Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box – Part 8


 Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box – Part 8

I step inside the condo and freeze—someone’s already sitting in the living room.

“Hello!” he calls out, waving energetically. “You must be one of my new roommates.”

Before I can reply, he jumps up and hurries over, thrusting out his hand and gripping mine with a vigorous shake. The accent is unmistakably British.

“I’m going for a swim—it’s absolutely ghastly out. I’ve been here two days already.” He gestures toward the back of the condo. “Fancy joining me?”

“Thanks, but I just flew in. I could use a minute to unwind.”

“Your loss,” he says breezily. “I’ve already taken the bedroom at the top of the stairs. There are two more you can choose from.”

He continues chattering as he heads toward the door, talking about his audition, the flight, the casting process, and—rather casually—about lying to the Bahamian government at immigration. It’s all said with the ease of someone who doesn’t lose sleep over questionable decisions.

But then something he says makes me stop in my tracks: he was promised the exact same roles I was.

Before I can ask for clarification, he’s out the door, headed for the beach.

I stand there stunned.
Don’t let it bother you. It’ll all work out, I tell myself. Not that I believe it.

I head upstairs and poke around until I find a room that looks unclaimed. It’s small, clean, and—when I open the blinds—I see that it doesn’t face the beach. In fact, none of them do, as I’ll later find out. Still, it’s fine. It’ll do.

I make a quick stop in the bathroom before heading back downstairs. On the entry table, I spot a card with my name on it: an invitation to a poolside pizza party that night. A “get-to-know-you” event for the cast.

Why not.

I step outside to smoke and explore the property a bit. Our unit is one of thirty, arranged in neat rows. The condos are surrounded by a gated fence, and a cement path winds through a lush courtyard, leading to each front door. The landscaping is vibrant and tropical—palm trees, flowering shrubs, and bright bursts of color in every direction.

I follow the walkway toward an outdoor bar beside the pool. From there, I can see the ocean—our property backs right up to the beach, separated only by a low retaining wall. I sink into a lounge chair and close my eyes. The soft rush of the waves drifts up from the shore. A thermometer nailed to a palm tree reads 86 degrees. It’s perfect.

That night, I change clothes and head to the pool. The whole cast is there, and the atmosphere is festive. My head spins with introductions. Some faces I recognize from New York and Florida auditions. Others are new. Everyone’s putting their best foot forward—laughing, mingling, making friends.

It’s actually fun. For a moment, it all feels real. Like this might be the adventure I hoped for.

Later that night, after the party winds down, I head into the condo kitchen. That’s when I realize: I never got any pizza—they ran out before I made it through the line.

I open the fridge. The Company has stocked it with just enough food to tide us over until we can go shopping. I grab an apple and head upstairs to my room.

I peel off my clothes, slide into bed, and let the warm Bahamian breeze drift in through the open window. It’s late September. The air smells like salt and sun.

“Thank you, God,” I whisper.

And I fall asleep.

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