I handed it to her without meeting her gaze.
“That sounds great,” she said as she typed. “I actually don’t drink, but the food looks delicious. Can’t wait to see you.”
“What?” I glanced up then, eyebrows halfway up my forehead.
“It’s better this way, trust me. Now he knows in advance, so you don’t have to get all awkward and tell him in person. If he asks why, just say it’s healthier for you not to. I’ve tried a hundred different explanations, and that one has by far the best results. And eventually, if he earns your trust, then you can tell him your story.”
I propped myself on my elbows, mouth downturned.
“There are a lot of things I don’t know,” she continued. “But I do know dating, and there are plenty of guys out there who don’t care if you’re sober. Do you believe me?”
“Yeah.” I exhaled. “You’ve slept with half of Nashville.”
“Hey.” She straightened her posture. “I’m a beautiful, confident woman who enjoys sex. Safe sex. And you should too.”
“Reese?” My eyes flitted downward. “I don’t know how to have sex sober. I don’t know if I . . .” I straightened my duvet. “I don’t know if I would be any good at it.”
Reese shook her arm, which was adorned in dozens of bangles. She reached for her constant—the bracelet with an orange marigold—and took it off.
“Here,” she said as she slipped it on my wrist. “This is my good-luck bracelet. It’s scientifically impossible to be bad in bed with this on you.”
I tried to respond, to say thank you, but a lump blocked my throat.
“Just give it back in the morning.” Reese winked.
I reach for my wrist now—bare except for my watch—and feel the sting of the bracelet’s absence.
“Hey.” Nick grabs my waist and kisses me on the cheek. As he smiles, that adorable lopsided smile, I remind myself that I am anxious, not excited.
“Hey, yourself. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”
“Henry, what time is it?” Nick asks over his shoulder. I notice Henry for the first time, hidden in the shadow of the doorway. My shoulders slump. I forgot about the required chaperone on one-on-one dates. Henry’s better than the handler who accompanied my time with Clay, but any onlooker makes a conversation difficult. Perhaps they’re there as the party needed for recording consent. The realization almost takes my breath away.
“Ten fifty-nine,” Henry says as he crosses his arms and leans against the door frame.
“Should be any minute then.” Nick grins.
We’re hit with a gust of wind and a quick chopping noise. I squint toward the sky to see a helicopter looming above. Nick takes my hand, pulls me toward the fountain for cover. As the helicopter nears the ground, we’re enveloped in a vortex of wind, debris, and yellow marigolds.
“Is this for us?” I exclaim.
“It is.” He laughs, protecting my face from the flying flowers with his hand.
Once the aircraft lands, a snowy-haired man with aviator glasses and a green jumpsuit emerges from the pilot’s seat, like a scene out of Top Gun. I snort. My life is one seriously warped cliché right now.
And then I remember something Reese said, after watching one of those dating reality shows. They always travel by helicopter. Isn’t that romantic?
What did Reese get herself into? What did I get into? And why did I not just attend when she wanted me to?
The pilot saunters toward us, introduces himself with a firm handshake, and gestures toward our ride. I can barely hear him over the roar of the rotating blades. Even after I put on my headset, I have to listen carefully to hear the safety protocols.
“You think this is safe?” I scream at Nick, my hair flying, as we finish strapping ourselves into the back of the rotorcraft. Thankfully, Henry is in the front, giving us some semblance of privacy.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Oh, there are a few reasons that come to mind, I think as we lurch higher and higher above the mansion. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to settle my stomach and my nerves. After a minute, Nick nudges me.
“Look,” he yells, jabbing his tanned index finger at the window. I lean over him to see where he’s pointing, and despite myself, I am taken aback by the aerial view. Every aspect of the island appears in technicolor: the blue ocean stands in stark contrast to the dove-white sand, which contrasts again with the dense green vegetation that grows on the mainland. It’s all so picturesque, as if someone painted a portrait of the archetypal tropical paradise and saturated each color to its perfect intensity.
And yet the stillness makes me shudder.
“What’s that over there?” I point to an enormous structure on the opposite side of the island, the only sign of civilization apart from the mansion and a couple boats off the shore.
“Those are additional rooms for the staff,” the pilot shouts. “We don’t all fit in the primary building. In front you can see the crops we grow on the island. We have to ship a lot of food and supplies in, but that gets expensive, so we cultivate as much as we can.”
I stare at the rows of crops, as small as an ant farm from this distance.
“How far is that from the mansion?” I yell back.
“About thirty miles. The length of the island.”
My stomach sinks. I can run long stretches—twelve or thirteen if it’s a good day—but I can’t run thirty miles at once. Somehow, I need to get to that building.
“Hold on, we have a gust of wind coming our way,” the pilot announces.
The helicopter teeters, drops quickly, and my insides liquefy. My breath catches in my throat. Nick squeezes my hand, interlocking his fingers in mine. I squeeze back, but only because I’m terrified.
