“That’s not what I’m worried about. I just don’t want any.”
“I must insist,” Henry continued. “It makes the date better. You’re more open.”
“Trust me, I’m open without it,” I laughed. “Alcohol and I don’t mix well together. I gave it up more than a decade ago.”
I could tell Henry wanted to push the issue further, but Lamb gripped his arm then, a back-off look in his eyes. “She doesn’t want any, man.”
Lamb shot him a look, and Henry stepped away like a dog with his tail between his legs. I remember thinking Lamb handled the situation perfectly. If there was an award for best response to my I-don’t-drink announcement, Lamb would have won. Instead of recognizing that something wasn’t quite right, I was thinking of all the ways I’d reward him later.
Stuff, stuff, stuff.
11
Ann
The sun dances on my eyelids, turning my black world red. My eyes shutter open—a quick flip of the lids. I check my watch, recently converted to local time: 6:57 a.m. Right on schedule. I watch dust particles twirl in the morning light as I burrow deeper into the soft mattress of the king bed. My body feels heavy, detached. Like it could sink through the mattress, the floor, all the way to the sand below the mansion. Buried with the island’s secrets.
Even though jet lag and the lack of sleep has finally caught up with me, physically at least, my mind still races. Was Reese okay on her first date? What would she be doing at this time? Was that one handler, the one with the eye tattoo, acting suspicious? Did that one crew member stare at me just a little too long? What does Christina know, and why does she look so familiar?
And on top of all of that, I can’t pinpoint a good nickname for Nick yet. That seems inconsequential in comparison to everything else going on, but it’s bothering me. I never have trouble coming up with nicknames. It’s a perfectly normal name and a perfectly normal man.
He just rattled me, that’s all. I wasn’t prepared to meet anyone at that hour, much less someone who resembles an ex-boyfriend.
I don’t like to think about my ex-boyfriend. It was the first time—the only time—I was in love. But after meeting Nick, the memories flood my brain like a burst pipe, overwhelming my thoughts as I lie in bed.
I met him, my ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend, my senior year of college. I was frantically studying for the LSAT, applying to law school, and researching grad-school loans until my fingers wore my computer keys thin. He wasn’t quite as studious, and that fascinated me. Not at first, of course. It actually drove me crazy, and I told him as much when I banged on his door at 2:00 a.m. to inform him that some of us were trying to study.
“You’re studying at two in the morning?” He said with glassy eyes and an adorable, lopsided grin. “What for?”
“Well,” I stuttered, taken aback by his Hollywood good looks. “I’m taking the LSAT in a week.”
“Smart girl. I wouldn’t have expected that from someone who looks . . .” His ears reddened, an infectious and self-conscious laugh erupting from his chest. He turned away from me then and yelled at someone to turn the music down. When he faced me again, he leaned against the door frame and held my gaze a few seconds longer than normal. Likely because he was three sheets to the wind, but alluring all the same.
“Well, thanks,” I said, toes curled and chin down.
“Let me know how it goes,” he said as I walked off.
I did, eventually, let him know, after several pep talks in front of the mirror and more than one failed attempt to knock on his door. I was hesitant around him, at first, unaccustomed to the strange feeling of lust, but soon enough I couldn’t get enough of him. He was just so nice to be around, emanating a warmth that made everyone around him relax. He was naturally happy, and for the first time in my life, I was stupidly happy too. I stopped counting the cracks in the sidewalk every time I walked. I checked to make sure my hair dryer was unplugged only once before leaving the house. I skipped a few classes, not worrying if it’d affect my scholarship. At night, I let my perfect boyfriend spoon me while drinking a glass of red wine and watching meaningless TV.
The only issue: I’ve never been good at moderation. Like a pendulum, I always seem to swing to the extreme ends. A glass of wine with dinner transformed into an entire bottle. Then two bottles. Then shots of hard liquor just to get to sleep. I didn’t know what was happening to me, although I knew it wasn’t good. My boyfriend started to make comments like Maybe take it easy for a night or How about we just stick to wine?
