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One more time, I reload my texts. I tried to schedule a meeting with Mike for tomorrow, after I’m back in LA and have made sure my grandmother is okay, but he hasn’t replied since last night. Unease swirls in my belly. What’s going on? Does he know about Zoey and Anna’s little switcheroo? Is he upset I didn’t figure it out?
I pull up Anna’s Instagram account. I scroll back to her posts from before the cruise, trying to see how I missed the difference between her and Zoey. But Anna’s not the type to post a ton of close-ups. The differences between the photos from before the cruise and during are minimal.
I see how Zoey pulled it off. If her face is visible in a picture, she’s far away and has a hat and sunglasses on. She clearly knows she looks more like her sister if she’s turned to the right. On the left, she has a beauty mark at the back of her cheek near the ear, a dead giveaway to someone like Mike.
I keep scrolling, past an image of Zoey’s hand riding the wind outside the dune buggy in Cozumel. Past Zoey in that big pink hat, leaning off the front of the Catamaran in Grand Cayman. Past the whole group of us on the sandbar on the river in Jamaica. Past her poolside selfie, right after our first proper conversation, when I told her about my family, and she told me about hers. I hope she was honest with me that day.
Even though I was lying about why I was on board. Flirting with Colin, so she wouldn’t wonder why I was always around. My gut twists. Sure, the lies were for a case, but does that make it any better?
Below the poolside shots, there’s her masked selfie from our ridiculous masquerade mistake that first night on board. Even with the mask, how could Mike not see this was Zoey? Her lean arms, hard stomach, and rippling thighs were all on full display. I slam the phone onto the bed and bury my face in my hands. But I can’t help picking the device back up almost immediately and refreshing her feed one more time, half hoping, half afraid, that she might have posted a photo from her last morning on board the ship.
But there’s nothing new. Only last night’s photo of her in that tiny white dress on the stage. And then my heart stutter-stops. Grant has commented on it.
@GrantKevlartheStuntStud- Get ready to rumble at the RCN! C u soon!
Holy shit. Was she lying about him, too? Has she been planning to meet Grant when she got back to shore? And what does he mean by the RCN? I flip back to Grant’s profile and scroll through his photos from this week. There it is. #RitzCarltonNOLA. Of course. A rendezvous at a hotel.
I see red.
My disembarkation zone is called, and I push my way to the front, elbowing people out of my way.
Half an hour later, my Uber pulls up outside the Ritz. I pause outside the front doors, the rush of Canal Street behind me, the stately lobby ahead. Am I doing this? It isn’t one of my better ideas. But there she is, crossing the marble floor towards one Grant Kevlar. He grabs both of her arms and kisses her smack on the lips. They turn and disappear down a side hallway.
I’m through the doors and partway down the hall behind them before you can say NOLA. They stop. I screech to a halt too, turning to slink back to the lobby, when Mike walks up to the front desk. What is he doing here? Why is he in New Orleans? Behind me, Grant and Zoey argue. I glance around for a hiding place. Any second, one of them will spot me.
To my right, a big, recessed window looks out over a lush courtyard. It has thick velvet curtains on either side. I duck behind the fabric.
“Ouch,” someone hisses. I look over. The real Anna Anderson glares up at me. “Sebastian?”
* * *
ZOEY
“Grant, I’m not interested in that way,” I say to the cocky stuntman in front of me after he smacks his lips on top of mine. “I’m here to meet the director you’ve been talking about.” With a sudden lick of cold, I realize Grant has still not told me this guy’s name. “Please tell me you haven’t been making him up.” Even if half of Hollywood is here for the big Georgia Dirk-Jud Patrick wedding, there’s still no guarantee.
“Of course, I haven’t,” Grant says, annoyed that it did not thrill me to be greeted with a mouth kiss. His devilish jawline no longer looks as enticing as I once thought. He looks lean and mean, like a sewer rat with a bone to pick. “Schwartzman is up in my room. If I’m dead honest, he slept there last night, with Virginia, and they’re both pretty hung over.”
“Get the man cleaned up and have him come to the lobby.”
“See, the thing is…”
“Grant, I don’t care.” I storm down the hall, only to find I haven’t gone towards the lobby. I’m headed deeper into the maze of this historic old building. I don’t turn back. I’m not going to Grant’s room with him, and I will not argue with him about it either. If this is real, Director Schwartzman will come to a public place. If it’s not, then Grant can fuck off. God, I hope he’s talking about the super-successful Schwartzman; the one who’s directed half the top box office films in the last decade, and not some wannabe.
I don’t have the emotional energy for much more bullshit today. I ruined everything with Sebastian because I didn’t tell him the truth soon enough. I didn’t realize at first how much I would come to care about him. I didn’t know till it was too late. Till I’d made myself so untrustworthy I was my own worst nightmare. I grind my teeth, trying to stave off tears. I’ve ruined the first chance I’ve ever had at something real. Wetness leaks onto my cheeks.
Grant is still babbling behind me, and I can only hobble so fast, since I left my crutch with all my luggage behind the front desk. I take one turn to the left, and then another, tracing around the leafy courtyard outside. Grant goes on and on about the debauched five nights he’s had at the wedding, with Victoria Covney and Director Schwartzman and Meghan Marconi and Zander Zane, all having grand ideas about some new Meghan and Zander action thriller they want to make. It’s sounding like a lot of hot smoke blown out of a few bongs, and I’m pretty sure I’ve come here for nothing.
I locate a door leading into the tropical space outside. Water tinkles in a fountain somewhere out here. I head for a door on the opposite wall, leading back to the lobby.
But when I pull the lobby door open, my heart lurches to my throat. Mike’s here. He was supposed to be at the cruise terminal. I left the boat as soon as the doors opened this morning, taking the early “self-assist” disembarkation option so I could leave first thing. Almost no one was at the dock, and I didn’t see Mike when I came down the gangplank and crossed through the terminal building. And yet, Mike must have somehow seen me and followed me to the hotel, missing Anna.
I reach for my phone to text Anna the news, meanwhile reversing back into the courtyard. I close the door to the lobby, trying to remain silent, and smack into Grant. He wraps his arms around me from behind.
“Grant, stop it!” I untangle myself. When I look through the window into the lobby, I see Mike rushing towards the entrance to one of the restaurants. Slipping through the restaurant door are Sebastian and… is that my sister?
* * *
SEBASTIAN
