Blind Reality

by Heidi McLaughlin

  Joshua doesn’t ask if I’m ready; he just barrels through the open door to the massive cheers and a few jeers from the crowd, dragging me half running behind him. He’s pulled on by grabby hands, but hangs firmly onto my hand. The door to the limo is open, and he steps aside, picks up the train of my dress, and helps me in the car. Once inside, he pops open a bottle of champagne as if we have something to celebrate.

  Of course, I take the flute that he offers and guzzle down the fizzy liquid. I’m going to need a lot of liquid courage to get through these next few months. I’ve seen the show before, but I’m not a fan. I know that we have to compete for luxury dinners, household prizes, and the master suite each week. In the past, the “master suite” was the only room where the video cameras were turned off at night to afford the winning couple some privacy. You’d think that with the video cameras always rolling, it would actually deter people from having sexy time in the house. Not so much. Granted, viewers can’t watch what goes on unless they purchase a subscription to After Midnight. Then it’s a free for all, per our contract.

  I won’t be getting any action, so I have nothing to worry about.

  The limo drive is relatively short since we haven’t left the studio lot, but it’s enough time for us to polish off the bottle of champagne. Liquid courage is great and all, but we’ll have to take part in a competition in about an hour or so.

  Joshua doesn’t talk, and for that I’m thankful. I’m not sure how much more of his voice I can take. It’s not a bad thing. I love his voice, I always have, but hearing him in person takes my obsession with him to a whole new level. It’s even better when a microphone doesn’t muffle it. This level of crazy is going to buy me a one-way ticket to the psych ward. I’m happy he’s not talking because I don’t know if I’d be able to contain myself. I have visions of mounting him in this limo and begging him to talk dirty to me. His voice is smooth and calming. I’m like a dog in heat when he comes on TV. I can hear him a mile away. Yeah, it’s a good thing he’s not speaking because if he asked me a question I might start squealing like a tween girl at a Justin Bieber concert. No one needs to hear or bear witness to that. The fact that he’s sitting right next to me is causing me to clench my thighs in a wedding dress. It’s not an easy task, but one I’m gladly participating in.

  The limo pulls up and more nerves start to set in. I have to pretend to play house with my celebrity crush for the next three months. We have to make viewers fall in love with us so they’ll vote for us for the finale.

  I need to learn how to protect my heart. This is my dream come true. This is what every girl, who has a crush, dreams about, but reality is never taken into consideration. I’m not an actor, but I’m going to have to learn how to be one fast.

  “Ready?”

  Joshua doesn’t wait for my answer before pulling me out of the limo by my hand. Again, the viewers are there, lining both sides of the carpeted path leading into the sound stage where I’m assuming our house is. Everyone is yelling and screaming his name, plus a few things that I don’t want to repeat. I heard the jeers earlier when I was on stage and didn’t understand then, but I do now. They’re jealous. I would be, too. Just as we get to the door, Joshua scoops me up bridal style and turns in front of the crowd. They go crazy and even more so when I lift my bouquet up high and fling it into the masses.

  When we get inside, the door closes, and he drops me almost immediately. I fall to the side when my heel doesn’t land flat on the ground, and it’s some man walking by who catches me, not Joshua. I have to get it through my mind, and fast, that he’s only here to win. I have to dig deep for my game face, shut off my heart, and only use my brain. And my brain is telling me that someone like Joshua Wilson, who has women throwing themselves at him—not to mention a beautiful girlfriend—would never fall for someone as plain and ordinary like me.

  “Follow me,” a small pixie of a woman says to us, and we do. When she stops abruptly, I peer around her to see the set where the host is talking to the crowd.

  “It’s now my pleasure to introduce for the first time, since he made his bride pass out, Joshua and Joey Wilson.” The audience erupts in cheers as Joshua grabs my hand and pulls us out onto the stage. The lights are bright again, and I feel myself getting dizzy. Of course, the embarrassment I feel has nothing to do with my overheated body or my spinning head.

