“What about a non-disclosure agreement?”
I shake my head, causing Rob to throw his hands up in the air in frustration. Matt and Jason are going to their graves prematurely.
“I see your acting lessons are paying off.” Rob is what Hollywood considers a B-list actor. He gets minor parts here and there, but hasn’t been considered for anything major. That’s all me. After one small part that turned into an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor, my career has skyrocketed. Matt Stokes is my agent. He’s older, sophisticated, and works amazing deals for me. Jason MacNicholl is my lawyer. He’s young, resilient, and a workhorse. He’s currently having a mild heart attack because I refuse to have my future bride sign a non-disclosure agreement. I can’t have one signed. We can’t do it before the ceremony because that will give away my identity and once we’re married, it’ll be too late. I’ve assured them both that we won’t be consummating the relationship, so there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.
“I’m trying to look out for you,” he says with a shake of his head. “I just don’t get why you’re doing this.”
I set down my shirt and sit on the edge of my bed. This all started late last fall. Rob and I had met for a few drinks and ran into Barry Barnett, one of the producers from the reality show. The more the drinks flowed, the more Rob started joking about me submitting my name for the next season. I laughed him off until Barry insinuated I didn’t have what it takes to compete. I didn’t take too kindly to that and Barry told me to prove it. I let it go, but the drinks continued to flow and then my on again/mostly off again girlfriend, Jules, showed up and started acting like we were together, which we hadn’t been for a while. She laughed when I told her I was going on the show to find real love, but stormed out of the restaurant once I took the pen from Barry. She never saw me sign on the dotted line.
I never thought in a million years Barry would hold me to it, but he has. I have a feeling that with my celebrity status they’d enjoy the rating increase, but having me on is a liability. Yes, they’re viewership could double or triple, but unless they follow me up with another celeb in the next season, they will lose that market.
I’m doing this for one reason … well, two actually. Aside from my contractual obligation, I’m going to use my time on television to talk about my charity. When I got my first big break, I helped revamp the community center where I grew up. Yes, I grew up in a community center. I had three meals a day, someone to help me with my homework, and people to listen to me when I needed them. I have parents, but until they divorced they did nothing but fight. What kid wants to listen to their parents fight every single day? Not me, that’s for sure. So each day before and after school, I biked over to Valley Hill Community Center. I thought after my parents split, things would get better. They didn’t. They both remarried and found new hobbies to occupy their time. They’ve both since divorced and remarried multiple times. It’s all I know. That’s why I can take this so lightly. Marriages, especially in Hollywood, are a dime a dozen.
“I’m doing this because being married for three months without any outside interference is going to be easy. This girl and I are going to walk away with five hundred thousand each and Valley Hill will be front and center on everyone’s mind. I’ll have ample airtime to talk about it, and maybe people in the community will see what a gem it is and help fix it up. Jason only lets me donate so much to them a year, so after I win, the Center will have enough for some major renovations.”
“You’re going to have a wife.”
“It’s a showmance at best.”
“She’ll develop feelings for you.”
Not gonna happen. “There’s no way. I’ll tell her the moment we’re off camera that this is nothing but a business transaction. Hell, for her it’s a chance to say she was married to an actor for three months and she made some money out of the deal.”
Rob turns to leave, lingering in my doorway. “Jules is flipping out. And you’re making your future wife sound like a gold-digging whore.”
“Jules has no say in what I do.” It’s been all too convenient that she’s been away filming and we haven’t been able to talk face-to-face about me leaving.
“Does she know that?”
I shrug, not caring how Jules feels. “She left me for someone else, and when he wasn’t good enough, she came back thinking I’m a revolving door. We’re toxic together, you know that.”
Rob stares at me for a minute before shaking his head. “Everything about this is bad for you. Take my advice and talk to Jules before you leave, get your head straight, and treat this new wife of yours with respect while you’re living in that house. Remember, your legion of fans will be watching and they probably have this crazy idea that you’re a stand-up guy.”
