America's Next Reality Star

by Laura Heffernan

  “Wow.” I blushed. “Sorry. I don’t want to seem conceited, but you did an amazing job!”

  “Hey, if you think you look good, I’m happy. It means I’ve earned my paycheck. Luckily, you gave me an easy palette to work with. I just brought out your natural beauty.” She put out a hand to help me stand. “Go knock ’em dead.”

  Another ten minutes passed before the producers summoned me into the room for my screen test. Bright lights illuminated the front wall, shining in my face. I squinted at what looked like two men and a woman in chairs along the back wall. The man in the middle sat in a taller chair and held a larger clipboard than the others.

  Cameramen stood on both sides of the room. One of the producers pointed to a spot in front of the lights. I walked to the center of the room and introduced myself, trying not to squint. The man in the middle directed me to repeat their questions in my answers. Then, they fired questions at me. I couldn’t tell who asked what. Everything blurred together.

  “What role do you play among your friends?”

  My head tilted to one side. “I’m the Secret Keeper. I’m always the first to know when someone is getting married, applying for new jobs, pregnant, or breaking up.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then who do you tell your secrets to?”

  The corners of my mouth curved upward in a way I hoped looked mysterious. “I don’t tell my secrets to anyone.”

  “Try to include our questions in your answers. Are you a people person?”

  This answer had been practiced. “I’m very friendly and outgoing. I love surrounding myself with people and making new friends. So, yes, I’m a people person.”

  “Would you say people either love you or hate you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say other people either love me or hate me. I think those kinds of extreme statements are a bit much. There’s a huge range of emotion between love and hate. Plenty of people like me well enough or don’t have much of an opinion. Most people aren’t the kind of person you either love or hate.”

  “What would you do with the money if you won?”

  “A little over a year ago, I broke my leg—and I didn’t have insurance. So, if I won I’d finish paying the hospital first. Then I want to take my mom on a weekend away somewhere; she works hard.”

  “Just your mom?”

  “Yeah, my parents split when I was pretty young. I’ve always been closer with Mom. Anyway, then I’d put a down payment on a condo, and use the rest to get by until I find a new job. Maybe it’s not that exciting, but the money would change my life.”

  “If you are cast on the show, who do you think your fan base would be?”

  Another answer I’d practiced after watching audition videos for other shows. “Primarily, gay men will root for me. They’re the exception to the love me or hate me rule. Most of my male friends are gay, and I bonded with each of them instantly. Also, I hope smart, successful women will cheer me on if they see a positive image of a young career woman living in a big city.”

  “What is your strategy for staying on the show if you make it?”

  A small smile crossed my face. “My strategy? I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

  One of the producers chuckled. A couple others smiled. He stood and shook my hand. “Thanks for coming in, Jennifer. That’s all we need. We’ll call you.”

  When I left the test, I couldn’t help it. I took five seconds to do a mini dance of joy in the hallway.

  Before heading back to the hotel, I stopped in the ladies’ room. As the tepid water poured over my hands, I marveled once again at Angela’s handiwork. When the water stopped, sniffles escaped from the stall behind me.

  “Hey,” I knocked softly on the stall door. “Is everything all right in there?” Only a sob answered. “Do you need anything?”

  Someone drew a deep breath, followed by a long sigh. “Umm, do you have any toilet paper?”

  Sensing what the unseen woman really needed, I went to the counter and grabbed several facial tissues out of a box. Then I passed them under the door. “Here. Have some tissue. It’s better.”

  “Thanks,” said someone softly.

  A moment later, the stall door opened. A girl about my age with long curly blond hair came out, staring at the floor.

  “Really, are you all right?” I asked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  When she looked at me, green eyes brimmed with unshed tears. A streak of mascara ran down the side of her face, and brown eye shadow smudged across her temples. “I’m sorry. This is so stupid. I don’t want to be here. My brother talked me into it. But I don’t want to be a reality TV star. I’m much happier at home reading a book. He knows that.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked so miserable that I wanted to offer her hot cocoa and a blankie. “You know, you should be doing this for you, not your brother. Tell the producers you don’t want to go any further. You don’t have to tell him. Let him think they cut you.”