  This is the first time I’m getting to see the other couples. Joshua mentioned earlier that he saw the other grooms, but the brides weren’t together. We sit in the two empty chairs, forming a triangle. All eyes are on Joshua, but for different reasons. The men are staring because they’re pissed off that he’s here, or at least that’s what I assume. The women stare because he’s hot, and he’s famous. They’re about to walk around in their bikini-clad bodies in front of him, and they’re probably thinking the same thing I am: did I bring my cellulite cream?

  “Now that we’re all here, let’s go over the rules.”

  The host of this segment of the show is Patrick Jonas, a former boy band musician who turned his career into a television gig. He also hosts a few other shows on daytime TV.

  “You will compete as a couple against each other weekly. The prizes and competitions will vary. At the beginning of each week, you’ll vie for the master suite.”

  The crowd aahs.

  Gross.

  “Each week there are two, sometimes three, competitions. Remember, you’re competing for not only prizes, but for votes from nationwide viewers. Don’t worry, newlyweds, you’ll have plenty of alone time to get to know your new spouse.” Patrick laughs and so does the audience.

  Gag.

  I refrain from rolling my eyes because while the other couples can get their freak on, there will be a nice divider between my spouse and me. I’ll just have to continue to play out the wet dreams in my head or the shower where he’s not likely to catch me.

  “Newlyweds, the time has come for you to enter your home. The first competition starts in one hour.”

  I don’t move, allowing the others to rush to the front door. We have an hour to prepare; it’s not like the house is going anywhere. Joshua senses my hesitation and uses this moment to talk to me. The moment he leans down, the crowd quiets so they can hear what he says.

  Rude.

  “I think we should let the others win first since we won’t be consummating our nuptials,” he whispers in my ear, but is completely unaware that he’s just caused a major eruption of goose bumps. Not to mention he’s effectively ruined what little self-esteem I had left. I mean, why would someone like him want to be with someone like me? Why would anyone want to be with someone like me? I’m the woman whose mother signed her up for a show in order to marry her off.

  “I’m Patrick Jonas, welcome to the third season of Married Blind. This season promises to be explosive as we watch three couples battle it out for a million dollars all while trying to muddle their way through being newlyweds as America watches. Not to mention this year’s twist–one of our grooms is none other than Joshua Wilson, star of Finding Mister Right. Will Cole and Millie Brooks or Gary and Amanda Williams be able to obtain enough fan votes to beat the Wilsons? Find out on this season of Married Blind!”

  There’s a knot in my stomach. It appeared as soon as the door shut, and we were sealed in for the next three months. Joey separated from me the moment we walked in, which I know is for the best. I know we’ll have to be allies, but anything more will just complicate things for her. My emotions are shut off, the wall is up and nothing can bring it down. I have one focus: the end. I have to win this game for my foundation, to help give them a fresh start and to save face after my drunken ass landed myself here.

  I press my fist into my gut, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. I can’t be sick. It won’t be good for either my game, or Joey’s. Being sick would sideline me and delay our opportunity to woo the viewers. They need to believe that Joey and I are … well, not in love because my fans would be pissed, but that we’re fighting
for the same cause.

  Joey needs to be on board with fighting for my foundation. She needs to tell the viewers that she supports me one hundred percent in donating our winnings because technically we don’t need the money. Except she probably does or she wouldn’t have signed up for the show. I already promised that she’d get her half, regardless of what she says on national television. We’ll get the sympathy vote as well, but we need to convince the viewers that we’re sincere and falling for each other. I mean that’s the idea behind the show—to actually fall in love.

  Joey is nowhere to be seen when I realize our next step in my game plan. I’m standing in the middle of the room with my fingers pulling at my lip. I’m too deep in thought and that’s not good. The other houseguests will know I’m plotting. I should be by Joey’s side as she tours the house, but instead I’m showing the viewers that I don’t care about her.

