Page 28

28 | Oh, Shoot SASHA

For some stupid reason, I set my alarm for a 6:30 a.m. run.

Sunrise sounded way more worthwhile the night before. Now, my memory foam pillows are giving the spectacle a run for its money.

I have two children. I never get to sleep in! Why am I voluntarily getting up earlier than I have to now?

But I’m up! And it’s warm out! And when I step outside in my sports bra, loose tank and throwback velour gym shorts, the air is thick and dreamy. The dark is just beginning to lift.

As far as I can tell, there is only one path where I am guaranteed not to get lost and eaten by a giant iguana, a winding dirt thing that weaves its way behind the villas, up the hill through brush, around toward the activity shed (which is less a shed and more a giant lofted barn decked out with pristine bicycles, paddleboards, kayaks and neon life jackets) and back past the restaurant and spa.

As the dark dissipates and light eases its way forward, a dimmer in reverse, everything from the scraggy vegetation to the sporadic palms and jagged rocks are bathed in a diffuse golden luster. Even me.

There is a stillness to this hour, to this place, that is not the stuff of everyday life. It is reserved for these few stolen minutes. I have done something right to wind up in this moment , I tell myself. Not every choice has been wrong.

It’s so quiet that I decide to embrace it and run without music, at least to start. And I’m feeling this new zen me: the rhythm of my breath, the light breeze smelling of algae and sea, the crisscrossed grooves—golf cart tracks—that emerge in the shadows below my feet as darkness lifts. It’s settled: I am transcendent. At one with the universe!

Until, a thumping behind me gets louder and louder—the giant iguana?—and I whip around just in time to see, really feel , Ethan zoom past in a blur. Up the hill ahead, he turns around to face me, puts his hands up to correct my arm position, and then turns and continues on his way.

Just like that, my enlightenment is snuffed. I swear, at that exact moment, the sun blasts out the last hint of dawn, rendering the moment obsolete.

Dammit! Can I not get a moment of peace? More important, can I reasonably deny almost kissing him last night? Even in my own head?

I turn on my music—a shuffle of Taylor Swift songs about how much boys suck. Word, Taylor. Word .

This path is not long, and so it’s really a matter of time before Ethan laps me again. I resolve to act normal when he does. Smile politely. Nod. I will not make this a thing.

I spend the whole rest of my run tensed for his return, but he never comes. Maybe that lap was his last.

When I finish my three miles—not a step more—and stroll back, sweaty and flushed, Demon Dad is somehow already showered and changed (perfect army-green tee). He is reclining in a lounger by the pool like some GQ model, reading on his phone and drinking coffee from the fancy machine. Which he of course knows how to work.

He looks up. Like he’s expecting me. Which, of course, he is. “Good run?”

He is completely relaxed—or doing a tour de force performance of it. Like last night is not a thing.

That’s good, I guess. He’s letting it drop. But he could at least have the decency to lust after me.

“Yup,” I say, hands on my hips as I catch my breath fully.

“Did your thing where you stop abruptly before the loop ends?”

“Abruptness is subjective.”

“How long do you run again?”

“Three miles. Why? How many did you run?”

“Six.”

I frown. “That’s excessive. Like, objectively.”

“I like to push myself.”

I would like to push his smug ass too. Into a ravine. Or at least the pool.

He considers me for a beat. “You know, they make earbuds without cords now.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup. They’re called AirPods and you don’t get tangled in them at the supermarket.”

My cheeks no doubt flush redder at the thought of the cereal aisle. Ethan salutes me. And I consider burrowing my way into the ground.

“It’s so weird,” I say, instead. “It’s almost like I’m an adult human who lives in the world, knows stuff and makes conscious choices for myself.”

“Sure.” He shrugs, dropping his gaze back to his phone. “Just questionable ones.”

I almost lunge for him. A tiny black lizard shoots out from under a bush and stops in front of me, offering a frank look. It seems to favor a measured approach.

“It’s too early for this,” I grumble as I head toward the villa entrance.

“I’m kidding,” says Ethan as I walk away. “I know you’re on top of things.”

I roll my eyes but also can’t help but smirk. With my back to him, he’ll never know.

I am all mixed emotions. I hate this— right?

“I’m so screwed,” I whisper, and walk inside.

The day goes off without a hitch. Give or take eight thousand hitches.

The shoot is meant to begin at one of the unoccupied villas down the row, toward the most secluded end. This space looks a lot like ours, only more expansive—same neutrals accented with pops of unapologetic color. Martin is to be the subject in this primary location, both for the glossy print spread and digital components for the website. Much of the other imagery will depict wild expanses of earth and ocean, uninterrupted vistas, indoor-outdoor spaces, where nature comes in but always wipes her feet at the door. The accompanying feature Stephanie is writing for the magazine is called “Paradise Found,” and it’s all about how new luxury is not about ostentatious glitz and glamour. It’s about unspoiled nature, true quiet and solitude, an intimate place that only, like, three people will ever experience. An Eden that will remain mostly immaculate. Like everything else in high-end editorial, at its core, it’s about wish fulfillment.

The concept that Stephanie has conceived for our supporting video footage is a behind-the-scenes look at this far-flung spot, a true deserted island, before it’s been seen or touched by even the most elite jet-setters. Essentially, we’re filming the print shoot itself, as it’s happening.