  “He thought we’d have a better chance if we applied together. We’re twins, which makes an impression, you know?”

  “Well, sure,” I agreed. “Twins are great. But only if both of you are voluntarily going on the show. You don’t want the impression you make to be ‘Look at how miserable this guy makes his twin sister!’”

  She sniffled and blew her nose. “You may be right. I don’t belong on TV, anyway. He’s a lot more driven than I am. He’d do anything to win, and I’d be like, ‘No, you take first place in the race. You earned it.’”

  I smiled at her. “See? Just tell him the truth.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “By the way, my name’s Sarah.”

  “I’m Jennifer. Jen.” Impulsively, I hugged her.

  “My name’s Skye.” An irritated voice intruded into our conversation. An extremely tall, thin woman with green and purple spiked hair stood behind us. “You, Sarah, should go home and stop wasting people’s time. You, Jen, are too nice for reality TV and will get eaten alive. Both of you are blocking the stalls.”

  “Sorry.” I moved out of the way. Skye brushed past me, closer than necessary.

  Sarah smiled at me before leaving. “I’ll look for you after I talk to the producers. Good luck.”

  She wasn’t on the van back to the hotel or in the shuttle that delivered a group of us to the airport. Wherever she was, I hoped she found the courage to follow her heart.

  * * *

  As I waited for my flight, I kept an eye on passengers walking to other gates, looking futilely for my new friends. LAX was crowded, though, even in the middle of a weekday. I had no way of knowing where Sarah was headed or even if she was flying out of the same airport. Los Angeles is a big place. I didn’t see J, either, although I naturally wasn’t really looking for him.

  The plane didn’t take off for another hour, so I leaned back in my chair. Might as well nap until boarding. My eyes drifted shut, and my mind wandered.

  The plane is about half-full. It’s a small, regional jet with only two seats on each side. As I make my way down the aisle, I see that my row is empty. I stow my carry-on and settle into my seat, watching each passenger walk by. When the stream of people ends, I’m still alone. I put the armrest up, planning to curl up across both seats after takeoff.

  Wait. As the flight attendant reaches to close the door, she gets a call. Another passenger showed up at the last minute! Footsteps pound down the bridge to the plane. Then, like magic, he appears in the doorway. It’s J, also flying home to Seattle! He almost missed his flight.

  The window seat next to me is now the only empty spot on the plane. I step out to let him pass, but our legs brush, sending a bolt of electricity up my thigh. As he settles next to me, the guy turns. His green eyes penetrate me. “Hi. My name’s . . .”

  I smiled dreamily to myself before the gate attendant’s voice on the intercom shook me awake. “Last call for Flight 689 to Seattle. Everyone headed to Seattle should now be on board.”

  Grabbi
ng my stuff, I raced down the runway, shoving the dream out my head. It was crazy the places a person’s mind would go, especially after a couple of days in almost total isolation. One conversation with a stranger sent me halfway to Mile High Club dreams.

  In actuality, an elderly man occupied the seat beside mine. He showed me pictures of his infant granddaughter until takeoff, then promptly fell asleep. Not quite as exciting as my fantasy.

  Too keyed up to nap, I mentally reviewed the audition. It went well. I had a good shot at making the show. The time had come to share my plans with Dominic. I hated keeping secrets from him, and he’d be happy for me. Plus, if the show might take me away from Seattle for several weeks, he needed to know ASAP.

  Instead of heading home, I took the Metro to my boyfriend’s house. He’d asked me to call instead of dropping by so he could clean up and get his roommate out of the picture, but he’d understand when he heard my news.

  Whirling thoughts consumed me while I walked up the steps to Dominic’s house. As always, the pink welcome mat tickled me. A few years ago, Dom inherited the house from his aunt, including the decor. He hadn’t changed a thing.

  My hand poised to knock, but the front door stood ajar. That was odd.