21
Ann
My legs are still wobbly as we make our way to an extravagant tiki hut about ten miles from the mansion, complete with wooden tables, chairs, and a fully stocked bar in the center. The roof is thatched with palm fronds, which is why I didn’t notice it from the helicopter. According to the pilot, there are four of these huts scattered on the island—perfect for one-on-one dates. If the open layout is the same, then there’s nowhere to hide in any of them. I scan the area all the same.
We take a seat with a view of the ocean. Henry sits on the opposite side of the hut, his face partially obscured by the bar. Only his green eye is visible. A single bartender mans the drinks. He’s a strange-looking man with protruding eyes. He looks amphibious with his clown nose and pencil-thin lips. He slithers toward us with two glasses of water.
“My name is Greg,” he croaks as he approaches our table. “What can I get you? We have every drink you can think of.”
“Scotch on the rocks, thanks,” Nick replies.
“Ginger ale would be great,” I mutter.
Nick’s brow wrinkles as Greg disappears.
“You still feeling queasy?”
“Just a little bit. It’ll pass.” I need a distraction so I don’t vomit. “So, now that we’re finally alone and I can hear you, tell me how you managed this last-minute switch of dates.”
“I told you.” Nick smirks. “I asked Christina for a favor.”
“Christina doesn’t seem like the type that grants favors,” I peer back at him as I take a sip of water.
“Well, I’ve known her for a while. I know how to ask nicely.”
The glass slips out of my hand, cascading water all over the table and my sundress. The liquid is ice cold, and I shoot up as it needles into my lap. Greg rushes over with an armful of cloth napkins. Nick helps him dab the table while I do my best to dry myself off.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble. I notice Henry half standing across the room, determining whether to come over or not. “I guess I’m still feeling a little shaky after the helicopter.”
“It’s okay,” Nick says. “Just a little water.” He hands the now sopping-wet napkins back to Greg, nods toward the bar. Greg takes the hint and leaves with the wet mess.
“So, um, how do you know Christina?” I keep my eyes on my lap as I continue to blot.
“She used to work with my parents in L.A. I don’t know her super well, I didn’t mean to imply that. She just helped them with their wardrobes sometimes.”
“She was a stylist?” That would explain her obsession with dressing us.
“Costume consultant on set. My parents are actors.” He says it quickly: myparentsareactors.
“Oh, yeah? What have they been in? Anything I’ve heard of?”
Nick stares at his lap, smooths his new napkin.
“Um, yeah. Maybe.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
“Uh, let’s see. My dad was in Happily Ever After.”
For a rare moment, I forget about Reese. “I love that movie. I made my parents watch it so many times, they started quoting it when it came on. Who did your dad play?”
I expect him to say a minor, obscure role. He pauses, scratches his head, and utters the main character’s name. My jaw drops.
“Wait. So your dad is Frank Keyser?”
Nick takes a sip of water, nods sheepishly. I try not to gape, but it’s difficult. Frank Keyser is one of the most well-known actors in Hollywood. That guy isn’t some run-of-the-mill stage actor—he’s a huge deal. I used to daydream about him when I was a kid. He was my first celebrity crush.
“Does that mean your mom is Bonnie Ann Tyler?” Another actor. Her split with Frank Keyser dominated headlines fifteen years ago—it was all the tabloids could talk about.
“Yep, that’s her.” He loosens his collar, watches his ice float in his glass.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to gawk. It just caught me off guard. So, Christina was in costumes for films? And that’s how you met her?”
“Yeah, she was working as an intern on the set of Happily Ever After. I was little then—only seven or eight—but I remembered her because her eyes were so noticeable. The color of ice. I feel bad saying this, now that I know her, but she really scared me at first.” He chuckles, and I try to keep my next sentence even-keeled.
“Yeah, I could see that.”
“I saw her on the set of a few other films as I got older, but she left the industry about seven years ago. Wanted to start this retreat, help people find love and all that. I ran into her at a coffee shop six months back, told her I was looking for a break from Hollywood, and she suggested I come here. And I’ve gotta say, it’s been pretty nice.”
I try to breathe normally, sort through this goldmine of new information. With a specific position and time frame, I can get more background on Christina.
“Was her name always Christina Wellington?” I ask.
“I think so.” He laughs. “I always just knew her as Christina. Why?” He narrows his eyes. Shit. I shouldn’t have asked that.
“I did some research on her before I came, and it was hard to find anything. I just wanted to know what I was getting into, staying on a private island for four weeks. It’s not exactly easy to leave if I need to.”
He shrugs, seems to accept this answer. “That’s smart. I probably would have done that if I were you. I said yes and didn’t think twice.”
Greg arrives with our drinks, and I take a sip, focusing on the fizz of the ginger ale as it trickles into my stomach.
“What was it like, growing up . . . famous?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It seemed normal at the time. I didn’t have anything else to compare it to, so I just thought everyone saw their parents on TV more than in real life. For a time, I thought my dad really was a superhero.”
He chuckles then, stares off into the distance. He must be referring to his dad’s stint on Two Faces, a popular television series about a seemingly regular Joe who crunches numbers by day and fights crime at night.