I would have had to get sober eventually—let’s face it, I’m not the type of person who can have just one glass—but my downward spiral was hastened by the death of my parents eleven months later. What could have been a slow burn toward addiction catapulted into a small explosion as I attempted to numb the pain by looking at the bottom of the bottle. The relationship stayed intact, for a few months at least, but it was a ticking time bomb. I don’t blame him for leaving me, I really don’t. I would have left me too. But to say it made me gun-shy about entering into future relationships would be an understatement.
I eventually learned to date again, with Reese’s help. But it took years. I spent the first year out of college getting clean, and the three years after that focusing on law school. I kept my eye on the prize, graduated at the top of my class, and in those three years, I didn’t so much as kiss another man. Every time the situation arose, I was met with an onslaught of harrowing memories, the faint aroma of tequila, the taste of bile, and I ran as fast as my legs could take me. Literally. I started running regularly to stay grounded.
But that was a long time ago. Over a decade. I’ve moved on.
I swing my legs out of bed. Rub the remnants of sleep from my eyes.
From now on, my full focus needs to be on Reese. The interaction with Nick caught me off guard, but now I’ve processed it, catalogued it, and placed it in the do-not-disturb folder of my mind. No need to linger on the subject.
I throw the covers back and brush my feet across the soft carpet, letting my toes sink in.
I have one hour until I need to be outside for a group yoga session. It’s another chance for the participants to get to know one another before our first one-on-one dates. Half the group will proceed with their dates after yoga, while the other half will meet with Christina to discuss their progress, thoughts, and feelings. Then the groups will flip-flop. I’ll meet with Christina after my date with Chef Clay. Under normal circumstances, I’d balk at having to discuss my romantic feelings with a total stranger, but I’m actually looking forward to our conversation. She’s one of the few people who saw Reese in her final days, and she can offer insight into her mental state and last movements. I can’t be too obvious when I ask, of course—I’m here to ostensibly fall in love, and I don’t know the extent of Christina’s role in Reese’s disappearance, if she was involved at all. But Christina also knows Reese and I were close, so it would be just as strange to not inquire about my missing friend. I just need to find a healthy, discreet balance.
I stretch my arms above my head and try to get the blood moving. I need coffee desperately. The retreat staff is serving breakfast downstairs now, but I can’t chat with anyone just yet. It’s hard enough to wear a mask of normalcy right now, much less to feign giddiness. I take one last deep breath before getting up.
I can do this. I just need to put one foot in front of the other. One day at a time, as they say.
I dig through my purse for my cell phone. There’s no one else in the room, but just to be safe, I take it with me to the water closet and shut the door. I text Ned: Nothing new to report.
Even though it’s only the second day, I still slump at my lack of progress.
I go to check my email. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I’ve touched based with my clients, which is the longest I’ve been offline since I started at the firm. It feels strange to be so disconnected. I walked around all day feeling exposed, naked. I kept reaching for my “missing limb,
” instinctively panicking at its absence and then reminding myself it was supposed to be tucked away, out of sight.
As my email loads, I imagine all the fires that have popped up during my time away, bracing myself for the damage, the rush of hysterical emails. We need to talk ASAP. Urgent matter to discuss immediately. Why aren’t you picking up your phone?
But my inbox is fairly quiet. A few questions here and there, but nothing Ned can’t handle. And he did handle it—responding to each and every inquiry within a few hours of receiving it. I sigh with relief, proud of both Ned and my clients for remaining in calm water. I’m about to put my phone away when a FaceTime from Ned comes through.
Damn. I hate FaceTime. Texting is so much easier.
“Hey,” I say as I accept the call, a little embarrassed about being in the water closet. Luckily, Ned doesn’t seem to mind.
“Well hey there, Ann,” he says with a smile as wide as his face. He’s in his kitchen making a cup of coffee, the artificial lights creating a halo around his bald head and small kaleidoscopes in his coke-bottle glasses.