Inside the villa, Peter is busy setting up lights and sorting out sound. Jackie is styling the space to her liking, adding and subtracting objects and shifting furniture by inches, then standing back to inspect the larger picture.

The photographer is here too now, taking test shots to get a sense of the lighting. From the back, I can see that he’s wearing an old-school Jane’s Addiction T-shirt. But, like, a nice one. More men in perfect tees.

“Charlie,” he says when I approach and introduce myself, extending his hand to give mine a firm shake. “Good to finally meet you in person.”

This man is ridiculously handsome. He almost puts Ethan to shame. Hazel eyes and dark skin. Tall. Lean. And I am surprised by his friendliness. Almost alarmed. He was lovely over email and phone too, but I’m accustomed to fashion photographers who pose more than their subjects. This guy is pretension-free.

“From what Ethan has told me, I’m in great hands.” Charlie smiles.

“Oh. Definitely don’t trust what Ethan has told you.”

“Are you sure?” He cocks his head. “?’Cause he thinks you’re pretty great.”

I pretend to study my clipboard as I try not to blush.

I’m confirming that everything is copasetic, checking and rechecking my list and debating the best spot for our video setup with Peter, when Ethan makes an appearance. He saunters over to Charlie and gives him a pound and a bro hug, which makes me super glad I’m not a dude and I get to give people normal hugs. They chat for a minute, then he surveys the room and, apparently finding it acceptable, makes his way over to me.

“You’ve got everything you need?”

“I think we’re in bizarrely good shape.” I nod. The truth is, when you’re planning a shoot on a deserted island, you really have to consider every contingency before you arrive. You can’t be running to the store for safety pins and duct tape when the lone shop sells only sunblock and terry cloth beach cover-ups. “Even the photographer is in great shape.”

Ethan gives me side-eye. “He’s in ‘great shape’? And by that you mean…?”

“He’s got everything under control.” I shrug. “And he’s so nice too.”

“By ‘so nice,’ do you mean, ‘so nice-looking’?”

I turn and glare at him. “What is wrong with you?”

How dare he! I am Professional Sasha. I don’t notice super beautiful photographers! Sorry. Beautiful and tall .

“I’m just saying, the women, and men, tend to like Charlie. Maybe he’s your type too?”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, all casual, like my answer couldn’t matter less. But the way he bites his lip suggests something else.

It’s too easy to mess with him.

“And if he is? My type? What do you care?”

“Just making conversation.” Ethan shrugs. Flustered, he rubs the back of his neck.

Whatever game we’re playing, in this instance, I am winning! Not that Professional Sasha cares.

“Whatever,” Ethan says. “Anyway, we play basketball together.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Did you box him out one too many times?”

“What?”

“Foul him too hard?”

“Sorry?”

“Dunk on him and then assuage your guilt by offering him a job?”

“Ah, I see,” says Ethan, rolling his eyes. “Like you think I did for you. Job opportunities in exchange for guilt. Very funny.”

“I am funny.”

“Sometimes unintentionally.”

I shoot him a death stare. Why is he standing right next to me? Is it warm in here? I can’t focus. It’s not helping that he smells good, like that mowed-grass cologne. I pull my (literally rose-colored) sunglasses down over my eyes. Boundaries .

From across the room, I see Derek watching us and wringing his hands. What is he so worried about?

“Interesting though,” Ethan says.

“What’s interesting?” I say.

“You look at me and you think I can dunk.” He flexes his tricept.

“Oh Lord .”

That’s when Stephanie walks in. Finally. She is definitely wearing dark sunglasses and all that implies. But she’s here, and she’s got coffee in her hand. She spots us and raises her cup in cheers.

I wave.

An hour—and many random requests of the hotel staff—later, we’re all set up and good to go, only Martin is nowhere to be found. One contingency for which we did not plan. An egomaniacal retired movie star with a probable drinking problem.

Stephanie volunteers to set off with his staff—mainly Michael—and try to rouse him. Forty-five minutes later, once we are officially behind for the day, Stephanie and Martin pull up in a golf cart together with matching nauseated expressions.

The dust outside literally settles.

“It’s that last glass of wine that gets you,” Stephanie is saying to me, as the makeup artist begins prepping Martin. “It’s always that last glass of wine.”

We need to get Martin ready quickly. Charlie keeps checking his watch and looking at the sky out the windowed doors. His assistant, a local from Provo—the most bustling of the Turks and Caicos islands—keeps checking and rechecking the setup. But Martin is in no mood. He growls at everyone who approaches. The makeup artist, who is on staff at the hotel spa, is barely holding back tears.

“What’s wrong with you?!” I hear Martin yelp; we all hear him. “I look like a two-bit hooker!” I think he means sex worker .

Normally, we handle photography first, as the main event, then capture the behind-the-scenes video footage as unobtrusively as possible during and afterward, but Charlie, Peter and I huddle up and decide to reverse the order and try to get Martin warmed up first. Maybe he’ll be more amenable after his coffee has had time to work its magic.

Once I’ve talked the makeup artist down from the brink of quitting, Peter asks permission to mic Martin and begins tossing him softball questions for starters.

“Had you spent time in Turks and Caicos before finding this spot?”

“Why build this here and not closer to LA, in Hawaii or Mexico, for example?”

The legendary star of the silver screen is not having it. Armed with more formal questions that Stephanie has created for us, everyone tries to no avail. Everyone. Even Ethan. Martin won’t budge. He is noncompliant. A toddler gone limp in his mother’s arms.

