by Julie Murphy
My shoulders sink. “That’s it?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry…. It’s just that this is so weird…. Like, I like you. In any other setting, we’d be friends. Actually, we are friends, but…I just don’t want to make it weird.”
I appreciate how careful she’s trying to be of me and my feelings, but this might actually be worse than just knowing. “I don’t think there’s a right way to do this. I think we just have to be honest and tell each other when it’s too much and we won’t talk about it anymore, but for now…you’re leaving me hanging! Give me the goods!”
She drops her chin to her shoulder and smiles. “He is a real good kisser. I was so into it, but I kept having to remind myself that we were being filmed, and that this was still for the cameras and that I couldn’t let myself get swept up in it all just yet. I’ve been through a lot, Cindy. I don’t know how much more hurt I can handle.” She bites down on her lip and leans in a little closer. “But then, while the crew was packing up and we were waiting for our cars, he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek…and I don’t know, but somehow it was the hottest thing. No one was looking. And you know how militant they are about leaving us alone with him.”
I nod. That’s like a Before Midnight golden rule.
She touches her fingers to her cheek and smiles faintly. “He’s funny too. Genuinely funny.”
I almost catch myself verbally agreeing with her as I remember our banter on the plane. “Well, maybe I’ll get to find out for myself.”
I help Sara Claire with the zipper of her dress, and once she’s ready to turn in, I click off my lamp and slide my sketch pad under my bed. I wonder for a brief moment if Henry opened the notebook in his bedroom and saw the imprint of my lips pressed inside.
After a few minutes, I’m unable to fall asleep, so I stand up and creep over to my suitcase to grab the walkie-talkie. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.
“Are you okay?” Sara Claire whispers.
“Just running to the bathroom,” I say with the radio pressed to my chest.
“Do you want me to turn the light on?”
“No, no, no,” I sputter. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right back.”
I tiptoe out of the room and down the hall to where the expansive landing opens up to a balcony overlooking the courtyard and then pool.
I sink down to the ground, tucking my knees into my T-shirt, and hold the walkie-talkie to my mouth. Between railing bars, I can see a small light in the distance—the guesthouse where they’re tucking Henry away. Hiding him from us in plain sight. It’s a little bit genius, actually. The other women would be shocked to know that he’s been right under our noses all along.
“Hello?” I ask, still on the same channel as I was when Sara Claire came in.
I stare so intently at the light in the distance that my vision starts to blur.
When I was a kid, after Mom died, I was scared to sleep alone. I don’t know why specifically, but I think that I was scared I would wake up and Dad would be gone too. Over the next few months, Dad eased me back into my own bed. It started with me falling asleep in his bed and then him carrying me across the hall. Then him lying in my bed with me until I fell asleep, the scruff of his beard scratching against my forehead. Finally, as I started to go to bed on my own, Dad and I would leave our bedroom doors wide open so that I could call out to him anytime I needed him or just wanted to make sure he was still there.
“Hello?” I would call out, sometimes in the middle of the night. “Hello?”
Usually, he would answer immediately, or sometimes, if he was asleep, it would take him a few seconds. But he always answered. Always.
I hold the radio up once more, Henry’s light still glowing. “Hello?”
The closest thing to an answer I receive is his light flickering off, leaving nothing but darkness.
I go back to my bedroom and tuck away my secret radio before sliding back into bed. When I close my eyes, I hope Dad is there calling back to me, like he always was when I needed him most.
“Do I look okay?” I ask Beck.
She reaches past the camera and loops a piece of hair behind my ear. “Stretch your mouth. Do, re, mi, et cetera, et cetera. Your smile looks a little serial-killer-ish. Just relax. Ignore everyone else.”