“I am a stand-up guy.”
Rob taps his knuckles on the doorjamb. “Anyway, I have an audition. I guess I’ll see ya in three months.” He leaves me sitting in my room with a lot to think about. I know a lot of gold diggers, most of them being my numerous stepmothers. My dad has no qualms about using my name to get a wife, and it only takes them a few months to realize that I’m the one with the money. He’s not. They fight, he borrows money for a lavish vacation, and they stay together only to break up months later. Boom, another divorce. My mom, on the other hand, marries rich and is happy until her husband leaves her for a younger version.
I pull out my cell phone, pressing the green phone button. Jules’ name is at the top for my most recent missed calls. Her name is actually in red all the way down my screen. I’ll have to scroll to see who else I have a missed call from. I contemplate calling her, but that ship has sailed for me. I’m only waiting for her to catch my drift and move on. Jules Maxwell is every guy’s dream girl, except for mine. She’s gorgeous, Italian-American, and has a rocking body. Her curves go on for miles. At first, I couldn’t get enough of her. That all changed when I missed two callbacks because she wasn’t answering her phone one day. I found out she was with Bronx Taylor, helping him prepare for a role that I was auditioning for. I was so consumed by her that I was messing up my life. We broke up only to sort of get back together. It’s complicated and messy.
I’m not nervous. I thought I’d be pacing the floor, counting the reasons why I need to bail, but I’m not. There’s no sweat dripping down the back of my neck, and I’m not pulling on my bowtie so I can breathe easier. I’m actually looking forward to this. I met the other two guys getting married today and one was sweating so bad his shirt was soaked. I made a mental note in the back of my head that he won’t fare well in competitions. I have to live with these guys, and from experience I know guys are slobs.
Listening to Cole Brooks—the non-sweaty bachelor—prattle on about how he’s here to find his soul mate, his destiny, makes me want to shake him. He needs a healthy dose of reality poured over his head. Soul mates don’t exist. My mom has found five of them in my twenty-seven years. My mom averages a new destiny every three and a half years. Good luck, Cole.
Gary Williams—the sweaty bachelor—is called first. The production assistant hands him a blindfold and before he can put it on, he’s retching in the trashcan. I make eyes with the PA, making sure he knows to get rid of it. Gary and Cole don’t know who I am. Not that I blame them. I can’t imagine they watch many chick flicks. I have a feeling once we’re in the house though, the women will know. I just hope my new wife at least likes my movies.
My name is called next. I stand and adjust my tux. The blindfold is handed to me, and I slip it over my eyes and tie it behind my head.
“Hold onto my arm, Mr. Wilson,” the PA says, placing his arm under my hand. When we came down the hall, I did notice that it was free of obstacles so I’m not worried about tripping on anything.
Loud cheers erupt when I walk on stage. The audience has no idea that it’s me under this blindfold, but I can tell by some of the murmurs they’re guessing. I suppose if they knew, then the women in the audience would be fighting my bride for her spot.
Truth be told, I sort of like how I’m about to get married.
The bridal march plays overhead and my nerves start to get the better of me until her hand is slipped into mine and a peaceful calm takes over. The announcer, who is also an ordained minister sanctioned by the state of California—it was in the contract—starts yammering on about the show and how everything works. He tells the audience that Married Blind will air twice a week and that viewers will be able to tweet us questions as well as vote on some of our competitions. This seems to please them, but they’re just following the prompters when it tells them to laugh.
I should be paying attention to him, but I can’t. These small hands in mine are shaking, and I find myself thinking of ways to calm her down. I want to assure her that we’ll have fun and win this thing. I’m not going to let us fail. I run my thumb over her wrist and find her pulse, pressing down slightly. She calms down some, but not entirely.