By design, I am last up. I am our clutch hitter. Sure, I’m a seasoned producer. But, more important, I have weathered two small children by myself, even during the lost Elmo debacle of 2021. There is no irrational baby I can’t lull.

I pull an Eames-style chair up in front of the man, who is still wearing his sunglasses. He folds his hairy arms over his giant chest. He looks like an obstinate tree stump.

“Martin, hi. How are you?”

He sniffs at me. “I didn’t realize you cared. You’ve left me to all these amateurs! Aren’t you supposed to be running the show?”

“I apologize, Martin.” I frown sympathetically. “Of course, you deserve the very best and also my personal focus. I’ve been making sure the shoot itself runs smoothly. But I’m here, with you, now.”

He huffs, but I can see his shoulders relax as I explain that we’re basically getting behind-the-scenes footage and want him to be the star. “No one knows this property, this place, like you do,” I say. “No one can talk about it with the same depth of understanding and evocative language.”

I basically throw up in my mouth as I say this, but it’s part of the job when dealing with difficult talent. I am equal parts organizer and mediator.

“Well, that’s true,” he harrumphs. “But I’m not going to describe it to some Neanderthal cameraman!”

Peter went to Vassar. He is definitely not a Neanderthal.

“I understand,” I say. “It’s you and me now.”

He raises an overgrown eyebrow at that. Tilts his head to one side and narrows his gaze. “Alone at last.”

I fear this is his come hither look. And I am not going anywhere near hither.

Surreptitiously, I signal to Peter to start filming. He signals everyone else to go quiet.

“Martin,” I say, “as such an iconic actor, you’ve no doubt had the opportunity to visit incredible places all over the world. What drew you here, in particular, and inspired you to create this unique property? When you first saw the island, what did you think?”

“I didn’t think,” he snaps. “That’s entirely the point. I felt . I believe in that above all else—trusting how something feels. As it enters your body.”

The way he is petting the arm of his chair is more than a little disturbing. He reminds me of a cartoon supervillain. Which he kind of is. A megalomaniac with nefarious intentions.

“Of course, a deserted island is a kind of trope or… a fantasy ,” I continue, cringing as soon as I use the word. I have played into his trap. I see him react, eyebrows raised, but I soldier on. “In your mind, what makes this particular island unique?”

“This island is truly… virginal,” he purrs. I think he’s going to say more about the privilege of deflowering something untouched, but he has said his piece. Thank God.

Our interview goes on like that. Revolting innuendos woven throughout. My hope is that, edited and without context, his words will be usable.

At the end, I throw him a final easy question about the locals, a chance to talk up the property’s green initiatives and collaborations with makers collectives. “I know you and your team of designers and architects have put a lot of thought into protecting the environment here and indigenous species like the charcoal lizard. Not only is this property sustainable, but it’s LEED certified. Why was the environmental element important to you? What about the culture here? How are you involving the locals?”

“Oh, I love the people here!” he says. “And they love me!”

I steal a glance at the local makeup artist, who has finally stopped hyperventilating.

“They’re very welcoming and thrilled to have us. Especially since we have made it our personal mission to protect their land, keeping it groomed, fertile and succulent. Working with these people is much easier than navigating Hollywood, for example.” He leans in, covering his mic, and whispers so the sound won’t catch it: “The Jews.”

I freeze. I cannot have heard him right.

“Sorry—what?”

“The Jews . You know how it is.”

I stand up. This is my limit. “I am literally Jewish,” I say.

He scans me from top to bottom. “It’s okay,” he says.

“No,” I shake my head. “It is absolutely not.”

So ends our love affair.

We get the footage we need, and Charlie gets his initial photos for print, which look vibrant and luminous. If Martin ends up looking terrible (physically and fundamentally), then there is justice in the world. I wonder if Ethan has qualms about what a shit bag this guy is.

The rest of the day is mercifully Martin-free. He retires to his residence on the other side of the island, and we break for lunch. A buffet—an embarrassment of multicolored riches on rows of tables adorned with tropical flowers—is waiting at the restaurant.

Beside me on the buffet line, Ethan readies to take a plate of food back to the villa, grumbling about work to catch up on. Of course he takes only the salads and fruit. Not a fritter on his plate. In contrast, mine is a culinary revelation: fried food, ten ways.

He looks from my plate to his. Raises his eyebrows. Says nothing.

Wise man . But it’s also sort of unlike him to pass up a prime opportunity to give me shit.

I surreptitiously study his face. His brow is creased. He looks stressed. During the shoot, I’d noticed him hammering away on his phone off to the side. I’m tempted to ask him what’s up, but it feels like none of my beeswax.

He grabs a utensil-napkin roll-up and turns to head out. I shouldn’t care that he’s leaving. His absence can only make life less complicated for me. I can eat my lunch in peace. And yet I’m a bit bummed to see him go. Who else am I going to mock and heckle?

“You ditching us plebes?” I say, as he starts toward the stairs.

“No choice,” he says, without breaking stride. “I’m all tied up.”

Point, Demon Dad. I will be hearing this for the rest of my life. Or at least whenever in his presence.

The rest of the crew piles a cornucopia of tropical fruit, conch fritters, coconut shrimp and papaya salad onto plates. There is a gluttonous sweet and sour sauce, a thin hot pepper marinade that stains the plate orange and a vinegar-and-lime dressing with pickled pink onions that I consider mainlining.