  My change of plan starts now. I have to show them that I’m sensitive and interested in her. The interested part shouldn’t be hard because she’s a beautiful woman and will make her next husband very happy, I’m sure. I’m just not him. The annulment will be easy, though. It’ll be as if our marriage never existed and since we’re not having sex, there will be no lasting repercussions. It hasn’t escaped my notice that I have to remind myself that Joey and I aren’t having sex. It’s slowly becoming my mantra.

  Wandering through the house, I find Joey in one of the bedrooms. The walls are painted dark red with black furniture. The producers know what they’re doing with this room. Red is for passion, courage, and romance. This room screams sex. They’re trying to ignite the couple that stays in this room.

  It’s working, and I don’t want it to. I need to keep my focus on the prize and not worry about a romp in the hay, especially when this one could cost me a fortune in the end. Watching Joey walk around the room, oblivious to the fact that I’m standing in the doorway taking her in, stirs something inside of me. She doesn’t fit my normal mold. She exceeds it, and that scares me. I can already tell that she has the right attitude for Hollywood. I have no doubt she’d fit in if we had met under different circumstances. Sadly, that’s not the hand we’ve been dealt.

  “I like this room,” she says, catching me off guard.

  I clear my throat. “It’s nice. How’d you know I was standing here?”

  Joey shakes her head and continues her exploration of the room. Before I can ask her again, Gary and Amanda come running into the room. The somber mood that Joey is in quickly turns and she smiles before coming over and standing next to me.

  “Oh, I love this room,” Amanda gushes as Gary chases her around with his eyes. I feel sorry for him. I think Amanda is out of his league and it’ll definitely be interesting to see how they get along. Cole and Millie, the third couple, seem close. I suppose you have to have an open mind when you’re doing something like this. I stealthily slide my hand into Joey’s. She tenses, but doesn’t pull away. Like I said, she’d be perfect for Hollywood.

  “You’re so lucky.” Amanda’s smile fades when she speaks to Joey. Gary’s shoulders slump, and I instantly feel sorry for him. He probably came on the show to find a wife to love him and that might’ve been possible if I weren’t here. I have to make it clear that I’m only interested in Joey. That means no staring or acknowledging the passes the wives might make. It also means I have to talk a good talk when it comes to Joey and me with the guys.

  “We’re both lucky,” I say while staring at Joey, who’s trying not to blush. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I lightly tug her hand and motion for her to follow me; she does so without hesitation. We walk down the hall to the next bedroom and go in. There are three bedrooms; two on the main floor separated by a communal bathroom, and the master suite, which we’ll compete to move into weekly, is upstairs. That’s where every couple wants to be as it has the most privacy and the video camera is off at night so you can get your business done if you so wish. It’s going to be hard to stay celibate for the next few months, especially when I’m pretending for the viewers, but I’ll get it done.

  This room is accented in all white, which gives off the feelings of freshness, innocence, and newness. They’re trying to convey a new start. It’s a nice room, but I like the red one better.

  “It’s too clean,” she says as her hand runs over the white comforter. Her fingers dance against the fabric and for a brief second I wonder what they’d feel like against my skin.

  “We should talk, Joey.”

  She shakes her head and looks over my shoulder, pointing at the camera. I nod, understanding her meaning. Joey steps closer and places her hands on my hips. I like that she’s nearly my height.

  “We can’t speak freely, at least not the way you want unless we’re in that room,” she whispers in my ear before resting her head on my shoulder. I know what she’s doing, and I follow her lead by wrapping my arms around her.

  “You’re smart and I love it, but I don’t want to win this first competition. We already have my fans behind us. We don’t want to come off as greedy.”

  Joey nods and starts swaying. I hold her a little tighter and pretend that I’m on the set of a movie; soon the scene will cut and we’ll move onto something else. Except the only thing we’re moving toward is somehow sleeping in the same bed without touching.

  “Newlyweds, in twenty minutes please move into the backyard for your first competition.”