  Was there a break-in?

  I pushed the door open another crack and called Dominic’s name softly. He didn’t answer. The alarm panel on the opposite wall stayed dark. I opened the door further. “Hello?”

  Dominic always kept the front door closed. And locked. And the alarm armed, whether home or not.

  Something was wrong.

  CHAPTER 5

  WAIVER OF LIABILITY

  THIS IS AN AGREEMENT BETWEEN THE PRODUCERS OF THE FISHBOWL (HEREINAFTER, “THE SHOW”) AND ________________ (HEREINAFTER, “THE CONTESTANT”).

  THE CONTESTANT AGREES NOT TO SUE FOR ANY ACT OF THE SHOW, ITS EMPLOYEES OR OTHER CONTESTANTS, WHETHER NEGLIGENT, RECKLESS OR INTENTIONAL, THAT RESULTS IN PHYSICAL OR EMOTIONAL INJURY. . .

  THE CONTESTANT HEREBY AGREES TO GRANT THE SHOW EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS TO HIS LIKENESS FOR THE PURPOSE OF PUBLICITY, INCLUDING PRINT ADS. THE CONTESTANT WILL NOT GIVE ANY INTERVIEWS WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE SHOW. . .

  THE CONTESTANT WAIVES ANY RIGHT TO SUE FOR BREACH OF PRIVACY OR DEFAMATION OF CHARACTER. . .

  THE CONTESTANT AGREES THAT THE SHOW MAY, IN ITS SOLE DISCRETION, USE LOOKALIKES. . .

  THE CONTESTANT HEREBY WAIVES. . .

  THE SHOW DISCLAIMS ALL LIABILITY. . .

  THE CONTESTANT WILL NOT SUE. . .

  I stood on the porch, my phone in one hand. Should I call the police? What if Dominic lay inside, hurt and unable to call for help? I needed to find him.

  A quick peek around the door assured me there weren’t any masked men with guns waiting in the hallway. That encouraged me. Squaring my shoulders, I thrust the door out of my way and entered. Immediately, my shoe collided with something hard.

  Ow.

  Rubbing my foot, I noticed a suitcase in the hall. Was Dominic going out of town again? Did he own a black and white plaid suitcase?

  I hesitated. Laughter filtered down from the second-floor landing. Female laughter. I pressed myself against the wall and crept up the stairs.

  When I neared the top, a woman’s voice drifted through the air. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move a muscle.” A door clicked shut, and a lock turned into place.

  What. . .? Was his roommate home? No, his roommate was a guy. Of course, I’d met a guy once who had a really high-pitched voice. . .Or maybe his roommate had a girlfriend? Dominic might not even be home.

  Without further delay, I bounded on to the landing. The bathroom door was closed. The bedroom door was not. I burst through that doorway. Dominic lay sprawled across the bed. His black curls tumbled across his forehead as he supported his head with one hand. His entire bronzed six-foot-two-inch frame lay fully visible in all of its glory. Every inch.

  Odd, since he hadn’t known I’d be dropping by. And since another woman was in this house somewhere. Realization dawned slowly.

  For the first time since we’d met, the door in the far corner of the room stood open. I peered back at myself from the full-length mirror hanging on the door. A silk scarf trailed on the floor. A bar held what looked suspiciously like a rack of women’s clothing.

  “Jen! Hi!” Dominic’s eyes darted around the room. He jumped to his feet and came toward me, speaking in a furious whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had some news, so I stopped by to surprise you. What’s going on? Why are you naked? Who’s here?”

  “Yeah, so, funny thing, my sister showed up,” He murmured, grabbing my elbow. “She lost her job. She’s upset. Very fragile. We need some time alone. If you could—”

  I didn’t believe it. He was trying to turn me and move me toward the stairs. He wanted me to go. That jerk was cheating on me!

  “Your sister,” I repeated.

  Right. How many women called their brothers “darling”? How many men waited naked for their sisters in their bedrooms? How dumb did I look?