We’ve got a mandated hour break and, though we are still a bit behind, I’m glad for it. I need to decompress post-Martin. I’m still considering whether to bring up what he said with the Escapade staff, since I’m not sure if any of them heard. On one hand, it was unacceptable. On the other, I don’t want to blow up this whole project and risk losing the larger opportunity. If I tell my coworkers and they do nothing, where does that leave me—with them but also with my own moral compass?

I sit down at a table, shaded by a large umbrella, with Jackie, Derek and Stephanie, then order a passion fruit iced tea. Make it a double. It arrives adorned with sprigs of fresh green mint. Heaven.

Martin is a scumbag, but the place is special.

“Do you mind if I join you?” asks Charlie, approaching our table with a more measured plate of food than mine.

We all hustle to make room. Because we are courteous. And also he is not unhot. Not that Professional Sasha cares.

“It’s so good to finally meet you in person,” I tell him as he settles next to me. “Have you guys all worked together before?”

“Actually, I don’t think so,” says Charlie, surveying the group.

“You’d remember,” says Stephanie, sliding a chunk of pineapple off a toothpick with her teeth.

“I’m sure that’s true.” He laughs.

“Where has Ethan been hiding you?” she asks.

“It’s not his fault, actually. I spent a bunch of years working with mostly dive magazines. Lots of underwater and on-the-water stuff. So, I’ve been here in Turks and Caicos many times, but never with Escapade .”

“So, you scuba dive?” Derek asks.

“Whenever I can.”

“And you know Ethan from some basketball game?” I say.

“Well, partially, yes. A weekly game. But I’ve also worked with him on editorial before. And we’ve become good friends.”

We all nod agreeably, and Charlie thinks he finally has a window to pick up his fork and go to town on his lunch, when I say: “So, what kind of basketball player is he? Shit talker? Enforcer? Ball hog?”

I look up from my plate.

They’re all staring at me like I’m out-of-bounds (okay, fine, pun intended). I hope they’re thinking I know a bizarre amount of basketball lingo and not that I’m overly curious about Ethan.

Which I am not . This is purely for research purposes.

“Wow,” says Charlie, now fully grinning. “I won’t mess with you on the court! No, he’s a great athlete and, okay, also a shit talker. But you know that, right? Aren’t you guys running buddies?”

This catches me off guard, and I feel like I’m denying something torrid when I say, “Us? Me and Ethan? No. Like not at all. Not even a little bit. Like, no.” I shove something giant, fried and round into my mouth to stop myself from talking.

“Oh, my bad. I thought I saw you guys coming in from a run on the way to my room this morning.”

I am shaking my head but am rendered speechless by the enormous amount of food I am trying to chew. I wish to God they would all look away, so I could spit it out. I gesture with my hand in a way that communicates nothing. “Mmm—negh, nmph,” I try. “NO!” I finally manage, a hand covering my mouth, so no one has to witness the atrocity.

Jackie giggles, her hoop earrings winnowing. I kick her playfully under the table.

“But you do run?”

“Yes,” I say, once I have finally swallowed, thank goodness. “I’m not a real runner though. I’m like, Runner Lite. Ethan seems pretty serious.”

The whole table is nodding.

“He is definitely intense about the running,” says Derek, with a meaningful look.

“OMG with the running! Don’t even get me started!” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Ever since he wrote that feature about the barefoot runners in Kenya, it’s like stride cadence, stride length, heart rate blah blah blah.” She mimes nodding off.

“He’s always trying to recruit people too,” Jackie says. “Like, why is it necessary to proselytize? You do you! I’ll stick to Pilates. I want to keep my knees.”

Now they’re all starting to snicker.

“Oh, wow. This is edifying,” I say. “I ran into him at the park once and he tried to give me some tip about how to hold my arms and, ever since, he won’t let it go!”

I have hit on something true. Because now they’re all fully cracking up. Even Derek quakes silently, tears streaming from his eyes. And the funny thing is you can feel the fondness. All I can think as they roast him is, They love this man .

Charlie is shaking his head and grinning. “Oh, man. I feel like a traitor right now. But it’s so true!”

As the laugher devolves into sighs, we return to our food. I’m practicing taking small bites now, traumatized by Fritter-Gate. Maybe I’m done with lunch. Maybe the dessert table—with its chocolate parfaits and mini key lime pies—is calling my name.

“In Ethan’s defense though,” says Charlie, as I’m about to stand up, “I think he was dealing with some difficult stuff around that same time as the Kenya article. Seems like the running helps him cope.”

I am going nowhere. Glued to my seat. First of all, I relate to this. Second, who needs dessert when there’s dish?

“True.” Derek nods solemnly.

“Mmm,” Jackie agrees.

“Is that right?” Stephanie cocks her head to the side. “Was that the same time? It feels like he’s been at the magazine forever, but I guess it hasn’t been that long.”

I am intrigued. And also clueless.

“Was what at the same time?”

“Oh, you know,” says Jackie. “The challenges. Which coincided with Ethan coming on as editor. And the running article.”

“Challenges?”

“With her .”

Oh, now I’m getting it.

“That witch,” says Stephanie.

And now I’m really getting it.

“We probably shouldn’t…,” says Derek.

