Cole found me . . .

  “If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out,” I tack on, feeling very zen about the whole thing.

  Now that I’ve cried out all my bodily fluids, a strange calm has settled over me. Nothing can faze me now, not even Cole’s dumb face.

  Which is good, considering what’s to come . . .

  Chapter Fifteen

  PAIGE

  My big plans for the night consist of rolling myself into a blanket until I resemble a human burrito and then turning in early. I’m going for a solid twelve, but I will accept a paltry eleven hours of sleep as well. My shift starts later than usual tomorrow, so I could really stretch this night of misery out if I wanted, but my plans get derailed by an ominous text message.

  I’ve just polished off the mousse when my phone buzzes, right along with Camila’s and Lara’s.

  “What the hell?”

  Mandatory All-Staff Meeting

  10 PM in the Turtle Cove Ballroom

  “Oh, c’mon, are you kidding me?!” Lara groans.

  “What could be so important?”

  Hurricane Dominic, of course.

  I consider skipping it. I mean, I’m getting fired anyway, so what more could they do to me? Unfortunately, it would only draw questions from Lara and Camila—I’m not someone to buck the rules, and a mandatory all-staff meeting is . . . mandatory. When it’s time, I shuffle along behind Camila and Lara, a veritable zombie. There’s no telling what this harsh hallway lighting is doing to my already splotchy complexion and puffy eyes. I keep my focus on the carpet and my head down so I can hide behind my sheath of hair as I join the chatty group of staff members already gathered in the packed ballroom.

  Speculations are flying.

  “I hear they’re going to move us out of staff housing.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “In the hotel, I guess. It’s much safer, and it has generators. Y’know, if it gets that bad . . .”

  In the ballroom, they’ve set out chairs in neat rows, but there won’t be enough for everyone, which is fine by me.

  Lara and Camila start to head toward the front, near the stage. I let the crowd surge around me before I break off and head toward the back, near a trash can. By the time they realize I’m not behind them, it’s too late to do anything about it. They look back, worried, but I do a classic rendition of an apathetic shrug before I post up against the wall.

  This is for the best. I can look down at my phone and avoid all human contact.

  It works really well. I see everyone walking in out of the corner of my eye, and no one sees me. When Cole enters, and my stomach plummets, I swiftly turn my back to him and pray he doesn’t look over. Is my hair that noticeable? My butt that noteworthy? Surely I just look like any other employee. I hold my breath, counting to ten in my head. Then, when I still don’t feel confident, I sing “Happy Birthday” twice. By the time I peer back over my shoulder, Cole’s made it up to the front of the room, far, far away from me. The chances of him spotting me in this huge crowd are slim to none.

  I haven’t seen him since he left the supply closet—during the quote, unquote assault with toilet paper. Not my finest moment, but I don’t regret it. It clearly didn’t have any long-lasting effects on him. Whereas we all look a bit lost, Cole looks assertive and confident as he speaks to a few members of the executive team crowded around him. He’s leading the charge, whatever that may be.

  I’m still scoping him out, looking for physical signs of distress, when Blaze walks in alongside Serge, one of the scuba diving instructors. Serge actually helped train me when I first started here, but I haven’t seen him around much since then. He keeps to himself more than most of us, but a lot of that had to do with the fact that he had a serious boyfriend up until a few months ago—a chef at Smith’s. But that ended pretty badly—with everybody in the resort knowing their business—and I felt really bad for him. Imagine if everyone knew the daily drama that is The Paige and Cole Show. Horrifying. Anyway, now here Serge is with Blaze, looking happier than ever. They laugh, and even though my body is chock full of bitterness from my shitty day, I’m still glad to see that Serge is doing well.

  It occurs to me much, much later—like after they’ve taken their seats—that I should also be excited to see Blaze on account of us being a very serious, definitely dating couple. My heart should be pitter-pattering in my chest, a sure sign of young love. I check in to find that my heart is . . . maybe there. I’m not totally sure. If it’s beating, it’s doing so with lackluster ambivalence. Hmmm. Just to test a theory, I glance back at Cole near the front of the ballroom.