Tonight they have us intermittently filming confessionals during this evening’s ball, so it’s hard not to pay attention to all the little dramas unfolding around me. Samantha is accusing Drew of stealing her eyelash glue. Addison is making the rounds and telling people she thinks Chloe is here for the wrong reasons. Jenny is outraged that craft services is serving shrimp cocktail since she’s allergic and thinks someone on the crew has it in for her. This place is a circus. (By design, of course.)
“Now, down to business,” Beck says. “Have you had any one-on-one time with Henry yet this evening?”
“No.” Even though she already knew the answer.
“Help me out here, Cin. Try elaborating.”
“Well, maybe you should ask better open-ended questions.”
She laughs. “Excuse you, Ms. Producer.”
That gets a real smile out of me, even though I’m still feeling a little irritable after last night and then not hearing from Henry today even though I snuck away with that stupid walkie-talkie every chance I got. It feels like I gave some guy my number and he hasn’t called.
Beck nods. “Okay, let’s try this again. How do you feel about your chances at the elimination ceremony tonight?”
I pout instinctively. “I haven’t really gotten to know Henry yet, and so I guess my chances aren’t great? But maybe a bad impression is worse than no impression. Or maybe it’s like a credit score. No credit is worse than bad credit. Is that how that works? Did I get that backward?”
“So you think other women have made a bad impression?” she asks, not taking my credit-score-nonsense bait.
I narrow my eyes at her. “I think Henry has a selection to work with.”
“And do you have any plans to score some alone time with him at the ball tonight?”
“Of course I hope I get to talk to him, but I’m not going to just barge in and interrupt a conversation.”
Beck crosses her legs, her ankle resting atop her knee, and I feel like I’m about to get a talking-to. “Why’s that? Don’t you think any other girl here would do the same to you? Don’t you want to fight for this?”
I can’t help but feel like Beck is trying to tell me something here, but I don’t like the idea of elbowing in on people and playing some kind of game. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? This is some kind of game. That’s the whole point. Do I want to be the girl who got kicked off on the second episode and is barely even memorable?
“Yes,” I finally say. “I do plan on fighting for this.” And then quickly, I add, “For Henry.”
I feel unsettled and queasy. This isn’t real. No one’s actually here for love, but the thought of using this opportunity with Henry to forward my own career feels different now. I can’t ignore the jealousy I felt last night when Sara Claire left for their date. I didn’t mind taking advantage of this situation when it was just some nameless guy who probably wouldn’t even take a second look at me. But it’s not just some guy. It’s Henry, and even though I don’t really know him, I know him well enough for him to be real and for this to be more than a silly game. Even if he is currently ghosting me via walkie-talkie.
“Am I done now?” I ask.
“I’m trying to make a TV show,” Beck reminds me. “But fine. Yes, you can go.”
I stand and give Sara Claire a high five, tagging her in as she goes to take my spot.
“Have I mentioned how hot you look tonight?” she asks.
“Thanks.” I smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. Tonight I went for a vintage black-and-white polka-dot shift dress with a high scarf neck that ties off to the side into a huge bow. It was originally long and shapeless, but I nipped it in a little around the chest and cut it into a mini, and
now with my hair swept into a high bun, I’m a ’60s dream come true. Of course, my shoes are the real showstoppers. Authentic 1968 Montgomery Ward coral platform wedge T-strap Mary Janes, straight from eBay to my heart.
When Addison saw me, she actually laughed and said, “You’re just so quirky. Like a cute little librarian.”
She meant it as a diss, but news flash, Addison: Librarians are hot. Look at Stacy.
On the other side of the courtyard, I see Henry sitting next to Addison as he nods along and she laughs at her own jokes. I throw back a quick glass of chardonnay and march over there. If there’s any girl’s time I’m comfortable crashing, it’s hers, and if Beck is trying to make a TV show, I can at least give her something to work with.
“She’s on the move,” I hear someone call. “Camera on Cindy.”
I don’t even have to turn around to feel a whole crew at my back.
“Cindy,” Henry says as I approach the gazebo, where another camera and full lights are waiting.
