Then Things Went Dark, page 4
“I think I can work with it.” Rhys stretches as though winning her heart, or at least her body, requires a level of dexterity.
“You like her?” Jerome asks.
“Rather her than Kalpana. I feel like she’d want to peg me against the wall to prove a point. Which I’m not averse to but I prefer to be on the other end of sex with a vendetta.”
“I’m not convinced she swings that way, dude.”
“I’m everyone’s sexuality, Jerome. I’m the intersection where all lines cross.”
Jerome chuckles like it’s the funniest line he’s ever heard.
Rhys gives no indication he was joking.
Later, when the sun has had an hour or two to burn away the night’s chill, Kalpana steps into its umber glow. She wears a long shawl in bold splashes of purple and red over a beaded orange bikini, large octagonal sunglasses perched on her nose, pink hair twisted into a clumsy knot, and the cameras skirt over her like they don’t know what to do with her. She is model beautiful but haughty and aloof and quirky to the point of disinterest. The audience is immediately on guard, grating against the implication she is trying too hard, and against her sneering superiority.
Kalpana clutches an iced coffee, condensation clinging to its sides; it nearly slips from her hands as she staggers at the sight of the wall.
She sees the missing card immediately.
Kalpana rushes toward it, pressing her eyes close like she might be able to see through the cards. She can’t, but she recognizes her own after a moment—always too much pressure on the pen, the cards too thick to press out individual letters, but she can see the hard bulges of her writing. Not hers missing then, but whose? And who took it?
She would like to shout, to make a fuss, to hold them all accountable. But while she poured her heart onto those cards, one of them was less of a destructing secret and more of a hidden admission meant only for herself: I am terrified to be here.
A camera winks at her from a nearby pillar, and she can feel its glare like the hot air clinging to her skin. She is hyperaware of herself—of her posture, of her clothes, of her every breath.
Kalpana: I didn’t know whether to pretend I hadn’t even noticed. What if people suspect me just because I bring it to everyone’s attention?
In the end, she runs for Theo.
Theo: I think it’s mine. I mean…it could be. I was standing there…I feel genuinely, actually sick. Not just that it’s out there but that someone here took it—it might even be Kalpana. I…
“I can’t believe someone would do this,” he says. They are seated around one of the patio tables. The scent of the cypress trees washes off the beach, and even though it’s early still, the sun glares so intently that they can feel the heat even beneath the shade of the roofing. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought we were all better than this,” Kalpana says, seething. “So did I. I thought we were all actually looking for a platform to prove ourselves on.”
Theo takes a breath and stares out at the horizon of the ocean. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a challenge, right? To prove that you’re above this? Well, I am. I’m here because I care about music. The others can do what they like, and they can even drag me into it if they want to. It doesn’t change the fact that I just want to talk about what I love most.”
Kalpana narrows her eyes and takes a long sip on her drink to avoid saying anything.
Kalpana: It would be the perfect cover wouldn’t it, if you’d taken someone’s card to pretend it was your own card taken?
“All right, let’s talk music then,” she relents. It’s hard not to—she is drawn to passion. And secure in the knowledge that her cause is the most noble, certainly the one most likely to change the world. She can indulge those who dedicate themselves to something lesser because she can see nobility in art too. It’s the very thing she fights for, after all—for capitalism to stop draining and spitting artistic talent back out like oil in pipes. “Why choose that as your medium?”
“It’s never a choice, is it? One day something simply moves you, touches you deeply, and changes you forever. You’re a poet too, right?”
Kalpana nods. “Yes, but the real thing—the kind with meanings and intention. Not some scrawled content on Instagram.”
“Why do you get to decide what counts as real poetry?”
Kalpana tosses her hair from her face. “I don’t, obviously, and I have a lot of respect for it as a gateway to get people into poetry. When I was growing up, my dad worked in a shop—it’s not like my house was full of poetry books and I discovered it through blogs and social media. But all art exists on a scale, and I think it’s ignorant to disregard the history of the art form like Insta-poets do. Movements happen for a reason. For me, it’s not that I’m an activist and a poet—my poetry is activism and my activism is poetry.”
Theo nods, satisfied and smiles.
Theo: This is exactly what I wanted from all this: conversations about art and passion that are filled with so much devotion, to outside ears they sound ridiculous.
“We’re all just trying to find different ways to talk about life, at the end of the day,” he says. “We’re all trying to spin our experiences into something collective.”
Kalpana considers him, wondering if perhaps he might truly have meant his earlier statement—that he cares so much about all this, his own secrets really are inconsequential. She admires that as much as she fears it because it’s an ideal she would spout but not one she could ever commit to.
And if he keeps shining such a bright, incomparable light, who knows what it might expose.
She needs to speak—needs to say something profound—because she cannot be left behind here. “I think all of us—whether it’s making art or food or an app or a post—when you boil it all down, isn’t it just screaming into the void: Tell me I am not alone? Maybe that’s what we’re all doing here—we’re all seeking that human connection.”
