Reality Check

14. Mousse-ing Around

Someone yells, "CUT," and a cameraman stalks after Max. Good luck, buddy. I fear for his life.

I fear for Sarah and Henry's lives, too, because I'm livid.

Max was first on my list. Not that he'll ever believe me. Not that he'll ever speak to me again. He's probably packing his bags right now, ready to jet off to Amsterdam for the next chapter in his digital nomad life.

"We're up tonight," Elijah murmurs into my ear, snaking an arm around my waist.

I hear the whir of a camera. I can't reject him on national television, so I kiss him on the cheek and whisper, "I can't wait."

The producers had all of us pack overnight bags just in case we were called to the cabins, so after an associate producer yells that Elijah and I are in the green one—"seafoam!" Sarah corrects—we head off into the sunset, no villa stops required.

The green—excuse me, seafoam—cabin's interior is tropical-themed. Brightly colored fish ornaments dangle in the windows, complemented by paintings of dolphins, pineapple, and palm trees. The dining table is adorned with hibiscus flowers, bottles of sparkling juice, and decadent gourmet dishes. If I had to give this aesthetic a name, I'd go with Aloha-chic.

"Welcome, sir, madame," a server greets us. His formal language contrasts with his Hawaiian shirt and salmon shorts.

Elijah pulls out my chair, and I scoot forward as elegantly as possible, trying to ignore the camera crew hiding out behind a pair of faux palm trees. They're seemingly frozen in place, as if we're dinosaurs and can't see them if they don't move.

I'm deeply uncomfortable, so I blurt out, "Hello," to the waiter.

"May I explain the menu?" he asks.

I breathe a sigh of relief that Elijah doesn't miss. He stifles a laugh as I try to understand what this fancy cuisine is. Everything is Italian and incredible. My chicken something-or-other is gone in minutes, and I sincerely hope I come across as one of those quirky, I-love-food-haha gals rather than a pig who hasn't fine-dined since her semester in Paris.

"I leave you with this," the server says, handing Elijah a shiny piece of cardstock, before exiting with a bow. I know the cameras won't follow him out, but I'm still disappointed when I feel the lenses pointed our way.

Elijah clears his throat, rolls back his shoulders, and adjusts his posture. "It's in cursive, so you know it's real. Ahem. A message from Enlisted. Mr. Miller and Ms. Benson, we hope you enjoy your stay in the Coral Beach couple's cabin. The Enlisted crew will leave at eight o'clock tonight. Shortly after, the cameras inside the cabin will be powered down for two hours so that you may enjoy your alone time. Warmest regards, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Whittingham."

We exchange a glance, and then Elijah checks his watch. 7:45. "You guys want to head out fifteen minutes early?" he asks the crew. "We don't mind."

I don't know what I'm doing. I should be with Max right now, but I'm playing into it. "We won't tell," I laugh.

One of the camera guys shrugs as if to say, 'No can do, buddy.'

Elijah shrugs back. "Well, Mia. Shall we pretend there aren't cameras ten feet away and return to our completely natural dialogue?"

"Excellent idea, Elijah."

"Fantastic. Nice day, huh?"

I find myself relaxing as Elijah continues to ask stereotypical small-talk questions. He nods intently in response to each of my answers. I just about lose it when he asks if I'm working hard or hardly working. I have to admit, being with Elijah is easy. Time with him means laughing and conversation that, as much as we're joking about it, does actually flow naturally.