  “That’s right.” He kept trying to direct me not-so-subtly toward the stairs, but I dug in my heels and glared at him. When he tugged again, I dropped to the ground, crossing my legs. I wasn’t going anywhere until I got some answers.

  Waiting didn’t take long. As Dominic essentially dragged me down the hall toward the stairs, the bathroom door opened. A tall, impossibly thin woman with red hair cascading to her waist stood before me, clad in a black lace teddy that left nothing to the imagination. Her erect nipples poked through the lace. The hem barely kept this encounter from becoming even more awkward, skimming the tops of her tanned thighs.

  And she wore an antique-looking colossal diamond ring and a gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

  “Dominic?” The woman’s narrowed eyes must have mirrored my own. She cocked one hip and leaned against the doorframe. Her demeanor reminded me of a haughty high schooler in the cafeteria. “Why are you dragging a strange girl down our hall?” Her words may have sounded casual, but each dropped like an ice cube on my spine. Daggers shot from her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  Finally, realization dawned on me.

  She’d said, “Our hall.”

  She wore wedding rings. Dominic wasn’t cheating on me with another woman. He was cheating on another woman with me.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  It all clicked into place. Why he often couldn’t see me for days—or sometimes weeks—at a time. The locked “attic door” in his room. Why he claimed not to have a Facebook profile (and when I found one, months later, why he pretended to think he’d deleted it. He swore he never used it). Why he spent so little time with my friends. Why I’d never met his “roommate” or his family. Why he didn’t want to travel with me. All of those things made perfect sense if he didn’t want his wife to find out he was seeing someone else.

  That cheating, lying asshole!

  I shook Dominic’s grip off my arm and rose to my full five feet four inches.

  “Hi!” I said brightly. “I’m Jen. Apparently, I’ve been sleeping with your husband for almost a year and a half. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But I absolutely promise, it won’t happen again. He’s all yours.”

  Shaking with rage, unshed tears blinding me, I turned, my head held high. Behind me, an outraged shriek sounded. Something thumped against the wall as I walked down the stairs and out of Dominic’s life forever.

  * * *

  Six weeks passed in a blur. Having never had a serious boyfriend before Dominic, I didn’t know what to do after finding out mine had a secret wife. I turned off my phone and gave myself two sick days to cry over Desperate Housewives reruns before forcing myself to return to work.

  When I turned my phone back on, I had five texts, an e-mail and two voice mails from Dominic. Plus three Facebook messages.

  Thought you didn’t have an account, Dominic. You fucking
liar.

  I blocked him and deleted all the messages unopened. Then I threw myself into work. My boss still hadn’t given me a new project to work on, so I volunteered to help on every other task I found. At the very least, I kept myself busy.

  Each morning, I gazed wistfully at the empty desk in my office: Pete had decided not to return from paternity leave. Even though we’d never been friends, not being alone all day would’ve made things easier. Having to hold myself together for the benefit of another person in my office made it harder for me to slump into my chair and sulk all day.

  As winter turned to spring, my workload tapered off. Overtime hours became scarce, and I had more free time each day. Rather than moon over my cheating ex, I devoted myself to researching reality shows. Turned out, there were a lot of seasons of Big Brother and The Bachelor. Cocooned in my office, door closed, many of them streamed, one after another, all day long.

  Early one morning in April, a message from HR appeared in my inbox.

  To our Marketing Employees:

  This notice is to inform you that our Efficiency Team has spent several months evaluating the company’s ongoing needs. Outsourcing the majority of our marketing needs would help McCain and Webster best achieve its objectives. As a result, we no longer require a large Marketing Department. If you have received this e-mail, your services for this company are unfortunately no longer required, as your position has been eliminated effective May 31.

  An HR Representative will contact you shortly to discuss other employment opportunities within the company and any compensation package that you may be entitled to. Our employee services line remains open to any employee who needs to talk to someone during this difficult time.

  We ask that you not discuss the contents of this e-mail with others before an official announcement is made. Thank you for your discretion.