“I used to run around in the cape he wore. It was so heavy—it practically swallowed me—but I just figured if Dad could do it, so could I.” His smile disappears. “Then I saw him with an extra between takes, when he thought no one was looking. I wasn’t even entirely sure what was happening at the time, but I knew the things he was doing were only supposed to be with Mom. That was a tough day, when I realized my dad and my dad’s character were two different people.”
He stops his musing and catches my gaze. I must appear sympathetic, as his demeanor shifts. He pulls his shoulders back.
“So, what about you? Were your parents lawyers too?”
I want to reach out to him, graze his arm. But I stay still. “No, no. Mom was an art teacher. Dad was in the lumber business, co-owned a company for a while.”
“So what made you decide to become a lawyer?”
Normally I respond with a financial reason: I wanted more opportunities, a more secure lifestyle. Which is partly true. But Nick’s transparency and my nausea lower my guard. “Well, speaking of men with two faces . . . my dad’s partner forced him out of the business when it hit a downturn. The partner had an attorney in the family, and we couldn’t afford one. Not a good one, anyway.” I stir my drink, watch the bubbles rise. “I never wanted to be in that position again. Never wanted to feel helpless again.”
Before Nick can offer a comforting glance or a pitying note, I change the subject to the more important matter. “Hey.” I clear my throat. “I was hoping you could tell me more about Lamb Martin. Did he have a good relationship with Reese?” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Henry stand and make his way toward us.
“I think so,” Nick says. “In the beginning, they were all over each other.”
“And that changed?” I try to keep my focus on Nick, but Henry’s approach makes it difficult.
As Nick prepares to answer, Henry taps him on the shoulder and darts his eyes toward the exit. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Nick follows him outside, and my heart hammers in my chest. Could Henry hear us from across the room? Was he listening through other means? Or was his interruption just a coincidence?
After what seems like ten minutes of my thoughts burrowing deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole, Nick returns, his mouth taut.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. He just wanted a cigarette.” He takes a large swig of his drink.
“So, about Lamb and Reese,” I continue. “How did their relationship end?”
“I’ve been thinking.” Nick’s eyes flick toward Henry, who stubs out his cigarette. “Do you think Reese’s disappearance could be due to something . . . closer to home?”
“What?” My voice catches in my throat. “Do you know something?”
Nick clears his throat as Henry walks within earshot.
“Maybe we should talk about something else,” he says.
22
Reese
The next morning was a bit of a bummer for me. Not my favorite, no siree. On my group date—a volleyball game on the beach—few of the participants would talk to me. Some would whisper, snigger, steal glances at me, but anytime I tried to break the ice, the men and women would scatter like roaches. Nick was on my group date too, unfortunately. And Trixie. So in addition to bruising my forearms from the couple times I made contact with the ball, putting my highly unathletic nature on full display, and catching Trixie’s “accidental” serve in the back of the head, I was also dealing with being the retreat pariah.
I looked for Lamb during lunch, to talk about what had happened the night before, but he was nowhere to be found. Neither was Trixie. I hoped that was a coincidence, but I wasn’t so naïve to not connect the dots.
I knew Lamb and I had had something special. We really connected during those first two encounters. Or was it all in my head, as usual?
I was starving, but the thought of eating alone in the kitchen overpowered my stomach.
I went upstairs to my room, closed the door behind me, and fetched my suitcase. From a hidden pocket, I retrieved my ballet slippers. My very first pair, a good-luck charm I brought everywhere. I sank to the floor, staring
at them, admiring the worn soles and the silky pink satin.
I came across them by pure chance in elementary school. I was eight. I often stayed late, after class, finding things to do that would be more fun than going home. At home, there was either a screaming match—between my mother and my sister, or my mother’s latest boyfriend, or some combination of the three—or the eerie silence of an empty household. Typically, I spent my after-school time in the library. I’ve always loved stories, getting lost in various adventures. But one day I stumbled across the dance studio. A ballet class. I had never seen that type of dance before, and I was mesmerized. The movements, the dancers, the outfits. It was all so graceful, so elegant, so completely unlike everything I was used to.
An older student caught me watching. She was leaving early or arriving late, I can’t remember which, but she startled me when she tapped me on the shoulder.
“Do you dance?” she asked.
I shook my head. “That would cost money, right?”
The girl scrunched her eyebrows. She couldn’t be older than ten or eleven. Why would she know about the expense of after-school activities? Unless she lived in a household like mine, where we were conscious of finances right out of the womb.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. She looked sad for me.
“I’m sorry for staring,” I said as I turned to leave. “I was just curious.”
I was halfway down the hall when she called after me. “Hey, wait!”
I turned around to see her rummaging in her backpack. She pulled out a pair of hand-me-down ballet slippers and held them out to me.
“I have this old pair that doesn’t fit me anymore,” she said. “I was going to throw them away, but maybe you’d like to have them instead?”
I scowled. “You were really going to throw them away?”
“Honest,” she replied. “I’d hate to see them go to waste.” (She was very insightful for her age, I must admit. Or perhaps I just like to remember her that way.)
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