  Ah, there it is.

  It’s racing now.

  How concerning. The day after he kissed me, Cole joked that he’d ruined me for all other men. Maybe he did ruin me. Maybe, over the last year, he’s operated like an overzealous army lieutenant during boot camp. Only instead of tearing me apart and putting me back together better, stronger, wiser, he decided to just do the first part and call it a day.

  Instead of growing excited by the prospect of nice, happy Blaze, my body’s been trained to want Cole, the human equivalent of Friday the 13th. The bane of my existence.

  My vision tunnels as I realize this is much, much worse than I thought. My entire worldview has shifted in the last twelve hours—oh, and, and there’s a hurricane hurtling toward me at breakneck speeds and I can’t be bothered to care about it. I don’t even listen when the executive team takes the stage. Todd gets up there with the microphone and just goes to town. Five, ten, fifteen minutes. The guy’s trying out stand-up, I guess. Who cares. I’m too busy envisioning interesting and barbaric ways Cole could sustain an injury up there. Obviously, if this were a movie, the heavy chandelier would come crashing down on him from overhead. Classic. Then, of course, the stage he’s standing on could collapse and he could get buried beneath the metal risers. That could be fun. I get creative with it, though, because why not? I’ve got time. There’s a set of double doors right behind Cole, and I suspect, given the right circumstances, a large seafaring bird could swoop in and poop on his head. I wish I’d thought ahead and painstakingly trained a parrot over the last few months to bring about this evil plan. What would have started as a purely business relationship would have blossomed into a real friendship—me and the bird, a ragtag duo. But you know what they say: live and learn. Next time, I’ll be more prepared.

  I’m surprised when the meeting ends. Mostly because I was still in my own world. My brain managed to gloss over every minute detail that was said up onstage. If it’s of dire importance, I don’t know about it. For all I know they just told us that their plan of action is to have us build a fleet of rafts. Yup, we’ll gather as many coconuts as we can carry and paddle to the mainland.

  People stand and start shuffling out. Cole’s already cutting down the central walkway as if trying to get to . . . me. His dark eyes meet mine across the crowded room, and I blanch. Oh crap. I can’t just stay here like a sitting duck. For all I know he’s trying to hunt me down so he can terminate me on the spot. Nuh-uh, not happening. He told Todd I had a week, right? I intend on staying until the bitter end, like the quintessential badass in action movies who takes eleven bullets to the chest but still somehow manages to pull himself up and keep fighting. (Plot writers: I’m sorry, how?)

  At least I have the advantage of already being in the back of the room.

  “Oh, excuse me. Yup, just gonna . . . yeah, slipping on through. Oops. Sorry. ’Scuse me!”

  I slither right out of that ballroom like only a determined female can do when faced with a large crowd. Put me at the back of a concert, and I could be front row in no time, believe it.

  Then I’m speed walking along the path like I actually expect Cole to follow me.

  When a hand grabs my biceps, I scream.

  “Relax, weirdo.”

  It’s only Camila. She and Lara must have hurried out the ballroom right after me. We walk together back toward staff housing.

  “I can’t believe it,” Lara says with a shake of her head. Her eyes are still wide with shock.

  “Yes, I know. But more specifically, what can’t you believe?”

  I’m hoping they can give me the CliffsNotes version of the meeting so I’m not totally lost.

  “Didn’t you listen to any of that?”

  I pfft. “All of it. Just . . . what were the craziest parts for you?”

  Lara shakes her head. “Todd got up there first and told us this was nothing, that we had nothing to worry about. But after he left, Cole took over and sang an entirely different tune. I can’t believe he talked through all those worst-case scenarios. If the hurricane causes as much flooding as they suspect it will, they’ll move all of us out of our dorms and into the hotel. Since there’s still so many guests on site, though, they’ll have to maximize the empty rooms.” She sees my shocked expression and frowns. “Didn’t you hear them say that?”

