Happy Crazy Love Boxed Set
Melanie Harlow
Copyright © 2019 by Melanie Harlow
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Some Sort of Happy
1. Skylar
2. Skylar
3. Sebastian
4. Skylar
5. Sebastian
6. Skylar
7. Sebastian
8. Skylar
9. Sebastian
10. Skylar
11. Sebastian
12. Skylar
13. Sebastian
14. Skylar
15. Sebastian
16. Skylar
17. Sebastian
18. Skylar
19. Sebastian
20. Skylar
21. Sebastian
22. Skylar
23. Sebastian
24. Skylar
25. Sebastian
26. Skylar
27. Sebastian
28. Skylar
29. Skylar
30. Sebastian
31. Skylar
32. Sebastian
33. Sebastian
34. Skylar
35. Sebastian
36. Skylar
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
A note from the author…
Some Sort of Crazy
1. Natalie
2. Natalie
3. Miles
4. Natalie
The Almost Night
5. Miles
6. Natalie
7. Natalie
8. Miles
9. Natalie
10. Miles
11. Natalie
12. Miles
13. Natalie
14. Natalie
15. Miles
16. Natalie
17. Miles
18. Natalie
19. Miles
20. Natalie
21. Miles
22. Natalie
23. Natalie
24. Miles
25. Natalie
26. Miles
27. Miles
28. Natalie
29. Natalie
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Some Sort of Love
1. Jillian
2. Jillian
3. Jillian
4. Levi
5. Jillian
6. Levi
7. Jillian
8. Levi
9. Jillian
10. Levi
11. Jillian
12. Levi
13. Jillian
14. Levi
15. Jillian
16. Jillian
17. Levi
18. Jillian
19. Levi
20. Jillian
21. Levi
22. Jillian
23. Levi
24. Jillian
25. Jillian
26. Levi
27. Levi
28. Levi
29. Jillian
30. Levi
31. Jillian
32. Levi
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Also by Melanie Harlow
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About the Author
Some Sort of Happy
A Happy Crazy Love Novel
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.
Mary Oliver
One
Skylar
I’m not an awful person, I swear I’m not, but you wouldn’t know that if you saw me on Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy).
Oh, you’ve never heard of it?
Good.
It’s a ridiculous reality show where 30 beautiful girls compete for the love of a hot cattle rancher. To show their devotion, they do meaningful things like wear cowboy boots with tiny denim shorts, squeal for him at the local rodeo, and, of course, take their turn on a mechanical bull. This last activity will later be edited into a hilarious #FAIL reel since none of the women ever lasts more than ten seconds, and some not even two.
(If you must know, seven. And it wasn’t pretty.)
“It’s back on!” My younger sister Natalie bolted from the bathroom to the couch, jostling my arm when she flopped down next to me.
I frowned. “Nat, making me watch myself on Save a Horse is possibly forgivable, depending on how they edit this last segment. Spilling my margarita while I watch it is not.” I’d hoped a tequila buzz would numb the shame of watching myself be an obnoxious twat on TV, but so far, it hadn’t happened.
In my defense, producers told me to be an obnoxious twat. As soon as I got to Montana, they took me aside and said, “We like you, but we want you to be the crazy one people will love to hate, and we’ll make sure you stay on the show longer if you’re good at it.” After thinking it over, I agreed. After all, the whole reason I was doing the show was to get noticed by casting directors. If I was just another nice girl who got cut after the first episode, where would that leave me?
But had I known that clever editing would make me look even worse than I’d acted—a feat I’d have sworn wasn’t possible—I might have reconsidered.
“Oh, come on.” Always able to see a bright side, Natalie patted my head. “Every show needs someone to hate on, and that person is always the most memorable, right?”
Noisily I slurped up more margarita. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yes! Can you name one nice person from a reality show? No,” she went on before I could answer. “That’s because nice people are not fun on TV.”
Sinking deeper into the couch, I watched myself trash someone’s outfit on the screen. “They’re not making me look fun. They’re making me look like a hideous bitch.” I picked up my phone and checked Twitter, even though I knew it would be painful. “Yep. Just like I thought. Hashtag skylarsucks is trending. Oh here’s a nice one: Skylar Nixon is not even pretty. Her mouth looks like my asshole.”
