“Actually?” Jackson laughs wryly. “She’s a little like you. Into crystals and chakras and all that crazy woo shit,” he says. “She would love you.”
“Crazy woo shit?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. That’s awfully cocky of him. “Why are you even doing this show with me if that’s the way you feel about my matchmaking methods?”
“Someone’s gotta keep things from going off the rails. I mean, with all due respect, Isla, your romantic notions are fine for novels, but this is real life. There can be serious consequences,” Jackson frowns.
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, thinking of my parents’ loveless match. A match made with the same sort of methodology Jackson uses. My parents look great on paper. Same background. Same taste. I don’t think I’ve ever heard them argue about toilet rolls. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard them argue. Not even when confronted with each other’s affairs.
“Chasing rainbows is too risky,” Jackson presses his lips together and shrugs in a #sorrynotsorry fashion.
I get that Jackson’s got some kind of a chip on his shoulder, but why should that entitle him to be so rude?
“Do you think you’re the only person on the planet with a backstory?” I ask. I think coming from a broken home is the norm these days. “You’re not the only one who’s ever had to deal with the fallout from a less than ideal match. Don’t you see that?”
“Here’s what I see, Isla,” Jackson pauses by a copse of spiky beach grass. “I see thatyouclearly come from a wealthy, privileged family, but you like to wear thrifted clothes and live in tiny little garrets and write your fantastical fiction and pretend like you’re not part of the one percent. People like you don’t get really screwed when relationships go wrong. They get a first-class ticket to somewhere else and a free pass to try again.”
The nerve of him!
“So only poor people are entitled to have feelings?” I ask.
Jackson shrugs.
“You do know my parents separated for a while when I was quite young,” I say. “They were very unhappily married. Still are, in fact. But they soldier on.”
“Let me guess,” Jackson smirks. “They sent you to a posh private boarding school which is where you developed a penchant for Ouija boards and regency romance novels?”
He really can be such an ass. What happened to the vulnerable guy who appeared on my doorstep with mud in his ear?
“Letmeguess,” I fire back at him. “You made your first million just to prove your bitchy second-grade teacher wrong about your ADHD quirks. Then once you got rich, you used your success to try and convince yourself you were smarter and better than everyone else, but you were still miserable, so you decided to take it one step further and build a ridiculous app that would ensure that everyone else would have to remain as miserable as you for the rest of time!”
One of the curly tailed lizards suddenly dashes across our path, and I reflexively throw out a protective arm like my mum used to do to try to “save” me when she’d had to slam on the brakes with me in the passenger seat.
“Look out! There’s a lizard!” I say. Jackson stops in his tracks.
“Thanks,” he says, eying me suspiciously. “How did you know about my second-grade teacher? Did my sister say something?”
I pick up the pace again. I can smell the food, I’m getting hungry, and I really don’t want to be late. “No,” I smile sweetly. “I asked my Ouija board about you.”
* * *
“Welcome!”Rob says. He’s standing on a makeshift stage, holding a mic. “I am so excited to have you all assembled here at last! So much energy! Can you feel the energy on this beach?”
The six contestants, along with the various cast and crew members who have assembled, clap and cheer.
Across the table from me, Jackson swats at a bug and curses.
“I wanted to introduce everyone to each other tonight, but I know everyone is probably starved and some of you are still jet-lagged. So I had the team put together this montage of your confessional videos while you were arriving and since you’ve been here. Some of you got here more conventionally than others. He looks our way and waves at Jackson.
“Why is he waving at you?” I ask
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Jackson says.
“I thought you didn’t believe in premonitions,” I tease. A server sets a platter of crabs on the table. “Oh look, your friends are here.”
Rob steps off the stage, and the video begins with security footage from the gate house. There’s a jeep parked at the gatehouse, and a security guard with an umbrella is speaking to a grizzled old man in the driver’s seat. Sitting next to him is Jackson, wrapped in a blue tarp and covered with mud.
“Not the most auspicious arrival for tech guru Jackson Porter, but things can only go uphill from here, right?” Rob narrates the film montage, which suddenly cuts to me in the back of the car.
“I guess you could say I’m like an emotional hot waxer.”