  “No, audio wasn’t great in the back.”

  “Right. Well, it’ll be groups of four in the double queen rooms and groups of two in each of the king rooms. But we don’t get to pick! It’ll all be randomly assigned roommates!”

  Tragic.

  “Surely it won’t come to that, though. I mean, it’s just a little hurricane, right?”

  Cut to me getting swept up in a squall, carried away, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PAIGE

  From the moment I open my eyes the next morning, I hear the drumming of the downpour on my roof. When I open my door to check the conditions outside, I find a cobbled-together hurricane prep bag leaned up against my door, courtesy of the resort. Inside, there’s a bright orange poncho, a flashlight, a bag of cashews, and a . . . Frisbee branded with the Siesta Playa logo. I know leftover swag when I see it.

  Later in the break room, someone will ask me, “So did you get the Frisbee or the stress ball? I’ll trade you.”

  Along with the kit, there’s also a little note urging us to pack a go bag with essentials, in case we need them. Essentials, got it. It’s tough deciding between my hunter green and navy blue sandals, but in the end, I make the right call and pack them both. I stuff in a few changes of clothes, underwear, bras, chargers, my computer, a few books, toiletries, and a file folder with my important documents. All said and done, it’s not much.

  After, I don my new bright orange poncho and head to work. The rain is relentless as I hustle along the path. I can hear the chaos of the lobby even before I enter. Ringing phones, demanding guests, apologies, assurances, arguments.

  “What do you mean my fishing trip is canceled?!”

  “Sir, the water is too choppy,” a receptionist says with a compassionate frown. “It’s a matter of safety.”

  The prepper guy waves a hand down his tactical vest and cargo pants. In the process, the half dozen carabiners hanging off his belt loops jinglejangle with survival accoutrement. “You think I’m worried about safety? I can protect myself. I’m carrying a Fällkniven F1 made of laminate steel. One of the all-time greats. Full tang with mixed-grade strength.”

  The receptionist offers him a little nod. Her eyes have nothing behind them. Physically, she’s here. Mentally, she’s rubbing coconut oil on Tom Hardy. It’s self-preservation. I wonder how many people have already shouted at her today. I pity her. I am her.

  There are a lot of orange ponchos in the lobby, a sea of Oompa-Loompas running to and fro, trying to help any way they can.

  Lara is already at the excursion desk, so I join her.

  She looks so relieved to see me I think she might tear up.

  “You! Oh my god, thank you! Stay here for five minutes, okay?” She takes ahold of my arms and physically drags me behind the excursion desk, smack dab where she was. “I’ll be back,” she promises. “Just need to use the restroom for five minutes!”

  Her departure feels both ominous and permanent. She’s going to lock herself in a bathroom stall and scroll TikTok for the better part of an hour, I know it.

  “You better not abandon me here!” I demand.

  She doesn’t even turn around. She just gives me one of those halfhearted waves over her shoulder as she picks up her pace to get away from me.

  There’s a TV mounted in the seating area of the lobby that’s usually set to a nonpartisan nature show; today it’s been swapped to news about the weather. A crowd of thirty watches intently while the junior meteorologist on screen thrusts himself into the elements, all in the name of good reporting. I mean, mister, we realize there’s a hurricane; we don’t need you to report from inside the damn thing. But there he stands, knee deep in the angry ocean, desperately trying to keep ahold of his microphone as harsh winds throttle him from all sides.

  “The winds are really picking up!” he shouts at us. “The trees are really swaying! It’s getting treacherous out here. For residents not planning to evacuate this morning, we encourage you to get a plan in place. Seek shelter and hunker down for the long haul.”

  A woman lets out a trembling gasp, like the weather is too much for her delicate sensibilities. Having had enough, she turns away from the TV and covers her face. Her husband consoles her with a tight hug and a tone of reassurance. “It’s okay, Sue. If one of us dies, the other will probably get the trip comped.”