“And yet, we are,” says Stephanie. “She understands,” she continues, leaning in toward Charlie. “She’s divorced too.”

This she is me. And now all eyes are on her. Me.

“I am,” I say. “It’s true. Divorced as charged.” Jazz hands.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “I assumed you were married,” he blurts out. He looks relieved. Why does he look relieved? “Because of the kids. Sorry.”

“Oh. No. Well, I mean, I was married. And now I am happily un married.”

I hate this. When people get awkward around the d word. It makes me want to say what my kids call “the f word.”

Despite the umbrella and the lovely breeze, it’s pretty hot at the height of the day. The sun is lording over the sky, threatening to scorch us. My thighs are suctioned to my seat.

And they’re all looking at me with sympathetic—yet curious—expressions. Except Stephanie. She is leaning in without apology.

“Was he an asshole too?” she says. “Your husband?”

“Too?”

“Like the nightmare Ethan divorced.”

Honestly, thank God for this woman. Filterless Stephanie. She just says the thing.

I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, right. Yes. Mine was an asshole too. Is an asshole. Continues to be. On an ongoing basis.”

Sometimes I make excuses for Cliff. I say things like, “He does what he can. He does his best. He’s a complicated person. He’s not a bad man.” Not today, Cliff. Not today.

Something about Stephanie is freeing me up.

She presses a manicured hand to my forearm. “Isn’t he some sort of bigwig screenwriter? About to direct some huge Ryan Reynolds project? I keep hearing about it.”

I am stunned out of my reverie. Someone has done her homework.

“What?” says Stephanie, as Derek shoots her a chiding look. “Am I the only one who googled her?”

Her is me again.

“He cheated on you also, right?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” says Charlie, his nose scrunched in distaste. But he is looking at me like he’d kind of like to know.

Normally, any reference to the Golden Globes or that seat filler makes me want to hide. I’m not big on public displays of humiliation. But I am way too intrigued now by the word also to care.

“It’s fine,” I say, taking a sip of my iced tea. “We were really already over by the time my ex… did whatever he did. At least, as far as I know. Why? Did Ethan’s ex-wife cheat on him?”

This is surprising to me. Very surprising. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he seems like a keeper. Maybe because of how he looks in a T-shirt or all wet in a supermarket aisle. Maybe because he doesn’t seem disposable, the way—I realize in this moment—maybe I feel.

When I pictured his wife, I envisioned a woman who was quietly angry, resenting the way he didn’t help. Not a philanderer.

“Yup. She cheated. With some guy she dated in high school! One of those fucked-up stories you hear about reconnecting on social. Emotional affair turns real. Midlife crisis. So basic. You know the drill.”

Do I? I guess so. I know the trope anyway. But that is so not how I pictured Ethan’s broken marriage. I pictured flirting turned to bickering turned to sniping turned to separate lives. Maybe separate beds? I pictured values changing, clashing parenting styles, the quiet desperation of figuring out what to make for dinner. Every. Single. Night.

I have more questions. Many. And I am about to ask them when Jackie lets out a bloodcurdling scream. By the time my eyes catch up to the action, she is standing on her chair, holding on to the sun umbrella like a life preserver.

A gargantuan lizard is staring up at her with interest. It ticks its head back and forth between her and the ground like an automaton.

“It ran over my foot!” she yelps.

In her defense, it is the grand master of lizards. It is enormous. And it’s taking a special interest in her like when cats snuggle up to someone who is allergic. In its defense, her behavior could be considered alarming to a creature unfamiliar with human neurosis.

“Ah,” says Michael, approaching as if from nowhere. “You have met one of our friends from the iguana sanctuary. They’re endangered, and Mr. Bernard is helping to protect them.”

Jackie looks like she’d like to finish the species off. “Can you please make it leave?”

I look at my phone. Shoot. I need to make us leave too. It’s time to get back to work.

Our next setup is at the pimped-out spa and that, plus the absence of Martin, makes the work more chill. After that, we’ll shoot back at the restaurant and the activity shed.

The weather and lighting cooperates. Derek—who apparently has a heavily trafficked Instagram platform chronicling his and his husband’s baking endeavors—has been charged with taking some vertical videos for the magazine’s social platforms. They come out pretty cool.

Charlie is pleased with the photos for the official glossy spread, after a cursory look through them. Unfortunately, Peter and I are less jazzed about the video content. Somehow, the very thing that makes this place so beautiful—how minimal and neutral and stripped down it feels—isn’t coming across. It just looks flat and barren. And about as flavorful as Whole Foods–prepared foods. It feels like featuring negative space.

Though the still photos work without models, our footage doesn’t.

Peter, Stephanie, Derek and I are huddled around the camera’s playback, shaking our heads, biting our lips and sighing.

“It lacks life,” I say.

“We could shoot some footage of the iguanas,” suggests Peter.

Jackie shudders.

“This is the problem with shooting on a deserted island,” I say. “You’ve only got what you’ve got.”

“Anyone got a couple models on them?” asks Stephanie. She has plucked a rose quartz roller from the spa boutique’s beauty display and is running it back and forth across her forehead.

“No supermodels in my pocket, sadly,” I say.

“Okay. Fine. Catalog models, then.”

“I’ve done some modeling,” says Peter.

“Hilarious!” says Stephanie, and I grin too. But he doesn’t crack a smile.

“Oh,” says Stephanie, rearranging her face. “Of course you have.”

