Page 62 of Ship Wrecked

Her anger and disdain weren’t new, of course. He’d known exactly how she felt about Ron and R.J. and the future of their show for a long time now.

Late one night two seasons ago, fresh from filming a particularly challenging scene and enduring yet another shitty standoff with Ron, she’d flopped down on the couch in his suite. Blithely, as if discussing nothing of great consequence, she’d told him she wanted to quit. Would have quit, if the bonds tethering her to their small island crew, to him, and to her character weren’t so strong.

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t care about everyone so much.” She’d tipped her head back against the cushion and stared up at the ceiling, the firelight setting her hair aglow. “But even that might not be enough to keep me here, Peter, if it weren’t for one other consideration.”

Part of him wanted to shake her. After all that time, didn’t she realize the immense privilege of working on a show like theirs? Didn’t she understand how very many actors struggled their entire careers and never, ever managed to land a role like Cassia? Didn’t she know that nearly every barista at every Hollywood café she’d ever visited was a would-be actor scrimping and starving and hustling for even a bit part in a doomed pilot?

He’d almost said so. Because she still didn’t get it. Because she wanted to leave.

Because she wanted to leavehim.

Then he’d looked at her. Reallylooked.

He’d spied the tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. She was about to turn thirty, and it showed. Subtly. Unmistakably. Gloriously. She was gorgeous to begin with, but she’d somehow grown even more beautiful over time. He suspected that would be true until the day she passed from this earth.

But the flickering light didn’t only reveal those new, adorablecrinkles. It also threw the dark circles under her eyes into relief and silhouetted her slumped shoulders. She seemed—tired. Worn thin, in a way he’d never witnessed before.

Her easy, breezy cheer wasn’t an act. He knew that. It wasn’t all of her, though. And her confidence and talent might keep her afloat in rough waters, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t swimming as fast as she could. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t get exhausted and need a buoy sometimes.

He had to help her stay afloat. Anything,anything, to keep her on the show. With him.

So he bit his tongue. He kept his voice soft and mild, making sure it harbored not even a hint of the tangled emotions—fear, anger, hurt, frustration—that had rabbited his pulse when she’d announced her desire to quit. “What’s the other consideration keeping you here?”

Her laugh was ragged around the edges, but it sounded genuine.

“Spite,” she said. “Obviously.”

When he blinked at her in befuddlement, she laughed again.

“Oh, Peter.” Her hand covered his on the couch cushion and squeezed. “We both know this show is, as you Americans say, going off the rails. There aren’t any more books to adapt, which means two of the most boring, self-satisfied, small-minded men I’ve ever met are now entirely in control of the story.”

He’d figured that was why recent filming had proven especially fraught and chaotic. E. Wade’s books couldn’t provide plot or character guidance anymore, and the showrunners were floundering.

When Maria lifted her hand from atop his, he fought the urge to snatch it back.

“Gods of the Gatesis going to crash and burn. So are Ron and R.J.” Her smile was weary and bright and vicious. “And whenthey immolate their careers with their incompetent, misogynistic edgelord shit, I want a front-row seat.”

Ah. Spite. Now he got it.

Her nose wrinkled, and she stared into the fire for a moment. “Wait. Do I mean edgelord or grimdark? I always get those two confused.”

“Both terms probably apply,” he’d said dryly, and she’d laughed once more and started to talk about the next day’s scene, and the moment was over.

Outside occasional comments on the cast chat, she’d never raised the topic again. But he knew she meant what she’d said. Every word.

So... yeah. He should probably answer any and all questions about the final season, the same way he’d done in their previous interviews. God knew her opinion of the show and its scripts hadn’timprovedin the last two years.

Once more unto the breach, he supposed.

“The final season includes some of the most expensive and spectacular action sequences ever filmed for television, and I can’t say enough about the talent and hard work of theGods of the Gatescrew as we shot those scenes.” There. That was honest enough. “And I think Cassian fans will be very... satisfied with some of the developments in their relationship.”

There. A little harmless insinuation, a rakish wink, and... done. Tonya had run out of time, and none too soon. Follow-up questions about the final season were theworst.

The PR rep ushered the reporter out, only to immediately usher in the interviewer scheduled for the next time slot. The guy wore glasses, a graphic tee, and squeaky sneakers. A blogger, maybe? Or a representative from an online-only media outlet?

“Hi.” The twentysomething dude shook both their hands, thensettled into his chair. “I’m Carl Li, and I run theGays of the Gatesblog. It’s lovely to meet you both.”

“Likewise,” Maria said with a warm smile. “I’ve seen your blog, and I appreciate the thoughtfulness of your posts, even those critical of the show. Representation matters, and when that representation is harmful, it needs to get called out.”

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