“Oh my god, we get it!” Rhys laughs as he jogs over, sea water clinging to the lines of his torso and the strands of his hair. “We’re all some ideal of passionate perfection! We all like whatever it is we’re claiming we like! We don’t need to talk about it all the time.”
He snatches a glass of water from the table and downs it.
“Some of us like talking about it,” Theo says grimly, eyes cutting to Rhys like he is something distasteful that the sea has discarded on the beach. “Some of us are only here to talk about it.”
Rhys smiles in a way that is gentle and unsettling.
“Not to get away from the paparazzi? The bandmates?”
Theo’s jaw clenches. He runs his eyes over the man, knowing all he wants is a reaction and trying to work out why, even as he resolves not to give it to him.
When he speaks it’s with a dismissive finality: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sutton, so why don’t you run off to whatever it is you were doing and leave us to discuss whatever the hell we want.”
One by one, they notice the missing card.
Isko: It’s not one of mine so who cares.
Araminta: Of course. My only surprise is that it happened so quickly.
Rhys: We should have just shared them all, like I said.
Jerome: I don’t see anything wrong with it, to be honest. If you’re in a competition, there’s no fault to be found in getting to know your adversary. Losing one point now could gain you ten in the future if you leverage it right.
Isko returns from the smoking area to find Rhys on the deck chair he had departed. He’s clearly just been swimming, and while most of the water has evaporated, it pools in the lines between his abs.
Isko is by no means out of shape, but Rhys’s muscles are so finely chiseled that he allows himself to admire them. For a moment, he imagines what it would be like to lap that salty water up with his tongue. A drone hovers nearby, and he’s sure the footage will make the final cut.
“I don’t bite, you know,” Rhys says. “Unless you’re into that.”
“Of course I’m into that.”
Rhys pushes his sunglasses down his nose to examine him. “A lucky man, your fiancé.”
“Indeed,” Isko says, pulling his shirt off and taking the next sun bed over.
Rhys: I’m an equal opportunity lover. I suppose pansexual if you want to get technical. But I honestly don’t much care for the person beyond the body. Sex and personal relationships are two very different things to me.
“How long have you been together?” Rhys asks.
Isko shoots him a look. “Do you actually care?”
“No,” Rhys says bluntly, not tearing his eyes from Isko’s.
Isko: Rhys is a flirt. But I’m not complaining.
“Then what are you really asking, Sutton?”
“I’m going to be very bored with a month on this island. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s being bored.”
“All right, guys?” Araminta greets. A loosely woven white smock is thrown over her bikini that shows every curve of her skin underneath it. Someone as pale as she is shouldn’t wear white, but she makes it work. It washes her out, yes, but there’s something striking about it all that suits her.
Isko really wishes he weren’t noticing this now, but of course he is—this was the sort of thing he was paid to notice, not just as chef but friend and fashion-adviser and everything in between. But Araminta is not his former employer. Juliet Moncrieff is fun and flippant and careless and she knew what she was doing in all ways except the one that damned her. Araminta is contained and poised and purposeful in a way that hints at covering up a mess. And yet, Isko already feels that growing itch to be liked by her, to glow in her acceptance. And he can’t have that.
Isko: And then Araminta arrives because of course no moment on this island would be complete without the princess. And I’m in an open relationship, by the way. Just so that’s clear.
“Mind if I join?” She doesn’t wait for a response before she puts her cocktail glass on the table and pulls her slip off, perching on the edge of the seat next to Rhys as she slathers sunscreen on, her fingers dipping beneath the thin black cord of the microphone twisted around her body in a way that is almost explicit.
“Need a hand with that?” he asks.
She scrutinizes him before nodding. “Yeah, actually, if that’s okay.”
“I’m going for a smoke,” Isko snaps.
Rhys: That time, I wasn’t actually flirting. I have way better moves than the cliché sunscreen approach. But if it works? Well…
Araminta jolts as he touches her and Rhys runs his hands across her shoulder blades more than is necessary. After a moment she leans into his touch.
“SPF fifty huh?” he asks, flipping the bottle over.
“Have you seen me?” Araminta asks, lying her arm next to his. A network of veins is visible beneath her skin, whereas Rhys was tanned before arriving on the island.
“Vividly.” His smile is a slash of teeth.
As he finishes, she rises to open the umbrella near her deck chair. She’s taking no risks with this hot sun and she looks shocking there, on the screen, when every other reality show has bronzed gods glistening in the heat. She returns to her seat with her cocktail and takes an agonizingly long sip, pulling away with a whine.
“Long day?” Rhys jokes.
“I’m so bored! Why didn’t they give us anything to do?”
“I think that’s the point—they want to force us all to talk to each other.”
“Sticking us all on an island with nothing but other high-achievers and a well-stocked wine cellar?” Araminta asks, looking at him over her sunglasses. “They’re birthing chaos.”
Rhys tilts his head to the side and grins at the camera. “Good thing I thrive on chaos, then.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Araminta declares after just half an hour of sunbathing. She leaps to her feet and pulls her crocheted dress back on. It’s hideously uncomfortable—who thinks knitwear is perfect for a beach? It catches the sand, it’s too itchy against her bare skin, and it’s far too warm despite the loose weave. But she’s paid her stylist enough.