“Steph, put that away,” says Derek, pointing to the crystal roller. “Those are for guests to buy. We’re not meant to sample them.”

She rolls her eyes. But, sheepish, she puts the beauty tool back in its velvet case for some unsuspecting future guest to purchase. And that’s when I have my light bulb moment.

“Okay, I might have an idea. Hear me out.”

All eyes are on me. I am grateful that at least Ethan is staying out of it, leaning against a wall at the back, on his phone.

He’s doing work, I think. He has his email face on. It’s one of many of his expressions I’m coming to learn. I shake my head clear.

“The whole crux of what makes this place—and our ability to feature it—special is that it’s as yet unspoiled by the very spoiled. Right? We’re here first! Even before the one percent.”

“Okay?” says Stephanie. “And?”

“And everyone loves a glimpse behind the curtain. So, what if we give the viewers one? What if, for the video and digital element, we mess around a little and feature Stephanie using that gua sha and lounging in the infrared sauna? Jackie sneaking a cocktail at the bar? Derek at the dessert buffet? And on from there?”

Jackie scrunches up her nose. “Would anyone want to see that?”

“Of course they would!” Stephanie says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Joking, not joking.

“I think it might work,” Derek agrees. “Just the whole aspirational element of getting to fuck around in this super swanky place. It could be kind of addictive to watch. In the vein of unboxing videos?”

“It’s kind of our only option. And the worst thing that happens is that it looks bad, so we fall back on the other B-roll footage and chop it up into bite-size chunks to make it feel more dynamic.”

Everyone is nodding. I am way less confident than I seem. What if it’s a disaster? What if I fail at this one shot to impress the team?

To impress… Ethan?

As makeup begins touching up Stephanie for the spa shoot, I feel half like Ms. Marvel and half like Miss Muffet. Am I a hero? Or a colossal fraud?

Time will tell.

At least Stephanie looks at home reclining in her plush white robe, her frizz-free hair framing her face. And she does a great job of hamming it up. The footage is strong. Hopefully everyone will be this good.

After the spa shoot, when we ready to move on to the restaurant, she heads out to go conduct her big interview with Martin at his home for the article.

“Text me if you need anything ,” I tell her as she packs up her tote. She insists on being alone with him so he’ll “open up.” I think he’s likely harmless, but I still don’t love it.

“I got this,” she says, winking.

Soon after she leaves, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I duck out to answer, blinking as my eyes adjust to the sun.

“Hello?”

“Hi, love!”

It’s Martin’s publicist, Barbara. I recognize this ploy. I am definitely “love” because she’s drawing a blank on my name—just like I’m “Mom” at school pick-up.

“Hi, Barbara ,” I can’t help but say pointedly. “How are you?”

“Remarkable! You? I wanted to check in.”

“I’m okay. Look, this is awkward, but you should know that Martin made some very offensive anti-Semitic remarks to me earlier.”

“Yes, yes,” she says.

“And he’s pretty inappropriate with the ladies too.”

“Right, yes.”

This is not the response I expected. Or what makes sense conversationally. So I say, “Does that surprise you to hear?”

After a beat of silence, Barbara says, “It’sss…” She trails off, a balloon deflating. It takes me a minute to realize her thought will not be completed.

“Um,” I say into the deafening silence. “Well, we did complete his portion of the photo shoot and video interview today and hopefully got what we need.”

“Wonderful,” Barbara breathes. “Well, I better run! Enjoy, love!”

And then she is gone. I stare at my phone, but it’s not at fault. This is how people get away with horrible behavior. This is how it continues unchecked. Everyone is afraid to rock the boat.

The restaurant is surrounded on three sides by ocean. At night, it was too dark to see much and, during the day, I’ve been too busy to notice. Now, I stare at the horizon and lose myself in turquoise water as it glimmers and swells, hoping for an epiphany. Some people find this meditative. It just makes me crave a blue raspberry Blow Pop.

An iguana creeps out from behind a nearby banquette. Are they really endangered? It feels like there are four million of them! This one scurries up onto the seat. It is spectacular in all its prehistoric glory against the tangerine cushion. A miniature Godzilla. Jackie would be horrified, but I kind of like this guy. I think Nettie and Bart would too.

I snap a quick picture. Then, we connect for a moment, eyeing each other in interspecies communion. I lose our staring contest. After all, there is work to be done. Work this iguana won’t ever see or understand, unless he’s into oxygen facials.

I have an irrational urge to play Turks and Caicos geography with this guy. Maybe he knows my stingray. But then Derek calls me back inside.

At the end of the day, you can stick a fork in me. I am toast. Which you don’t even eat with a fork. Whatever. Suffice it to say, I am very tired.

We are still a bit behind, but we are losing light. So, at 5:30 p.m., I confer with Charlie and then call it.

A bunch of the others are heading to the bar for a much-needed margarita. Even Peter agrees to join. I do love a post-shoot download and the restaurant’s guacamole—which I know comes with pomegranate seeds—is calling to me. But it will have to wait. I’ve got a hot FaceTime date with my kids, and I miss their sloppy faces.

When I leave to head back to the villa, there is no one to boo me, though Jackie makes a sad face at my departure, then waves in slo-mo. Derek shoots me a warm smile, all the more appreciated for its rarity. Stephanie has been absent since she left for her interview with Martin. If she doesn’t materialize soon, I might organize a search party.