We say our vows, but names are conveniently left out. That is something I asked for specifically. I don’t want anyone, including my new wife, to know my identity until after we’ve sealed the deal. My fear is that she could either rip her blindfold off and run, or marry me simply because of who I am. I like it this way better. It also didn’t escape my notice that the announcer had to ask her for her answer. I have a feeling this might not bode well for me. I could be the first groom in the show’s history to be left at the house, alone. With no wife, I’d have no chance at the money.
When I slip on her ring, she seems lost, and as much as I like the concept of not seeing her until after, I’m not sure she’s even paying attention. Shouldn’t she be eager and listening to what’s going on? Once the ring is on, which feels entirely too foreign, I hold her hands again. We’re pronounced husband and wife, and I do what seems natural in this moment. I let my hand travel up her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck until I’m finally cupping her cheek. Her skin pebbles under my touch, a reaction I haven’t felt from another female in a very long time.
Leaning down, I brush my lips softly against hers. I flinch back and bring my fingers to my lips, feeling the burn that was left behind. It doesn’t take long for my brain to register that I like that feeling, and I go back for another kiss. This time I trace the outside of her lips and my tongue rejoices while my lips balk when I pull away.
Kissing might be on the list, but no sex. That’s where I have to draw the line.
My blindfold is removed, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp. I wave and smile, turning on the charm, and bring my attention back to my now wife. She’s blonde and skinny. Not my type. She’s definitely athletic and only a few inches shorter than I am.
Her blindfold is removed, but her eyes stay focused on the ground. She’s probably not used to the lights like I am. I look at the ring I just placed on her finger and feel nothing but embarrassment and disgust. It’s just a simple solitaire, maybe an eighth of a cut.
“I’ll get you a bigger one,” I blurt out before I know what I’m saying. Did I really just commit to buying her a bigger diamond? Yes, yes I did.
Her head moves so fast, it almost gives me whiplash. I smile at her and throw in a wink. Her face turns beet red, and it’s not from the studio lights overhead. She’s embarrassed. I know that look. She knows who I am.
I try to break eye contact with her, but I can’t because we’re still filming. The producers are eating this shit up when all I want to do is walk off the stage. I’m not mad she knows who I am, I’m upset that she’s wearing a cheap ass ring when I would’ve gotten something better for her.
“Holy shit,” she says before her eyes roll back. I catch her before her head hits the ground, saving her from a concussion.
“Well, will you look at that, Joey Mitchell … I mean Joey Wilson is so taken by her husband’s charm that she’s passed out.”
I roll my eyes, scoop her up, and follow one of the assistants off stage. They direct me to her dressing room, opening the door for us. After I set her down on the sofa, I make sure her legs are covered, but that her dress isn’t getting ruined.
“Can you get me some juice for her?”
I don’t look to see if they’ve followed my directions as I try to make her comfortable. I’m sort of happy that she’s out cold so I can stare at her without being considered a stalker. Her skin is tan, definitely sun-kissed and in perfect contrast to her blonde hair. If I were to see her on the street, I probably wouldn’t give her a second glance because I normally don’t go for blondes, but something tells me that she’s my match. It’s too bad we’ll only know each other for a few months.
Her eyes flutter open, and I find myself quickly mesmerized by the light blue, almost gray color. I’ve heard of this color, but have yet to see it until now.
“Hi, Joey.”
She squints her eyes and recoils farther into the couch. “How do you know my name?”
“Dick VanPeriwinkle said it after you passed out.”
“Is that his name?” she asks, trying to stifle her laughter.
“I don’t know actually, but it sounds funny.”
Joey tries to sit up, and I’m just eager enough to help her. I like the way I feel when I’m touching her. It’s like serenity. She makes me feel like I belong.
“Are you real?” she asks just as she pokes me in the forehead.
“I’m not going to pop, if that’s what you think.”
Sighing, she glances at the door before she looks at me. “I don’t know what to think. This seems all too surreal.”
