One thing is certain: Cole Power is hiding something.
Stella
Sunday, June 30
The morning of our departure, I felt like hammered dog shit. My head throbbed, my stomach lurched, my face was puffy, my skin splotchy.
I wasn’t sure how much rum I’d had by the time Cole had texted the previous evening, insisting that Felicity and I meet him for a drink in the bar. Felicity had tried to stop me from going, but I wanted to hear whatever he had to say, so I somehow managed to pull myself together, and with the magic of hemorrhoid cream, contouring, and eye shadow, make it look like I hadn’t been drinking and crying all day.
When we arrived, we found the majority of the crew there, toasting their last evening on the island. Madison had already retired for the night, thank God, and Cole was drunk and so adamant that he hadn’t texted me that I had to take out my phone and show him the message. Typical Cole behavior. Felicity was right: we shouldn’t have gone. But we were there, and the crew wanted to toast me, so I couldn’t exactly turn them down.
This morning I was still furious with Cole and wanted nothing to do with the group breakfast at the restaurant. Unfortunately, room service was discontinued, our refrigerator had been emptied, and if I didn’t eat something to soak up all the alcohol splashing around in my stomach, I would most definitely hurl on the ferry. So I smeared more hemorrhoid cream and concealer beneath my eyes, applied a thick layer of foundation, and donned a sun hat and dark glasses. On the way out the door, I chucked my cigarettes in the trash. My throat burned from the number I’d smoked last night, and my mouth felt disgusting no matter how many times I’d brushed my teeth. I’d reached the end of the road with smoking.
Clouds were gathering, and the wind was strong enough I had to hold my hat in place as we trudged the million miles down the pier, across the beach, through the trees, and up the stairs to the restaurant. All the ocean-facing picture windows were boarded up, the East Asian paintings taken down, and the bottles removed from the display behind the bar. Without the views and glistening glassware, the restaurant was gloomy and bare. But there was plenty of food arranged on three wooden tables, pushed together to form a makeshift buffet.
Everyone else was already there, and the place was abuzz with the excitement of an impending emergency. Some people had even brought their bags with them so that they could board the first shuttle to the ferry directly after breakfast. There were conflicting reports about the strength and path of the storm. Some had heard it would be a category three by the time it reached Saint Genesius; others claimed they’d seen reports it might bypass us entirely. Regardless of where they fell on the prediction scale, everyone was glad to be evacuating before landfall.
Cole, however, was nowhere to be seen.
I was beginning to wonder whether something had happened to him when I felt someone grab my elbow and turned to see Kara, her dark eyes sympathetic. She hadn’t been at the bar last night, and I hadn’t seen her since she apparently rescued me from Coco’s—which of course I didn’t remember. I immediately felt the hot breath of shame on my neck and was glad for the screen of my hat and sunglasses. She gave me a little hug. “How are you?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I still feel like shit,” I admitted. She didn’t need to know that the reason I felt like shit was not the drug I’d been slipped on Thursday but the amount of alcohol I’d consumed in the days since. “Thank you for saving my ass.”
She smiled. “Anytime.”
“There won’t be another time,” I said. “I hope I didn’t throw up on you or anything. I’m sorry.”
She squeezed my hand. “It could have happened to any of us. Are you coming to Guyana?”
I nodded, surprised to find she was still holding my hand, lightly rubbing her thumb across the inside of my wrist. An electric zing pierced the heavy overcoat of my hangover. “Maybe I can buy you a drink once we’re there, to say thanks,” I said.
“I don’t drink—”
“Oh.” Perhaps I’d misunderstood. But she was still stroking my wrist.
“I used to, but I liked it too much,” she explained. I could certainly understand that. “I’d love to have dinner though.”
I smiled. “Okay.”
“But you’ll have to take off your sunglasses,” she teased.
I interlaced my fingers through hers for a lingering moment before letting her hand go.
The sound of a fork hitting a glass drew our attention to the front of the restaurant, where Taylor stood on a chair. Everyone quieted down as they turned to her. “Hi, everybody,” she said. “Thank you all for your hard work on this film, and thank you for being so cool about our evacuation. We’ve just had a weather update that our friend Celia has picked up speed in the open water, and we are going to be moving up our departure by thirty minutes to ensure a smooth ride to Guyana.”
A murmur went through the crowd. “Mercury retrograde,” I whispered to Kara. “Always messes with travel.”
“The ferry is on its way now,” Taylor continued. “So will everyone please kindly shove whatever you’re eating in your mouth, gather your bags, and meet under the portico in front of reception ASAP? The first shuttle is already there, so anyone who has bags with them can go ahead and board. We are going to do roll call on the boat, but we’re on a tight schedule if we want to make it out before the storm, and we cannot wait