Natalie took my phone out of my hands and threw it down between us on the couch. “Screw that, people are stupid and just like to hear themselves talk. Listen, you did this show to get your name out there. And it worked! A month ago, you were just a beauty queen from Michigan. Last week, you were in US Magazine! I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?”
“No. They took a picture of me pumping gas and I looked fat.” I shut one eye, barely able to watch myself sidle up to poor, hapless Cowboy Dex and flirt shamelessly. A moment later, it cut to an interview with me in which I gossiped about other contestants, spilling a secret one girl had told me in confidence. “Jesus, I’m even more horrible than I remember.”
“Hey, they asked you to be horrible. You proved that you can take direction! You’re amazing at horrible!”
Miserable, I licked the salted rim of my glass and threw back the rest of my drink. “I don’t think I can keep watching this trainwreck.”
“You’re gonna miss the lasso ceremony!”
“Good.” I stomped over to the kitchen counter, which, unfortunately, was still in earshot of the television. For the last month I’d been living in a small, repurposed barn on my parents’ farm, and everything was in one long room, kitchen at one end, bedroom on the other. Actually, it wasn’t even really a bedroom, just a bed separated from the main area by thick ivory curtains that pooled on the floor. I’d added that touch myself. In fact, one of the reasons my parents let me move in to
one of their new guest houses rent-free was to help my mother decorate them. Not that I had a degree in interior decorating—or anything at all. But I did like the challenge of taking a raw space and making it beautiful. I should have gone to college for design.
Or taxidermy.
Or underwater basket-weaving.
Or fucking anything that would have given me a real career to fall back on when the whole I’m Gonna Be a Star thing went tits up.
I took my time in the kitchen, plunking a few more ice cubes into my glass and pouring generously from the oversized jug of margarita mix. But I returned to the couch in plenty of time to watch Cowboy Dex give out lassoes to the girls who’d roped his heart that week. Rolling my eyes so hard it hurt, I marveled that I’d managed to keep a straight face during this nonsense. No, even better than straight—my expression was sweet and grateful as Dex handed me that rope. Poor guy. He was cute and all, but dull as ditchwater. We actually had no chemistry whatsoever, but I’m sure the producers told him he had to keep me around for a while.
Oh, you didn’t know producers manipulate things on reality TV to get the conflicts and tension they want for ratings? They do. All the time.
Here are some other secrets I can tell you, although you didn’t hear them from me:
Those shows are cheap as hell. All the contestants “volunteer” their time, and the only things that are paid for are travel, lodging, meals, and drinks. For the two months I spent filming, I’ve got nothing to show but more credit card debt because of all the money I spent on clothes and shoes and hair and makeup.
Speaking of drinks, contestants can have, and are encouraged to have, as much alcohol as they want at the ranch, because a bunch of tipsy women are always more fun to watch than a bunch of sober ones. The showrunners made it a point to ask about favorite drinks during the interview process, and always kept the bars stocked.
Which leads me to my final point. Producers are the masterminds of the show—the contestants are more like puppets. The show might not be scripted, but if you’re not saying the things they want you to say, if you’re not having the conversations they want you to have, they’ll stop the cameras and tell you, “Talk about this.” And they edit so shrewdly, snipping out what they don’t want or stringing together words said on completely different occasions to create a sentence never uttered by anyone—there’s even a name for it: frankenbiting.
Like that—right there. “I never said that,” I said, lowering myself onto the couch and wincing when I heard myself remarking snidely, “People from small towns are all small-minded and stupid.”
Natalie sucked air through her teeth. “Wow. That is pretty harsh. You didn’t say it?”
“No! You can totally tell it’s edited—see the way it cut away from my interview to a voiceover? My voice doesn’t even sound the same! Those fucking producers were so slimy.”
The shot went back to me during the interview, and God, I hated my face. And my stupid girly voice. And who told me that color yellow looked good with my skin tone? “I’m actually from a small town. I grew up on a farm in Northern Michigan, but I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
Wait a minute. Had I said that? I bit my lip. I honestly couldn’t remember. And seeing as I’d recently moved back to said town in Northern Michigan, it was particularly embarrassing.
And then it got worse.
“It’s nothing but a bunch of drunks, rednecks and religious gun nuts,” I heard my voice saying as footage of some unfamiliar old-timey main street flashed on the screen, complete with a farmer riding a tractor through town. “I’d never go back.”