  Rubbing Joey’s shoulders, I kiss the top of her head. I don’t know what possessed me to do that, but I enjoyed it.

  “We should probably change.” I step back and look at our clothes. We’re still in our wedding attire, this being our reception. Maybe that’s why she was swaying earlier, giving us the wedding dance that we’ll never share. Last year’s couples didn’t make it. Two of them called it quits before the show was over and the last, shortly thereafter. Joey and I will be that statistic. We’ll be headline news for the next three months and the fairytale romance that we’ll build here will all come crashing down. My image will take a hit, but I can bounce back.

  Joey and I opt to change in the bathroom, unaware of where the other couples are. Our bags were all lined up in the hall so it’s easy. When she steps out, she’s dressed in running shorts and a tank top. We look at each other and laugh. I should’ve known that the show would add to our wardrobes so that the couples matched. Now that Joey is out of her dress, I get a good look at her. I already knew her arms were toned, but so are her legs. My wife works out. I shouldn’t call her that. I need to be careful and refer to her, especially in my head, as Joey. When I’m talking out loud for game purposes, it’ll be okay to slip, but keeping myself separated from her in that way is what’s best.

  “Do you like to workout?”

  “Yes,” she answers without looking up from tying her shoes. “It helps me focus.” She stands, almost chest-to-chest with me. Stepping back, I put space between us. We should be able to win any endurance challenges we face as well. The more I think about our chances, the better I like them.

  “We need to go outside,” she says, walking away from me. I groan as I watch her sashay out of the bathroom. The temptation is there and if she makes a move, I’ll be hard-pressed to deny her. I have to remind her—and myself—that this is a game, and we can’t cross that line because we aren’t going to be married once this show ends. All I can think of right now is, Why couldn’t we have met outside this show?

  I follow her outside and start taking in everything around me. There are three stations set up, each with our names. Joey steps behind Joshua and Joey Wilson and my heart stops beating for a moment. Seeing my name like that, tied with hers, makes me anxious, in a good way. It also makes me nervous that I like seeing our names together. Marriage isn’t for me, at least it shouldn’t be. I don’t have any good examples to follow.

  Joey slips an apron over my neck, and I stop her from tying it behind my back. I’m barely holding on to the resolve I have now. I don’t need an excuse to touch he
r. I’ll be making plenty of those later.

  I step in behind Joey and she slightly steps back, erasing the gap between us. Her neck is at the right height, allowing me to get a good dose of her perfume. It’s stronger than I remember.

  “When did you put on more perfume?”

  “In the bathroom when I changed. I wanted to smell good.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “You smell nice, Joey.”

  “Newlyweds, it’s time to play ‘Name That Pie’. I’m going to show you a series of ingredients for a certain pie and the first one to chime in with the correct answer scores a point. The first team to seven wins the master suite for the week. Are you ready to see how domesticated you are?”

  “Yes, Patrick,” we say in unison.

  “Remember, let someone win,” I remind Joey. She doesn’t acknowledge me, giving me the impression that she’s as stubborn as I am.

  The first ingredient appears: Celery.

  I cringe. “Who puts celery in pie?”

  “Potpie, haven’t you ever had one?” she chides me.

  “No, can’t say I have.”

  “I’ll make you one.”

  No, you won’t, I want to say, but my stomach growls, and now I’m really looking forward to having a potpie with Joey.

  The next ingredient appears: Carrots

  “I know this,” she says.

  I set my hand on her hip and apply a little pressure. “Let them win.”

  She nods and writes something on the board and chimes in.

  “What’s your answer, Joey?” Patrick calls out over the loud speaker.

  “Mushroom Pot Pie.”

  “That is incorrect. You and Joshua are out of this round.”

  “That was brilliant,” I whisper into her skin. She reacts, unwillingly I’m sure, as her skin pebbles under my touch. She nods and tries to step away from me, but I hang on, not allowing her to move.