I run my hand through my hair and decide to sit down next to her. “Yeah, I guess getting married to a stranger can be surreal.”
Her head starts shaking back and forth very slowly. “The surreal part is that I’m married to you.”
Someone pinch me. No, that’s not good enough. Someone needs to slap me across the face, repeatedly, so I can wake the hell up. This can’t be happening. I’ve dreamt of meeting him, of shaking his hand and having a photo taken with him. Those are my daydreams. At night, this is the man that I’ve fantasized about, the one I have wet dreams about, the one I play The SiMS with on the computer and have wild monkey sex with over and over again. He’s sitting next to my sprawled out body, running his hands through his hair and telling me its surreal being married to a stranger?
Um, I’m married to Joshua freaking Wilson. It doesn’t get any more surreal than that!
I try to sit up by myself, but no, he has to touch me. Why is this happening to me? I know this has to be some sort of joke, right? Am I on some sort of I feel sorry for you, so I’m going to marry you game show? Joshua Wilson does not need to come on Married Blind to find a wife! He has a girlfriend. I always see her in the tabloids and I hate her. She’s pretty and perfect and everything I’m not.
I’m trying to focus, but I can’t. My eyes are moving from his eyes, to his hands, his jaw, smile, fingers, chest, oh God, his arms … he’s going to think I’m a freak. Closing my eyes, I count to ten twice. Nothing is working.
“We have to leave in a few minutes for the house. Are you going to be okay?”
I nod then shake my head. He laughs. Great, now he’s laughing at me.
“How did you end up on this show?” I ask the question that is plaguing my mind.
Joshua sits back, but not far enough away that he’s out of my personal space. I know I like him in my personal space, but I also know this isn’t real.
“Yeah, about that,” he says, pushing his hand through his locks. “I suppose you get the shit end of the stick by being married to me, but I got drunk, lost a bet, and signed the contract.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. It probably isn’t to him, but to me it’s everything. “I never expected Barry to call me out on it and make me hold up my end of the deal.”
“Barry?”
“One of the producers.”
My head moves up and down as I bite my lip. I won’t cry and admit that my dream guy just crushed my already broken heart into a million tiny pieces and lit them on fi
re. No, that would be admitting defeat in the man department, and I’m not there yet. Give me three months when life and reality come crashing down on me.
“Anyway, I figured we’d win and we’ll split it down the middle, except I’ll pay your portion of the taxes.”
I’m going to need some extensive therapy after this is all said and done.
“Right, so at the end we go our separate ways. Makes sense,” I say through a broken voice. I know I shouldn’t have the emotions that I do, but it does sting a little knowing he’s not committed. I mean, we just got married, and he’s already put an expiration date on it. It’s Hollywood, right?
“I want to win, Joey, and I think we can. I saw those other guys and am pretty confident I can beat them in most of the competitions. I studied how the game has been played the previous two years. I think we can do it.”
“Okay,” I agree because what else am I going to say? He should’ve just paid the producers to make sure he married his girlfriend. At least then, he’d be able to win this game and actually act like a husband to someone. But nah, I’m weak, heartbroken, and madly in love with the man sitting in front of me … in the fantasy sort of way.
“Great. This went easier than I thought.”
Of course it did. You’re Joshua Wilson, the most sought after twenty-something actor. I’m putty when it comes to you. You could tell me to jump off a cliff, and I’d be like “okay!”… duh. I know I’m being childish, but I can’t help it. I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of eye-rolling coming from me in the next few months. I hope America is ready for it.
The loud knock on the door followed by a shout of ‘five minutes’ is our sign that we have to go. I’m not allowed to change out of my dress even though I so desperately want to. Joshua takes my hand in his and leads us out of the room, down the hall to the exit where a limo is waiting for us. Another assistant hands me a bouquet of flowers, and I realize that this is our “leaving the church” moment. As soon as we step outside, viewers have the opportunity to throw birdseed at us, as if we’re a normal couple.
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