It’s still warm out, of course, but the light is settling once we’ve broken all the equipment down and said our goodbyes. I push my sunglasses off my face and perch them on my head so I can see the true colors. It’s an exceptional thing to walk “home” from work barefoot on slatted wooden walkways dusted with sand. The still-damp shore has been hung out to dry as the tide recedes. Only a bit more than a day in, I am growing used to a world without the roar of engines and car stereos; without strangers and overheard snippets of conversation; where the only abrasion is the grains of sand exfoliating the bottom of your feet.

Through the window of our villa, I can see the light glowing yellow. There is a moment when the outside grows darker than in, and I am there to witness it. It’s not fall here. Not in the way I know it, anyway. There are no browning leaves or crisp breezes with edges that cut. There are certainly no knit hats and gloves. But something about this time of day feels autumnal. It’s nostalgic though I’ve never lived it before. And from somewhere, probably the outdoor barbecue pit by the restaurant, the smell of fireplace wafts and seduces. Oh, right. Michael mentioned something about “island-inspired” s’mores.

When I step inside, I discover Ethan sitting in one of the deep armchairs, his laptop on his lap. He is wearing reading glasses I’ve never seen before. And he is frowning at his screen. I didn’t expect to find him still here, but, when he looks up and meets my eyes, it feels familiar. Natural. Good. He shoots me a small smile.

“Nice glasses,” I say.

He frowns again, takes this as an insult. Which I guess I intended. But the truth is, I like them.

And, against my better judgment, maybe him?

He takes off the glasses and inspects them like an alien intruder. Like they just showed up on his face of their own volition. “Yeah. I finally gave in.”

“That’s wise. Rather than being blind.”

“I guess so,” he grunts. “You guys wrapped?”

“We did,” I say, taking my sunglasses off my head and my bag off my shoulder and resting both on the kitchen island. “We’re a little behind, but I think we’ll catch up tomorrow.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How do you think it went?”

I am not accustomed to downloads like this. I live with two small children and one oversize cat. There are no adults around to ask me about my day. And, before that, I got used to Cliff’s disinterest in anything beyond himself. He was not the sort of man who asked after my day. Of course, Ethan is being thoughtful and also looking after the project. These are normal things to do. But I am momentarily stymied by the crushing realization that I have spent too many years on my own or playing second fiddle. I have let too many years pass with my head down. I’ve gone too many evenings without anyone asking me about me.

It is so obvious. And everyone who loves me has tried to tell me. My parents. Celeste. Even Nettie, who recently asked me for the first time why I “never get crushes.” But it is in this moment, as I lower myself into the corner of this immaculate linen sectional beside Ethan’s chair, that the knowledge actually roots. In this moment, I believe it.

Which is why I forget to speak. And glance up to find Ethan studying me intently. “Are you okay?”

“Yes! Sorry,” I say. “I think it went well.”

“Okay, good. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Positive,” I say, softened by his concern. “Just tired.” I lean back against the sofa and sigh to put some distance between us. I will stay strong. Glasses be damned.

“And you’re still liking working with Charlie?”

“Charlie? Totally. He’s amazing!”

“Amazing,” Ethan repeats.

“Why?”

“No reason.” Ethan shrugs. “Charlie is great.”

“Yup,” I agree, widening my eyes. Ethan is being weird, so I make it weirder. “He said you also think I’m great .”

Ethan’s cheeks flush. He looks caught. For once, I am not the one off-balance. He shakes his head and shrugs simultaneously. “I mean, whatever. You know. I mean… your work is good.”

“Don’t you mean great ?”

What is more fun than making this man uncomfortable? My new favorite hobby.

“Yeah. Fine. Great.”

I can’t help myself, I nudge his foot with my own. “So, you just meant my work?”

He looks up, catches my eye. Smirks. “Well, I didn’t mean your cotton candy.”

We eye each other for a beat. For self-preservation, why didn’t I sit farther away?

Ethan clears his throat, resets. I think for my benefit. He is also trying to behave. “You didn’t want to grab dinner with the others?”

“I need to call my kids.”

“Ah. Me too. Soon.” Ethan closes his laptop and stands up, stretching. I catch a glimpse of his abs, which will haunt my loins for eternity. “I think I’m going to grab a beer. Do you want one? Or a glass of wine… if Stephanie left any?”

“I think she killed the bottle.”

“I meant if she left any in the whole resort.”

That makes me laugh. Which makes me relax. Which makes me realize how tense I was today during the shoot.

“I’ll take a beer,” I say. “Sure. Thank you.”

I lay out cork coasters, and he returns with the drinks, something local called Turk’s Head with colorful labels. It all feels very domestic.

“To Stephanie leaving us some wine next time,” he toasts.

“To Stephanie getting a good interview and then never having to talk to Martin again!” I say.

Ethan shakes his head like, That guy . We swig in tandem.

“There was one minor snafu today,” I admit, once I’ve swallowed my sip. The beer tastes cool and fresh.

“Yeah? What happened?” He props his bare feet up on a nearby ottoman.

Goddammit. The man even has nice feet.

One of the glass doors is propped open and, between the gentle wind and the subtle coconut scent they pump through the vents here, I feel for a moment like I’m on vacation. With Ethan. Which kick-starts butterflies in my stomach.

“Peter and I thought the video was looking a bit… flat,” I stumble, “but I think we found a solution.”