Addison doesn’t even look up at me as she does her best to pretend that I don’t exist.
“Addison, sweetie, could I steal him for a moment?” I say in my sweetest voice.
“Oh!” She bounces to attention. “Sure…. Not for too long, though.” She stands, still holding Henry’s hand as she wiggles a finger at him with her other hand. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He gives her a smarmy grin. “I have no doubt.”
“No doubt,” I mimic under my breath as she walks off.
He clears his throat. “Excuse me?”
I choke on a laugh as I remember the cameras, the lights, and the fact that Henry and I aren’t even supposed to know each other that well and people who don’t know each other don’t usually tease each other like that.
“Nothing,” I say, knowing full well that every mic picked that up. And I’m pretty sure Henry did too.
I sit down beside him, and a junior producer hands me another drink, but I don’t think I need any more loosening right now.
Henry clinks his glass to mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“So what made you leave your life behind to come on a show like this?”
I snort. “Starting out with the heavy hitters, huh?” I loop a loose strand of hair behind my ear, taking a moment to regain my composure. “I wouldn’t say I was leaving a whole life behind. I guess you could say I’m in between things. At a crossroads.”
“What kind of things? Boyfriend-shaped things?”
My cheeks immediately flush with heat as I shake my head. “Um…I’ve actually been single for quite a while.” I dated Jared, a poli-sci major from NYU, for half of freshman year and all of sophomore year. He was the kind of guy who always said he was fiscally conservative and was constantly exhausting people by playing devil’s advocate. Sierra threw me a party when I broke up with him. “What about you?”
“I’ve…dated. But nothing serious for a while. At least no one I’d bring home to Mom just yet.”
My eyes light up at the mention of his mom. I have so many questions. “Your mom, huh?”
“Ah, that’s right,” he says. “The fashion student with a passion for shoes.”
“Guilty.”
He leans back and stretches an arm out behind me. “What about fashion drew you in?”
The corners of my lips twitch, as I’m unsure how to play this. There are lots of answers to this question, and I’m a little scared to share anything too precious—not just with Henry, but with the whole wide world. My relationship with my work at the moment is fragile at best. I’m not sure it could stand the scrutiny of a television audience. But…something about Henry’s unmoving, stable gaze compels me.
“Ever since I was a kid, I loved the way that clothing could transform you. I’ve…I’ve always been fat. Plump as my dad used to say. And people are so quick to make up their minds about me before I even open my mouth. My style is a chance for me to express myself and to maybe even make someone rethink their snap judgment. But that’s just a small part of it. I love the lines. I love that it’s art you can wear. I hate how inaccessible and distant art can feel, but you can walk into Target and walk out dressed as a piece of art. That’s something almost anyone can do.” I laugh a little to myself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to drone on like that.”
“No.” He shakes his head as his thumb grazes the back of my neck, sending a wave of chills down my spine. “I…I’ve been around this industry my whole life, and it’s easy to feel burned out. Fresh perspective like that can be invigorating.”
“What about you?” I ask.
He sighs. “It’s the family business. I think I definitely have a sense of style, though my mother might say otherwise. But for me, I appreciate the utilitarianism of it all. Clothing is not only an art but a daily need. Not all industries have that same crossover, and I find it fascinating. Admittedly, I’m more involved on the business side of things, but I guess you could say I do have some design thoughts.”
“Oh, do you, now?”
He nods emphatically. “Yes, like who actually decided a button fly was a good idea, and is it actually safe to carry a hammer in the loop on a pair of carpenter jeans?”
“Ah, the hard-hitting questions. Watch out. You might just cause the entire industry to crumble.”
He smiles crookedly. “I hated fashion when I was younger.”
I throw my head back with a laugh—also hoping it will encourage him to touch my neck again. “Was that the big rebellion of your youth? Did you have a run-in with a bolt of taffeta as a child?”