“Ned, are you working from home?”
“Yeah, I had a doctor’s appointment earlier, and it was easier to stay here. Also . . .” he continues, holding up what looks like the contract for Last Chance, “I had a crazy thought about this retreat, and wanted to share it with you.”
My breath catches in my chest. “Okay, shoot.”
“Well, I was watching The Bachelor with my wife the other night. You know, that reality dating show? The one where one guy picks a wife out of, like, twenty-five women?”
“I’m familiar.” I don’t watch it, but Reese and Honey enjoy it.
“Okay, so I realized that a lot of these rules in the contract are similar to what people on the show have to do. They can’t have phones, they can’t wear certain clothes.”
I’m about to dismiss this notion as crazy, as there’s no mention of cameras in the contract, but then I think about the clothes and makeup. Why else would we have to wear that stuff unless it was for an audience?
“Wouldn’t they have to say it’s a show?” I ask. As soon I say this, though, I know there are ways around that. I make a mental note to do a quick Google search of Hawaiian recording laws, since Phaux Island would have to abide by the closest state’s laws.
“I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet,” Ned says, “but I do think I’m onto something. I have a buddy from law school who moved out to L.A., does entertainment law out there, and he says some of this language is verbatim what is used on some reality dating shows.”
“So, what does this mean?” I try to make sense of this new information, this debatably insane theory, but my thoughts feel stuck. Like I’m wading through mud in my own brain.
“What if Reese is still on that island, safe and sound, and she’s just staying quiet until the show premieres?”
My stomach drops. Is this right? Could there be a perfectly benign reason Reese vanished?
“But,” I add, trying to make pieces from two different puzzles fit. “Why wouldn’t Reese just text me and say she was going to stay a bit longer? To vacation?”
Ned purses his lips. “I don’t know.”
“Why would someone use her license and impersonate her on the plane? That’s a misdemeanor in Tennessee.”
“I don’t know,” Ned repeats.
“Why is there a text message from her to a burner phone saying she needs to get away?” I can feel my voice rising as the sliver of hope dwindles away. “Why would her phone and the burner be dumped at Riverfront Park? Why would she get in a car that then exploded? Why—”
“You’re right, you’re right. It doesn’t add up,” Ned cuts in, his smile fading for the first time since the beginning of this call.
“I don’t think you’re wrong,” I say, not wanting him to get discouraged so soon. “I think we just need more information. I’ll see if I can find any signs of cameras on the island, or any mentions that align with show production.” Not like I know any, I add silently.
“Sure thing,” he says between sips of coffee. “I’m also going to review the public records of Last Chance and Phaux Island again. I can’t help feeling like we missed something.”
“Thanks, Ned. And any more information on Christina Wellington?”
“Not really.” He sighs. “I don’t know why Pat and I are having so much trouble. It’s like the woman didn’t exist until four years ago.”
“It’s suspicious, for sure.”
I hear movement outside my door, and I almost drop my phone in a panic.
“Someone’s here. I gotta go,” I whisper before hanging up.
I tuck my phone in my bra before exiting the water closet. As I’m coming out, I nearly run into Magda.
“Goddamnit,” I scream. I feel my phone slip, but I catch it by pretending to clutch my chest.
“Hey, vatch it,” she shouts.
“I’m sorry, but don’t you knock?”
“Tventy people. One Magda. No time,” she says with flailing arms. She squints at me. “Were you talking to yourself in there?”
Shit. So she heard me. I avoid her gaze and head toward my room. “Yes. You don’t talk to yourself when you’re getting ready?”
“Vhere are you going?” she calls after me.
“Putting a bra on.”
I continue clutching my chest as I hurry to the closet. I check to make sure she doesn’t follow me before stowing away my phone.
“Do we really need makeup for yoga anyway?” I shout. “I’m just going to sweat it off.”
“Zat’s vhy ve use vaterproof mascara.”
