4. Logan

4LOGAN

I’m in hell. Actual, biblical hell. It’s the only explanation I can scrounge up for why I’m here, trapped on an island with the three people who I specifically came here to get away from. The worst part is, it’s my own fault. I know the cast list was supposed to be secret, or whatever, but I should have done something, anything. Like tell Tilly I’d refuse to work with anyone even a little bit associated with the Bounce House, or blackmail her for the cast list, or just yeet myself off the dock and swim for it as soon as I saw the three horsemen of the apocalypse—I mean, my former friends—coming toward me.

Oh well. If this is hell, at least the weather’s nice.

For now.

“Wow.” I flop onto my pillows, staring at my hashtag-roomie. “It’s been twenty minutes since Tilly left and you haven’t said a word. That’s a new record.”

Silently, McKayleigh lays out two dresses side by side on her bed, smoothing them out so roughly you’d think they personally attacked her entire family.

“Oh, cool. We’re still doing the thing where you act like I died. Got it.” I reach for a pillow and wave it around, making ghostly sounds. “Wooooooo. It’s floating!”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

I drop the pillow, trying to ignore the gutted feeling in my stomach. Objectively, I’m behaving like a two-year-old, but it still hurts, someone telling me I’m not funny. Especially when she used to think I was pretty goddamn hilarious, actually.

“Sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out how to be here without, like, impaling myself.”

“That makes both of us, hon.” McKayleigh says that last little pet name like she means something a lot nastier, and honestly, it would be better if she just called me a bitch. We both know she’s not too prim to say it. But instead, she snatches a dress off of her bed and steps into the closet, closing the door on me and this subject. From inside, she adds, “You should change, too. There’s cameras in the kitchen, so they’re definitely getting footage of dinner.”

I groan, looking down at my oversized SNL T-shirt. It’s vintage, a gift from my dad for my thirteenth birthday, in honor of my childhood dream job. I guess it still is. Funny how some things never change: I still want to make people laugh for money, and my dad’s still a deadbeat asshole. Last time I saw him, he’d flown in from New Jersey with his new girlfriend, Sheila, for some country-music festival. He forced me to have dinner with him, claiming he wanted to “reconnect,” but really, he spent the whole time bragging about how famous I am before pretending he forgot his wallet. Maybe I should have burned the SNL shirt for catharsis or something, but whatever. It’s a fucking cool shirt.

It is a little sweaty, though, and it smells like a boat, so I throw it over my head and unzip my suitcase, reaching for my second favorite item of comfort clothing: my XXL hoodie, #1 GRANDPA printed across the chest. I found it in a thrift store a few weeks after I moved to LA. Graham, McKayleigh, and Zane all teased me about it after I got it, but in a way where I knew they were only kidding. At least, I thought so. Maybe I was always their own little secret joke, a shiny new thing to bring home and then sledgehammer to pieces just because they could.

A few weeks after I got the grandpa hoodie, there was a shopping bag on my bed, stuffed with three different designer hoodies, the tags still on. Once I pulled my jaw up off the floor from the prices, I noticed the note scrawled in Zane’s handwriting.

Thought you deserved a glow-up, grandpa.

I force down a hard lump in my throat as I pull my thrifted hoodie on over my jean shorts and bury my hands in the sleeves.

McKayleigh steps out of the closet, frowning at my outfit. “Not that thing again.”

“That one of your Bless by Kaylz originals?” I ask, gesturing at her flowy sundress.

She glares at me. To be fair, I may have said the name of her clothing line like it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, because it is.

“It’s called marketing,” McKayleigh says, fixing her hair in the mirror.

I laugh, and she whips around to stare at me.

“What’s so funny?”

Oh, I don’t know, McKayleigh—maybe how you think slapping your name on a clothing line that you only sort-of helped design makes you the Jeff Bezos of the gaslight-gatekeep-girlboss community. I almost say it, but then I remember that I’m trapped with her for the foreseeable future, so I keep my mouth shut.

McKayleigh huffs, checking her watch, the one our lovely Sponsor is contractually forcing us to wear. “We should head down to dinner.”

I look at my own watch, like it will give me a brilliant excuse for why I don’t need to go down there and engage with my peers. If only the messaging app on here actually worked so that I could send an SOS to … I don’t even know who. It’s not like I have a bunch of friends fighting to be my emergency contact these days. Dad probably wouldn’t pick up, and Mom, who’s always taken it personally that I could leave New Jersey and survive without her, would “I told you so” me for the rest of my life. And Harper … hearing my little sister’s voice would make me so homesick it would snap the last string that’s been holding me upright.

