Reality Check

18. Salty

An hour after Maddie leaves—I lied, telling her I needed a nap, because I'm a terrible person—Sarah knocks on my door. There are a lot of people I don't want to see right now, and she's very high on the list.

"Hello, Mia," she says, not bothering to ask if she can enter. She just stalks into my room, shuts the door, and puts her hands on her hips.

"Hi."

"There's a stipulation in the contract I doubt you read stating that you must, within reason, go where Henry, Danny, and I tell you. It's written in legal jargon, but you get the point."

I know where she's going with this, and I want to sink into the floor, then the next floor, then through the basement, then spend the rest of my life as a mole person. "Okay."

"Mr. Vaughn is awaiting you by the violet picnic table on the western side of the beach. You two are to have a conversation about your feelings for each other and what happened last night. Got it?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

I look like shit. "Can I put on some makeup first?"

"Nothing flashy. You should look apologetic, not enticing. You have five minutes."

There's no use trying to mask the bags under my eyes or my red nose—does anyone else turn into Rudolph when they cry, or is that just me? Probably just me. Nothing enticing about the misfit reindeer, that's for sure.

I swipe on some mascara—waterproof, of course—and a thin layer of foundation, tie my hair into a ponytail, and grimace at my appearance in the mirror. A sundress feels too happy for today, but I'm pretty sure I have less than a minute before I need to be downstairs, so I tug it over my head and hope the editors take pity on me.

Sarah escorts me to Max. She must think I'm a flight risk or something, which is stupid, because there's an ocean on one side of us and security guards on the other three. The only way I'd be a flight risk would be if I could actually fly.

Max is wearing aviators, and I deeply regret not wearing mine until Sarah barks, "Sunglasses off!"

He obeys silently.

Sarah huffs. "Mia, you start."

Deep breath in, deep breath out. "I thought you cared about me," I say in the firmest voice possible.

"I did."

"Did? You don't anymore?"

He shrugs. "I confided in you Wednesday. I told you things my best friends don't know. Imagine how I felt when I walked into your villa with cupcakes I asked the chefs to make for you, only to see you and Elijah cozied up on the floor."

"There were, like, six of us cozied up on the floor. We were hanging out and talking."

"You were practically on his lap, Mia."

"We were all sitting cl—"

"You couldn't have sat somewhere else?"

He's right. I could have sat somewhere else. I also could have pushed away the thoughts I had about still being into Elijah. I didn't do either of those, and I pushed away two men who cared about me. I deserve every last bit of this pain.

"You're right," I mumble. "I'm sorry, Max."

He just stares at me, eyebrows slightly raised, lips tight. I'm sure he knows exactly what I'm thinking right now, but I have no idea what's going on in his head.

I break the silence. "I hope Adriana is better to you. You deserve better."

"You're right. I do." And with that, Max flips on his sunglasses, stands, and walks off.