Ethan smiles. “You mean you found a solution.”

“How did you—?”

“I was there. I saw it go down. You should take credit for your own ideas. You took the initiative.”

“Yeah, okay. I know. Fine. Thanks for the tip. What did you do, write a feature about workplace assertiveness too?”

He scrunches up his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They told me all about how you wrote an article about running and now you can’t stop yourself from dispensing advice. I thought it was regular old mansplaining, but I guess giving tips is kind of your job.”

He narrows his eyes. “Who told you? Who is they ?”

“You know, Jackie, Derek, Stephanie, Charlie…”

“Oh Lord,” he says, running a hand along his stubbled cheek. “What else did they tell you?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. Certainly not the details of your failed marriage .

I am the world’s worst liar. He is onto me immediately.

“Oh, fuck. Seriously—what did they say? It’s obviously something bad. Look at you! Your cheeks don’t lie.”

I slap a hand to either side of my face. “You don’t know. Maybe it’s an allergy! Alcohol makes me flushed.”

“I watched you down an entire flask of bourbon at Monster’s Ball and nothing.”

“Hey! You drank half of that too!”

“A third, maybe. Maybe a third.”

The reminder of our shared home turf feels somehow comforting, like an inside joke. We are grinning at each other. Why are we grinning? I take another swig off my beer. It’s sweet and bitter on my tongue. For a moment, I let it sit and fizzle.

“No, seriously. What did they say?” he repeats, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward on his thighs.

I try to ignore the hint of a tan line where his shorts ride up on his upper leg. I am in his confidence. He is dangerously close to me. And there go those pheromones again.

“I need to know. It’s only fair.”

“Fair?”

“Yes. I have to know what they told you about me. Otherwise, our conversation is… imbalanced.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is actually.”

“Well, then, some would argue the imbalance already exists because you’re kind of, like, my boss.”

“You think I’m your boss ?” He cringes.

“No. I know this is Steph and Derek’s baby. But you’re their boss!” J’accuse! “So, by the transitive property…”

Ethan tilts his head to one side. “Hey, Sasha,” he says.

Oh, fuck. I wish he’d stop saying my name. It sends something unseemly ping-ponging through me. I cross my legs. Ignore all the tingles.

“Yes?” I manage.

“What is the transitive property?”

“I have no idea. But I still think I’m right.”

“Of course you do,” he says. It sounds damning, but his eyes, fixed on me, spell something else. He holds my gaze. I know I should, but I can’t look away.

Suddenly, the silence is supercharged. The air that separates has texture. Can magnets attract and repel at once? I feel like I should speak, but I can’t find my voice. I feel like I should move, but I am a statue. He licks his lips. I am riveted.

I flash to the fleeting feel of his lips against mine last night, and I want to relive it.

Just like that, I am leaning in again as if in a trance and, as I do, he follows suit. Little by little until we’re close enough for me to notice the inkiness of his lashes, the way his eyes actually have gradations of color, hold multitudes. I am ready to fall headfirst into their depths.

His gaze drops to my chest, then sears its way back up to my lips, all lava. And that’s it for me. My brain may be a holdout, but my body is in. And I am closing my eyes against reality and saying screw it, when an alarm goes off. It takes me a moment to realize it’s not in my head. That there is an actual alarm sounding from Ethan’s phone. We dart back to our corners. Again. And this pattern is starting to feel painfully familiar.

As he goes to grab his phone, I exhale. Shaky. What is happening here? I’m unsure. Or maybe I want to be unsure. Actually, it seems pretty damn clear.

“It’s six thirty,” he says, running a hand through his hair so it stands on end. “I’ve got to call my daughter.”

“Oh, shit!” I say, shooting to standing. “I have to call my kids too.”

I grab my bag from the counter and, as we cross to our adjoining rooms, we almost smash into each other, my hands landing flat on his chest.

“Sorry, sorry!” I say as I snatch them back. I am the platonic ideal of out of sorts. If that could be a platonic ideal.

The nothing that has happened is more awkward than something.

Inside my room with the door safely closed, head in my hands, I mouth a string of obscenities. I am literally vibrating. Then, I flop onto my bed, steady myself, and pull my phone out of my purse. But, just as I’m starting to dial, there’s a knock at the door. Ethan pops his head in. Demon Dad. In my bedroom .

I sit up straight.

“Hey,” he says. I have an impulse to cover up, I guess because I’m sitting on my bed, but I am fully clothed and wearing the same tank top and jean shorts I was wearing one minute before in the living room with him. “Meet you back out there afterward and we’ll order room service?”

“Room service?”

“Yes. Food. That they deliver to your room. Because we skipped the group dinner. You must be hungry?”

It’s true that I have eaten mostly taffy and plantain chips since lunch, since that’s what we had for craft service. I realize underneath the panic and the other thing I refuse to name (let’s call it “Bob”), I am ravenous. “Yes,” I say. “Hungry, I am.”

Have I turned into Yoda? Ethan looks at me like I’ve lost it.

“I think maybe I should place the order now, so we don’t have to wait, actually,” he says. “Any idea what you might want?”

“A burger, maybe?”

“A burger, for sure?”

“A burger, for sure.”

He closes the door, shaking his head.

And, as I push the memory of the feel of his chiseled chest under my palms out of my mind, trying to ignore “Bob,” I realize I am in a definite pickle.