In the end, my growling stomach wins out.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

I follow McKayleigh to the door, but her hand freezes on the handle. She turns back to me.

Something in her expression sends chills down my spine. The mean-girl look is gone—for once, she looks completely serious. Almost scared.

I’ve only seen that look once before.

McKayleigh flicks a glance up at the cameras, and then angles her body so they can’t see her face.

“The rest of us talked about it, and we’re all on the same page,” she says. “We’re not getting into any drama for the cameras.”

I almost laugh, because it’s such an understatement. Drama, like all we have between us is some kind of stupid fight. But then I realize: her forced casual tone, the vague wording. It’s like she’s afraid someone is listening.

I hug my arms around my ribs, suddenly cold.

“So if anyone asks,” McKayleigh goes on,” our mouths are shut. Okay?”

Like I have any other option. Like I’m not powerless in the face of them, the rest of us, my three former best friends. But I don’t say any of that. I do what I’ve become an expert in over the past two months: I shut up and nod.

McKayleigh sighs. “Good. We don’t need all that on TV. It’s tacky.”

“Don’t worry.” I tighten my hands to fists. “I’d hate to be tacky.”

She opens the door with a glance at my hoodie, a cruel smile curving on her lips. “You haven’t changed a bit, hon.”

---

Dinner is another circle of hell, only with better food. The table can barely fit it all: trays of juicy shredded pork, soft tortillas, bowls of guac, chopped onions, and cilantro, all of it filling the room with spice and citrus that make my eyes and my mouth water. But no matter how much food I shove into my mouth, it can’t distract me from what I’ve already learned over the past year: I don’t like my friends. Or ex-friends, I guess, but who’s keeping track?

Besides every single person in my DMs.

“Okay, y’all.” McKayleigh holds up her glass, tapping the side with her knife like we’re at a wedding. She’s at the head of the table, because of course that’s where she put herself. “I just want to make a little toast.”

I slump into my chair, bracing myself for a monologue. In McKayleigh land, there’s no such thing as little when it comes to public speaking.

“Now, I know tonight started out a little wild, but I just want to say that I’m so grateful to be sharing this opportunity with all of you, especially my two best friends.”

She gives a dazzling smile to Graham and Zane, on either side of her, and I want to puke. I want to pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does.

“But seriously, these past few months have been, like, so hard. Of course, it’s been such a blessing, the work I’m getting to do with Bless by Kaylz—”

I shove a piece of pork in my mouth to keep from screaming.

“—but starting a business at twenty frickin’ years old is hard work, you know? And I’m just…” McKayleigh gives an Oscar-winning sigh, hand on her heart. “I’m just so grateful to have a dang vacation, for once!”

“Cheers to that, babe,” Elody drones, obviously wanting to shut McKayleigh up. I smile into my drink. At least someone has the balls to do it.

As everyone drinks, Zane stretches, showing off the black ink cobwebbing all over his arms. Looking at his tattoos now, I can’t believe I ever thought they were cool. He has his star sign on his bicep, for fuck’s sake. Leo, because what else would he be?

“For real, man,” Zane says, laying an arm over the back of Graham’s chair, like everything is his personal property. “You forget how screwed-up our brains are from looking at screens all the time.”

A few seats away, Corinne makes a face. “I mean, that’s not really a hot take anymore. But come on. We’re all here because of socials, right?”

“Sorry,” McKayleigh says. “Remind me what you do again?”

“Twitch, mostly. Working on world domination on the side.”

“Aren’t you the cutest.” McKayleigh’s smile gets tighter. “That video-game stuff is so violent, though. Like, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you ever think about how you’re exposing kids to that?”

“Not really.” Corinne sets her fork down with a thoughtful look. “Completely unrelated question for you: how many guns did you have in your house growing up?”

McKayleigh’s jaw drops, and I almost choke on my drink. I’ve never seen someone get right to the core of McKayleigh’s bullshit so quickly. I almost want to give Corinne a standing ovation.

“Well, that’s different,” McKayleigh says, trying to recover. “It’s not like my parents were teaching us how to use them on people. Daddy wouldn’t even let Hunter shoot his first deer until he was—” She stops, turning pink. “Whatever. It’s different.”

Corinne smiles, victorious. “Right. So glad we cleared that up.”

“I think gaming can be really good for kids,” Kira jumps in. “My brother would kill me for saying this, but he’s like your biggest fan.” She smiles at Corinne, and a dimple curves in each of her tanned cheeks. “You actually inspired him to learn coding. He’s even trying to teach me some stuff. I’ve gotten about as far as opening the program, but it seems really cool.”