  Meanwhile, the preppers in the audience are absolutely beside themselves. They turn to one another with Cheshire grins. I’m surprised their eyes don’t roll back in ecstasy. This? A real emergency where they can flex all their precious survival gear? They’re about to pee themselves. Rip the price tags off those LED headlamps and hand-crank radios, boys! It’s go time!

  Immediately, I’m pelted with questions at the excursion desk, and it’s not fun to flounder in front of the guests, so when I see Oscar running past, I call out to him in desperation. He looks relieved to have found me.

  “Do you know what’s going on?!”

  “Here,” he says, forcefully shoving a printout at me. “This is the new schedule for our department. I’m supposed to be distributing them.”

  I look down at it, trying to find my name amid the chaos. “New schedule?”

  “Yeah, all excursions are postponed until further notice. We’re not under an official lockdown or anything.” He leans in and drops his voice. “But they don’t want the guests wandering too far, just in case . . .”

  My voice carries a slight panic now. “What are we supposed to do with them?”

  I swear the noise volume in the lobby explodes.

  “Check the schedule and see where they want you.” He gets distracted. “Hey, Mitch! Here, take this! It’s your new schedule!”

  I stare down at the paper. Someone (Cole, probably) has painstakingly divided the entire day into hour increments and by various locations. It looks like a music-festival set list. In the craft room, from 10:00 a.m. to 11:00 a.m., you can paint your own conch shell. From 11:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m., kids can enjoy face painting and crafts in the Tiki Hut Kid Zone. In the Palms Meeting Room from 1:00 p.m. to 2:00 p.m., there’s a magic show (suitable for all ages). The list goes on.

  I finally find my name printed under an afternoon yoga class located in the hotel gym. After that I’m stationed in the Turtle Cove Ballroom to help with setup for an impromptu movie night.

  It’s bizarre having to keep the resort running at a time like this. We all want to be hunkered down in front of the TV, but there’s really no more news. For now, we’re not in the hurricane’s direct path, and we should be fine.

  I manage to feel moderately useful for the next hour, directing guests toward various activities while keeping a (mostly) positive attitude in the face of chaos. Then Cole walks into the lobby from outside, with Todd and a few department heads. They’re properly outfitted in rain jackets and boots, though it doesn’t seem to have helped them much. Cole whips his hood off, and his black hair is sopping wet, dripping water down his face. His expression is stern; the worry lines on his forehead haven’t budged since last night. Did he even sleep?

  I didn’t see him again after I fled the ballroom. I thought I maybe heard someone knock on my dorm door, but I didn’t answer it, of course. It was late, and I was already in bed midwallow, a bite of chocolate on its way to my mouth. If it was Lara and Camila, they would have called out to me through the door. And if it was Cole, well, I had nothing to say to him, so why bother? Still, I didn’t like the nagging feeling that someone might have been out there. So a few minutes later, in a fit of annoyance, I threw off my blankets and opened the door, only to find absolutely no one. The path surrounding my door was completely empty save for a little hoppy green frog.

  “Did you knock?” I asked him.

  Ribbit.

  Now, Cole brushes his wet hair back with his hand (becoming even more devastatingly handsome in the process, mind you), and then he speaks to the group with an authoritative edge. This morning’s version of Cole is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Soggy clothes aside, he’s clearly leading the charge. Meanwhile, Todd’s at the back of the group, trailing behind, trying to get something unstuck from the bottom of his rain boot. The group has stopped walking, but he hasn’t noticed. He collides into a passing guest, and the woman shoots him a death glare.

  “You mind?!”

  Cole’s giving directions to the group, pointing toward various parts of the resort.

  Then he sees me, and he stalls midsentence.

  I gulp and look away.

  It’s shit timing too. All morning, I’ve had a group of people clustered around the excursion desk demanding something. But not now. Most everyone who wanted to catch a flight off the island has left to wait at the airport, and everyone who’s staying has settled down to an activity. There’s an eerie calm in the lobby now. We’re in the eye of the storm. Cole says something to the group, and then he breaks off to head toward me.