huge one. “I just said we had Econ degrees.”
Everybody laughs. If mine is thin, no one seems to notice.
“So how did you land way down here?” I ask JP.
“I’ve got dual citizenship,” he explains. My Dad’s from here, my mum’s Canadian. But Montreal is cold as f—,” he laughs. After awhile, I needed a break from all the snow. This place doesn’t look like much,” he says, indicating the shack with it’s brightly-painted Good Eats! sign, “but it’s a cash cow. Exuma hosts some of the richest people in the world. And a lot of them are foodies. They like authentic hole-in-the-wall places like this. Even better when that they think none of their friends have discovered it yet. Speaking of unloved friends, we need to get a move-on if you’re going to keep a low profile folks,” he says. “Dump your dishes in the bin there and I’ll get you over to Stocking in no time.”
My mind races as we gather our dishes and dispose of them as instructed, then follow as JP leads the way down the dusty road, and around the corner to an understated wooden dock where a small white speedboat with an outboard motor is tied against the pilings.
I can’t believe what an a—hole I am. I took one look at JP, saw that he was Black, saw where he seemed to work, and made about a million instantaneous assumptions, all of them incorrect. Thank goodness I didn’t say anything aloud. There’s that. I can take comfort in that. My stupid, stereotypical brain farts can remain that — secret.
“Hop in,” he says, indicating that we should climb into the little white boat. He steps in himself, over the bow, then extends a hand to help Maylee step down while Danny busies himself untying various ropes.
“Hey,” Drew says softly in my ear. He’s standing right behind me. “You okay? You seem a little off.”
Trust him to notice. He notices everything. I nod289.
I move to step into the boat and Danny extends a hand to steady me as I step over the bow. Behind me, Drew hops aboard as well.
“Sit anywhere,” says Danny. “And grab a life jacket. There should be one under every seat.”
“They look silly, and we’ll be the only ones wearing them,” says Marlee, as she pulls hers on.
“Better safe,” says JP. “This is a short ride, but you just never know. A big bump, a rogue wave, or some idiot going too fast could be a problem. We can all look a little goofy for a few minutes. I personally think our lives are worth it, don’t you?”
No body answers, but we pull on the jackets as instructed.
Mine is too big, and as I look over at Drew’s I see that his is too small. He looks like he’s wearing a little’s kid’s jacket. I have the sudden urge to laugh as he catches my eye.
“Let’s switch,” he says, looking down at his own chest.
We do, as Maylee, Danny and JP, look on, chuckling.
Once we’re all in life-jackets of the right size, Drew sits right beside me in the bow. He tentatively takes my hand.
“I’m glad we’re having a day,” he says quietly, acting like the boyfriend he most definitely isn’t, but I don’t pull my hand away. What does it matter if these people see? They’re not from our real life. After this trip, we’ll probably never see them again. They already think we’re together. It doesn’t matter.
“You’re really fine?” He asks. “You’re sure?”
Am I? The wind has gone completely out of my sails.
These people are nice. And normal. They’re not pretending, they’re actually those things. Sure, they’re trying to promote their personal projects, but a book and a restaurant are hardly capitalistic nightmare ventures. Maylee and Danny are just … people. And my entire focus so far this morning has been trying to think up new and novel ways to cut them to shreds in print.
I don’t want to write mean stories about them I don’t want to expose them290. I’d only be doing it to save my own sorry a—. And the truth is, I deserved to be fired from Flash. It was all my fault.
Throwing these people under the bus to save my current job would just be me piling one more bad decision on the peak of Lex’s Bad Decision Mountain.
Hot Slice is so incredibly stupid. The production tactics are unethical. The producers don’t care about the safety or well-being of their own cast members, nor about the truth. They fabricate relationships, they cut footage out of context to serve their storylines, which are also entirely fabricated. They do whatever they have to do for ad dollars and profit. There’s no commitment to the truth, no loyalty. No morals or ethics to speak of. So why shouldn’t Maylee and Danny use them right back? What does any of this matter?