And her publicist.
And her manager.
All those people who she can hear screaming in her head that no one wants to watch this. This show is her chance to rebrand herself, to force the world to reckon with the talent she knows she has. She wants to make herself synonymous with Rodin and Michelangelo rather than FaceTune and Pretty Up. But to do that, she needs as many viewers as she can get and she needs to be the fan favorite and she needs to make sure she’s getting screen time and votes for the challenges and she can’t rely on an edit, she needs to give them content they can’t ignore.
All this talk about returning to her artistic roots, but she’s an influencer to her core, and her heart beats to the sound of content, content, content.
“Come on,” she tells Rhys.
He snorts a half laugh. “Give me those come-hither eyes and I’d follow you anywhere, but I would appreciate some sort of explanation.”
She smiles, intimately, indicative of some sort of collusion. She uses this trick often—forcing a closeness into being that doesn’t exist. “I refuse to play into this absolutely shameless attempt of Eloise’s to cause friction. She wants us to be careful of who we trust? Screw that; I’m going to force us to trust each other—at least a little bit. And in the process, I’m going to find out who we’re trapped on this island with. Aren’t you curious?”
Rhys’s answering smile is one of delight. “Whatever you have planned, I am thoroughly here for it.”
The others are scattered around the island, uneasy and reluctantly summoned. Though they force smiles for the cameras, there’s an edge of irritation as they gather on those long, reclining sunbeds, the canopied ones that feel like soft padded islands of their own. They can barely look at one another without their suspicions soaring and anxiety taking hold…but they sit in a circle anyway.
Araminta fetches bottles of liquor—the sort that a cable network would try to hide but not this show, streaming carelessly with no regulator to complain to.
She pours tequila into the shaker without measuring.
Kalpana’s jaw twitches as she declines the cocktail passed to her and reaches for the whiskey instead. She swigs it straight from the bottle.
Kalpana: Everything Araminta does is so performative—can’t even gather us all without doing a little cocktail dance for the camera.
“Let’s get to know each other,” Araminta suggests.
“I think I know enough,” Isko sneers, but he takes a cocktail from her anyway.
“What did you have in mind?” Theo asks.
Araminta laughs and glances away. “You’ll think it’s ridiculous, but well, we have little else to do. What do we think of ‘Never Have I Ever’?”
Kalpana’s nose wrinkles. “Must we?”
Jerome gives her a look over the top of his glass. “Why, something to hide?”
“I’m down,” Theo says.
“Of course you are, Rockstar.” Rhys rolls his eyes. “For you this is a bragging game, right?”
“Like it’s any different for you,” Theo retorts and for a moment they stare, trying to work out if this is a challenge.
“I’m game,” Jerome interjects. “Though fair warning that there isn’t much I haven’t done. My college days at Stanford were particularly wild.”
“I’m sure,” Araminta says dryly, taking up her own drink. “All right, you know the rules—take a sip if you’ve done the thing. Never have I ever kissed someone.”
“That’s too easy,” Rhys says once they all lower their glasses.
“Oh, we’ll get there, but I’m starting small.”
“Never have I ever slept with a friend’s partner,” Kalpana says.
Araminta, Rhys, and Theo drink.
“But they were polyamorous; they both knew and were fine with it,” Araminta says.
Rhys raises his glass to Theo. “Looks like it’s just us two that are trash then.”
But Theo shakes his head. “It’s really not something I’m proud of.”
Rhys snorts. “Shame is an indulgence of one’s own self-importance.”
Theo: I hate him. I might actually hate him.
“Never have I ever had a threesome,” Jerome says, an eagerness to his tone that implies he was not happy to be left out of a moment.
When everyone drinks, he hesitates just a moment before joining, his eyes startled and watchful.
“Let me correct myself,” he rushes and his eyes land on Araminta. “Never have I ever had a threesome with a married couple who are friends with and the age of my parents.”
Araminta’s glass doesn’t move but the tension braids between them like a thick rope, fraying only with the strain of who might break it first.
“Come on, Araminta,” Jerome says delicately. “We’ve all read the articles.”
“Speak for yourself,” Theo says, glowering at him but catching the eye of the camera over his shoulder instead. It makes a better shot.
The others are almost wary, fingers curled into the fabric of the chair, distracting themselves from their unease with a sip of a drink or adjusting their hair. They had not considered this unequal footing: that some contestants might be in the public eye and that some amongst them might already know something about their competition.
“It was a foursome, actually,” Araminta says matter-of-factly. Unlike them, she had considered this at length, and when she is faced with it, the petty accusations run off her skin like every headline ever did. “Their chauffeur also joined but he wasn’t famous so the paps cut him from their shot. I guess they thought he was just giving us a ride and not giving us a ride.”
Rhys laughs and that delighted grin is back.
Rhys: I might have to marry this woman.
Kalpana takes a quick sip before she speaks—unlike the others, she uses words that are not pointed but quick and sharp like a surgical incision. “Never have I ever been sued for endangering women and then tried to slut shame one on live television.”