When I return to the bathroom, she’s holding a gold tube. She points the mascara at a set of folded clothes on the counter. “Zees are for you. From Stephanie.”
I inspect the thin spandex, unfolding it to reveal black shorts and a small white sports bra with the words ‘Last Chance’ across the breast. I dig the palms of my hands into my eye sockets at the thought of my chest in a white sports bra becoming transparent with perspiration.
“No. No. Absolutely not. I’m not wearing that.”
12
Reese
I was still basking in first-date bliss when the second night’s cocktail party started. Emotionally, Lamb and I were in tune. Our conversation was natural. We laughed at the same jokes. We even reminisced about similar experiences.
“I used to sign all of those school slips that required parent permission,” he admitted. “My parents didn’t believe in government education—blasphemy, they said. Obviously, it was against the law to keep me out of school, so I went, but my parents never wanted to hear about it.”
I too used to sign my own school slips. By the age of eight, I was washing my own clothes, packing my own lunch, and trekking a mile to and from the bus stop, even in the dead of winter. Not because my family didn’t believe in education, but simply because they didn’t care. My dad was gone, and my mom was always at some odd “job” or another. Or with her latest boyfriend. Or bailing my sister—technically half sister, on my mom’s side—out of jail, again.
“I used to worry that I’d end up like them,” he continued, staring absently into his drink. “That crazy was genetic, you know?”
My mouth was too dry to speak, so I nodded, thinking of all the times I found my mom or my sister passed out on the couch, bottle in hand, and I would swear on their grave that I’d never end up like that. (Spoiler: I did. Turns out addiction is genetic.)
It was eerie, how alike Lamb and I were. He was like a missing limb, syncing perfectly with my body, recounting past journeys and forgotten steps.
So I didn’t mind that he had to talk to other women that second night. I didn’t care that Pixie Cut was leaning into him, stroking his knee, her pouty mouth just a few inches from his ear. I knew that Lamb and I had something special, so talking with others and pretending to evaluate our options were just formalities. And besides, I liked getting to know the other participants.
I enjoyed meeting new people, from every walk of life, pleased to discover that even the most unsuspecting had an interesting tidbit or two to offer.
The second night wasn’t a round-robin style cocktail party, like the first night. It was more of a just-make-sure-to-say-hi-to-everyone kind of deal. It was out on the patio, mostly, near the infinity pool. Stephanie, the stylist, had dressed a lot of the women in sequins, so we shimmered like Christmas lights, the pool lights reflecting off of us in a hundred different ways. Drinks flowed, people got very tipsy. (Except me, obviously.) At one point, a woman with Rapunzel-like braids fell into the pool, and I had to fish her out before the weight of her sequins and her hair drowned her. Even Teddy—I had learned his name by that point—after being dragged to bed the night before for having one too many, was sweating scotch.
It wasn’t until the end of the night that I noticed him. Ann’s ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend. The boyfriend who ruined all other boyfriends. I’m not sure how I could have missed him earlier—I was too caught up in Lamb and Rapunzel and Teddy, I guess. My own silly thoughts. When I saw him, the party seemed to slow down. I was caught in a freeze frame. All movement stopped except for him. He gave me the once-over, raised his glass, and winked at me.
I first heard about Ann’s ex about a year into being her sponsor in AA. That’s quite a long time to leave out such a crucial piece of your history, but Ann was like that. She didn’t offer information willy-nilly. She was like a thousand-petal rose, and each time I peeled back one layer, there would be another, and another, that I’d have to work through. Before I met her, I had been in the program for two years and had two other sponsees, but—let’s face it—my work was shabby. Both girls I had sponsored ended up off the wagon within months, and although they tell you not to take it personally, it’s impossible not to. You come to care for your sponsees like children, and when they hurt, you hurt. So when I started helping Ann, I was determined to keep her on the straight and narrow. I took her through the Twelve Steps slowly, cautiously. She was like a wild animal, and too much too quickly would scare her off.
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