Corinne brightens. “That’s awesome. I’m going to college for computer science in the fall. I want to get into game design, maybe teach kids how to code, too. It’s such a huge skill, and so many communities just don’t have the resources.”

“Kira, I can totally see you as a coder,” McKayleigh says, bulldozing past even the suggestion of a meaningful conversation. “You’ve always been such a little nerd. Y’all, just picture this tiny twelve-year-old doing her math worksheets backstage at competitions. No wonder she used to forget the choreo! Too much in that big brain of hers.” She laughs, like it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. “None of us were surprised when you left Dance It Out. Honestly, girl, I have so much respect for you. Staying in school, getting your degree. The second I hit a million followers, I was out of there. But you’re just so … down to earth.”

She says it like the name of a fatal disease, and Kira bites her cheek, looking down at her plate. I feel a pinch of guilt. If the McKayleigh I know is the “mature” version, I can’t even imagine what she was like as a fourteen-year-old. Well, probably the same, only smaller and with a lot more bedazzled leotards.

And as cruel as she still is, I was friends with her.

“Hey, motion to stop talking about high school? Reliving my two years there gives me a rash,” Graham says, using his familiar let’s change the subject before chaos erupts tone. “Maybe we can all agree that it’s nice to have a break and leave it there?”

“I don’t know why everyone’s so obsessed with taking a break.” Elody examines her sharp acrylics. “It’s not like our job is so hard.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” McKayleigh says sweetly, pissed as hell.

“I mean I used to live in a trailer park and now I’m a literal homeowner, and all I had to do was post some pictures.” Elody shrugs. “No offense, babe, but it’s pretty easy.”

I can’t help but laugh. Elody has about as much substance as a Jell-O shot, but I like her. It’s hard not to like other creators who grew up like I did, or something like it—creators who probably know what it’s like to work a job after school instead of going to dance class or horse grooming or whatever the hell McKayleigh did before she was a reality-TV star. Who maybe even know what it’s like to stick some of your pathetic barista paycheck under Mom’s pillow because even at sixteen, you were scared we wouldn’t make rent that month.

I almost say something to back Elody up, but oh god, McKayleigh’s forehead vein is throbbing, and that only means one thing: we’re about to get the bless-your-heart equivalent of a curb stomp.

She smiles, practiced and thin.

“Obviously, I’ve been very blessed to grow up the way I did. I have no idea what it was like for you, not having the same privileges.”

McKayleigh sounds genuine enough that for half a second, I think maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s actually grown as a person in the past two months.

“But if you think this job is easy, girl, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Nope. Here we go.

“Maybe it’s different when all you have to do is stand there and take pictures, but I work a full-time job. I mean, I’ve got my own content, Bounce House stuff, brand deals, and now running my own company … like, it’s more than some people do at their ‘real’ jobs. That’s honestly my biggest pet peeve. People thinking all I do is dance around and look pretty.”

“And she’s so humble,” Graham says, giving an ironic Debby Ryan hair tuck.

It’s a joke, but McKayleigh takes the cue to chill out. She fake-swats him.

“It’s called confidence.”

“Or delusion.”

“Don’t worry, Kaylz.” Zane swings his arm over her shoulder, the three of them in a perfect best-friend tableau. “We love you and your very healthy ego.”

And there it is. The ache in my chest, the truth I can’t ignore, which is that I miss them. Even their little digs, the ones that go too deep. Even though they’re not good people—because neither am I. That didn’t matter. When I was with them, I was a part of something. It was shallow and stupid and self-involved, but it was something, and it was ours.

“You good?” Max asks, quietly enough that no one else can hear.

I turn to frown at him. “Why?”

“You’re holding your fork like you want to wring its neck.”

“Maybe I do.” I put it down, deadpan. “You don’t know how this fork has wronged me.”

Max laughs. I don’t. I’m not into his whole thing, the sickly Victorian-child vibe that some people find hot. Also, I can see his camera on the table, ready to start recording whatever drama he thinks he’s about to get right now. He’s so obvious, I’m starting to think Jared Sky confessed just to get Max off his ass.

I look away from Max and across the table, where Zane’s launching into a Bounce House story that I’m not a part of, something about filling McKayleigh’s bedroom with cardboard cutouts of herself as a prank.

“What’s going on there, by the way?” Max asks, eyeing Zane. God, he’s relentless. “Earlier, I saw you guys—”

“If you keep asking, I’m going to wring your neck,” I tell him.

“Whoa!” Cole’s laugh cuts from across the table like a dying seal. He gestures between me and Max. “Sounds like some kinky shit is going down over here. I want in.”