“What?” Furious, I got to my feet. “I know I never said that! That footage wasn’t even taken here!”
“Can they do that?” Natalie wondered, finally sounding a little outraged on my behalf. “I mean, just take any words you say and mix and match like that? Seems wrong.”
“Of course it’s wrong, but yes, they can,” I said bitterly. “They can do anything they want because it’s their show.” I poured margarita down my throat, hoping nobody around here was watching. This stupid show wasn’t that popular, was it?
My cell phone dinged. I grabbed it off the couch and looked at the screen. A text from our oldest sister, Jillian. She was a pediatrician and usually too busy for television, but lucky me, she must have found time tonight.
What the hell was that???
But before I could reply, another text came in, this one from my mother.
I thought you said last week was the worst. The thing with the mechanical bull.
My head started to pound. I clicked on my mother’s message and wrote back, I thought it was! I told you not to watch this show, Mom. They manipulate things. I never said that stuff. But I knew she wouldn’t get it. No matter how often or how well I explained the way editing worked, she still didn’t understand. My phone vibrated in my hand. “Oh, Jesus. Now she’s calling me,” I complained.
“Who?”
“Mom. She’s watching the show, even though I told her not to. Do I have to answer this?”
My sister shrugged. “No. But you live on her property. She can probably see in the windows.”
I ducked, then sank onto the couch again. Generally, I didn’t ignore my mother, but right now I really didn’t feel like defending myself or lecturing her again on the how-and-why of television editing for ratings. I clicked ignore and tossed my phone on the table. “Can we please stop watching this now?” Picking up the remote, I turned the television off without waiting for her answer.
“It’s not that bad, Sky.” Natalie got off the couch and went to the kitchen to refill her glass.
“Yes it is, and you know it. I just insulted everyone we know here.”
“Maybe no one is watching,” she said, ever the optimist.
“I seriously hope not.” I hugged my legs into my body, tucking my knees under my chin. Glancing out the big picture window, I saw darkness falling over the hilly orchard where I’d grown up. Memories flooded my mind…running through the rows of cherry trees, inhaling the fragrant blossoms in the spring, picking the fruit in the summer, rustling through crunchy fallen leaves in the fall, throwing snowballs at my sisters in the winter. Maybe I didn’t appreciate it enough when I was younger, but I loved it here. For all its glitz, New York had never felt like home to me. I’d even liked Montana better than Manhattan.
Natalie returned to the couch and leaned back against the opposite end, stretching her legs out toward me. “All right, silver lining. You did exactly what you set out to do—draw attention to yourself. You’ve always been good at that.”
Had she intended to be snide? Natalie wasn’t the cryptic remark type, and neither was I. If we had something to say to one another, we said it.
I eyeballed her. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“Don’t get prickly.” She nudged me with one bare foot. “I’m just saying that you know how to work a room. You obviously charmed the producers into wanting you to stay on.”
“But not so much that they thought I’d win the cowboy’s heart on my own,” I pointed out.
“You said yourself you guys had no chemistry.”
“We didn’t. But why me?” I whined. “Why couldn’t they’ve asked someone else to play the villain?”
“Because they didn’t trust anyone else to play it right. They needed someone to be devious and manipulative but also beautiful and appealing enough for it to be realistic that he’d keep you on so long. I think it was a compliment!”
I held up one hand. “Please. Everyone there was beautiful. I was nothing special. And haven’t you heard? My mouth looks like someone’s asshole.”
She kicked me. “Stop it. You have that something extra—you light up a room, you always have.” She slumped like a hunchback and contorted her pretty features. “The rest of us just linger in the shadows, waiting to feed on your scraps.”
I rolled my eyes. Natalie was perfectly lovely, and she knew it. She just had no desire
to emphasize it. While I adored cosmetics, she usually went bare-faced. I was a hair-product and hot roller junkie; she let her choppy blond hair air dry. I could easily—and happily—blow a paycheck on a pair of Louboutins; she saved every penny she could and always had.
And that’s why she owns her own business at age twenty-five and you’re still scrambling to get by at twenty-seven. You might be the big sister, but she’s got a diner, a boyfriend, and a condo. What do you have?
I propped my elbow on the back of the couch and tipped my head into my hand. “God, Nat. I really fucked this up. It didn’t lead to Scorsese knocking at my door, and I probably just alienated everyone we know.”
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