Chapter 3
Series 1 Chapter 3
"What's the trip you'll never forget?"
The host smiled at Ethan from the other side of the stage.
I was adjusting focus when he asked the question.
Before Ethan answered, I already knew which story he would choose.
"Our first big camping trip," he said.
My fingers stopped on the lens.
The outdoor travel expo was packed. Ethan and Sloane sat under bright stage lights while old clips from our account played on the screen behind them.
Ethan started telling the story.
A storm after dark.
A leaking tent.
A flooded road.
Two people sleeping in the back of an old SUV with wet socks hanging from the grab handles.
I remembered every detail.
I remembered making instant coffee with lukewarm bottled water.
I remembered Ethan saying the smell could strip paint.
I remembered laughing until I almost spilled the cup in his lap.
That trip happened during the first year of our marriage. It was one of the stories Ethan used to call "ours" whenever followers asked why we loved traveling together.
Years before we had ever met Sloane.
The audience laughed at the right places.
Then the host turned to her.
"Were you furious?"
Sloane froze for half a second.
Her eyes went to Ethan.
He could have corrected it.
He didn't.
Instead, he smiled.
"Bad trips usually make the best stories."
The host laughed.
"So that's the secret to surviving marriage and the outdoors?"
More laughter.
Sloane recovered quickly.
"Apparently."
I kept recording.
That hurt more than the campfire shoot.
At least then Ethan could hide behind a sponsor brief.
No brand had asked Sloane to take this memory.
No director had told him to hand her part of our marriage.
He had simply decided the misunderstanding was useful.
And usefulness, I was beginning to understand, mattered more to him than truth.
After the interview, I packed the camera near the loading doors.
Ethan came over carrying a folder.
"Agency wants these ready for next quarter."
He handed it to me.
I opened the first page.
First anniversary road trip.
Christmas snowed in at a Vermont cabin.
Elk at sunrise in Yellowstone.
Rental car breakdown outside Moab.
Our marriage had been sorted into categories.
Romantic.
Funny.
High engagement.
I looked up.
"What is this?"
"Story bank."
"For Sloane?"
"For the account."
"That isn't what I asked."
He exhaled.
"Some of them can be adapted for her. The audience likes history."
"Whose history?"
"Maya."
He used my name like a warning.
Sloane came up behind him.
"If there are personal ones you don't want me using, I don't have to."
For one second, I thought Ethan might finally hear how absurd that sounded.
Instead he said, "We can't rebuild the strategy every time this gets emotional."
This.
My first anniversary.
Our Christmas.
The night our car died in the desert and we ate crackers for dinner because every restaurant was closed.
"This isn't a strategy," I said. "It's our marriage."
His expression hardened.
"It's also the reason the account works."
There it was.
Not ours.
The account's.
He pushed the folder back into my hands.
"Mark the strongest ones. You know which stories play best."
Of course I did.
I had lived them.
Now my husband wanted me to choose which parts of our life another woman should perform next.