He smirks. “Really? Going after my childhood now?” But there’s something in his voice that tells me I’ve hit a sensitive spot. “You should’ve seen me. I only wore black jeans and T-shirts in high school. The best reaction I got out of my mom was some speech about how even then I was making a fashion statement.”
I can’t help but laugh again. “She’s not wrong.”
“Your turn,” he says. “Tell me about your family.”
I’m pretty sure you already know my stepmom, I nearly say. “Well, my mom had ovarian cancer and passed away when I was a kid, so it was just my dad and me until he got remarried while I was in middle school. She already had two daughters, so we went from a family of two to a family of five. And now I have three little siblings too. Triplets, actually.”
“Whoa. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be part of a big family. And your mother…I’m sure she was wonderful.”
I nod, my shoulders sinking. He hasn’t even heard the rest of the sob story yet. “Dad passed away while I was in high school. It was sudden. And then just like that, my stepfamily became my only family.”
He flinches, and his voice is low and scratchy, almost like he wishes the cameras weren’t here anymore. “I’m so sorry. You must miss both of them so much.”
When Dad died, I heard so many people tell me they were sorry over and over again to the point that the word doesn’t even carry meaning anymore. It’s just a cloud of a word. You can hear it. You can see it. You just can’t feel it. But the way Henry tells me he’s sorry makes me feel like he would sacrifice something real for me to have a magical do-over and a second shot. But there’s no magic to be found in this story. No happily-ever-after.
“Thank you,” I say as I turn away from the cameras to quickly wipe one stray tear. The last thing I need is to ugly cry on television. I’d be the Girl Who Ugly Cried as quickly as I’m sure Jenny became the Girl Who Ate It Big-Time.
With one arm still behind me, Henry takes my hand in his free one and rubs soft circles into my palm. In this moment, it’s as relaxing as a full-body massage. And even though the whole world can see us holding hands, every little circle is a secret from the cameras. A private touch for only us. Now I understand completely what Sara Claire meant about the kiss on the cheek, and I can’t help but feel that little shadow of jealousy once again.
“Hey, y’all…” a voice softly interrupts.
I have to stop myself from audibly groaning.
Henry clears his throat and leans back. “Sara Claire. How are you?”
She smiles timidly, which is annoying, because Sara Claire is not timid, and what is she even doing? She had a whole date with him.
I can feel the absolutely absurd expression forming on my face as I try to look nice and polite while also sending her some kind of signal that says not now.
“Cindy darling, do you mind if I cut in?”
I look to Henry and his smile is stiff. “Sure,” I finally say, and stand up, my hand slipping from his. “All yours.”
I give Sara Claire what I hope is a meaningful look. I know we’re all here for the same reason, but it’s hard not to feel betrayed, especially after last night.
She giggles as she settles down beside him, fitting perfectly under his arm, and I hate that I hate her right now. It’s a disgusting feeling that goes against everything I thought I’ve ever believed about women empowering each other and lifting each other up. But maybe this show is too much of a feminist wasteland for anything like that to even be possible.
Closer to the house, I find Anna and Drew with Chloe, Jenny, and Stacy all huddled around an electric fire pit.
“She really swooped right in, didn’t she?” asks Chloe as the circle widens for me to squeeze in between Anna and Drew.
“I don’t think I like that girl,” says Anna.
“You don’t even know her,” I spit back at her.
Anna jerks away a little, and Drew eyes me in a way that says, And you do?
“Sorry.” I nudge Anna and she eases a bit. “I’m just on edge.”
Stacy shrugs. “Besides, you can’t get mad because someone is doing the things we all came here to do. Aren’t we all here to win?”
A gust of wind blows through the courtyard and a shiver rolls through me. “Yeah. It would have been nice if she hadn’t just barged in like that. And it was so unlike her—”
“I don’t buy that whole Southern-manners act,” Jenny says.
“It doesn’t matter if you buy it or not,” Addison says from outside the circle. “It only matters if Henry does.”