I flip him off.

“Come on, y’all.” McKayleigh laughs, but her green eyes flash a warning my way. “Can we not with the drama tonight?”

The drama. I remember McKayleigh’s scared, robotic face earlier, the way she angled away from the cameras. When I glance up at the ones blinking down at us now, a chill prickles my neck.

Aaron snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” McKayleigh asks.

“I mean, look around,” he says. “Obviously something happened with Logan leaving the Bounce House. And then there’s your little Dance It Out rivalry, or whatever you want to call it.” Aaron points between Kira and McKayleigh. “Sorry, but if you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have come on a reality show.”

McKayleigh’s hand tightens around her wineglass, and for the first time, I stop to really wonder: why did they come? Some people, it’s obvious. Aaron’s trying to get relevant again, Cole’s trying to uncancel himself. But McKayleigh, Graham, and Zane … since I left, it seems like things have been going well. So well, it’s like I was never even there. But that’s the thing: no one goes on reality TV because things are going well in their career. Just look at me.

“Is that why you came?” McKayleigh asks Aaron. “I’m sure you had so many opportunities to choose from. There must have been something that made you pick this one, right?”

Aaron flushes, his mouth hanging open.

“Hey, is anyone thinking about going swimming later?” Kira pipes up, clearly trying to take back control of the conversation. “Because I think swimming could be … nice.”

“No comment on the Dance It Out thing, then,” Aaron says.

Kira shrugs, fixing an imaginary fault in her ponytail. “I left the show almost four years ago. It’s not exactly relevant.”

“Thank you! I’m with you, girl. No drama.” McKayleigh’s stare lingers on me. “Can we all get behind that?”

I take a long pull of my drink, wishing I’d put way more rum in it than Coke. Or held off on the Coke entirely.

“For real, dude,” Cole says, sucking pork juice off his fingers. “I’m so tired of people coming for me. A bunch of trolls egged my Tesla, like, two days before I came here. I literally had to turn off my DMs because this one girl who doesn’t shave her pits sends me a paragraph about ‘accountability,’ like, every day.”

This time, I catch myself trying to murder my fork before Max says anything. I loosen my grip.

“What’s wrong with accountability?”

Cole holds up his hands like I’m going to shoot. “C’mon, Costello. I already got canceled once.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “And it worked so well.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Cole asks.

Feeling McKayleigh’s silent don’t you dare, Logan, I look down at my plate. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously, bro,” Cole says. “I’m open to feedback. I’m ‘doing the work,’ remember?”

“Cool.” I stand up, taking my plate with me. Escaping isn’t the most mature solution, but the longer I stay at this table, the more likely it is that I’ll say something I can’t take back. And as much as I hate it, McKayleigh has a point. We need to act normal, especially me. Because here’s the ugly truth: I need to be here. After leaving the Bounce House, all I am is a walking failure. I don’t even need my phone to have a pretty good idea of what people are saying about me right now.

Wtf did she do to get kicked out of the Bounce House lol

I heard Zane rejected her so she quit

He would never date her thirsty ass, the BH just got tired of her being such a bitch

Who cares? Her content sucked anyway

The DMs and comments have been flooding in ever since we released our “joint statement,” the one that said there were “no hard feelings.” Everyone knows it was bullshit—the Bounce House collectively unfollowing me made that pretty obvious. Still, it’s always me and Zane they fixate on. The rumors, the “were they or weren’t they” crap, like all I am is my connection to him. Like I’ll fail without him.

I’m here because I’m afraid they’re right. Because I can’t let them be.

Because as much as I want to ignore the dwindling balance in my bank account, Harper needs me and my weekly Venmos for the things Mom can’t swing on a nursing aide’s pay.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m starting to feel calmer. Maybe being the bigger person isn’t the worst thing.

And then, I hear it.

Cole. Laughing.

“Damn, Zane. You dodged a bullet, my dude.”

I freeze.

“Come on, man,” Zane tells Cole. “We weren’t—”

“Nah, fam, you all dodged a bullet.” Cole snorts. “Like, sorry, but she’s not hot enough to be that much of a bitch.”

The plate flies out of my hand and across the room, shattering on the floor a few feet away from Cole.

“Shit!” He stands up, almost tripping over his chair. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I don’t move, staring at the shards like I don’t know how they got there. And then I see Zane’s face. His amber eyes. The hard line of his jaw. It’s not even anger anymore—it’s like he knew exactly what would happen. Like he can see what we both know I am.

Weak.

So, I do what I’m best at: I run away without looking back.