Jac, in a room in the mansion: I think I’m falling for Marcus.
Hannah, sitting poolside with a group of girls: She’s evil.
The screen flashes to Jac, fingering a wedding dress: I’m not like other girls.
[Another montage of girls crying—Kendall, Aaliyah, and finally, Rikki.]
Shae and Marcus kissing in front of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Shae in voiceover: I’m in love with him.
[A shot of a closed door, splashing noises on the other side. Gasps from other girls and a woman’s voice whispering, “Send her home.”]
Eunice, sitting with a group of other girls around a pool: Oh, my Gooooood.
Someone yelling offscreen: You said he was talking about proposing.
Marcus, near tears in a dark room: I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
A final shot of Jac laughing on a beach with dialog played over: [Bleep] ’em.
Becca in voiceover as the logo flashes onscreen: Don’t miss any of the action on this season of the 1.
Brendan voiceover: This may be the most dramatic season ever. Stay tuned on NBS, every Monday at 9 p.m., 8 central.
6
Cold Hard Bitch
I don’t get the first one-on-one date, which, Charlotte explains to me, is because Marcus likes me too much. They can’t start him off on a one-on-one with one of his favorites.
Instead, the date goes to Shae, who I am instantly jealous of. Shae has beautiful curly hair, dark brown skin, and an admirable job as a human rights lawyer in Portland. She’s quick on her feet without being cutting, charming, and extremely popular with almost every girl in the house.
In other words, everything I’m not. I immediately know she will go far in the season.
The rest of us go to group date purgatory, split in half, with the first half going out that day, fighting over bathroom time to finish getting ready. I’m in the second group and left to wait for two days to see Marcus again.
The morning of our first group date, Priya pulls me into a room for another ITM. I’ve worn my navy romper with floral pink detailing, a sweetheart neckline hugging my chest, my legs looking a mile long if I do say so myself. “So,” Priya says, adjusting her glasses as she looks at me, “tell us a little about the guys you’ve dated back home.”
I blanch for a moment. I date as seldom as possible and the guys I meet—well, let’s just say I don’t know much about them. “Honestly,” I start to say, “I haven’t had much time to date recently, what with my writing and everything.”
That’s mostly true. I remember the last guy I was seeing in New York—casually, owing mostly to his excessive cocaine habit and proclivity for sleeping with other women—sitting with me at a bar, bleary-eyed as I scrolled through my phone, muttering to him.
“I can’t believe she sold her book for that much. God, my books are actually good, who wants to read this drivel?”
“Jac,” he muttered.
“Oh, look, and of course, Carolina’s publisher is sending her on tour. Jesus, that’s like ten stops. Wish my series had gotten that kind of support.”
“Jac, please log off,” he said. “Come back to the land of the living. I’m so sick of hearing about fucking publishing. I had a bad day today, too, okay?”
I shrugged, chastised, putting my phone down. “At least you make a living wage,” I muttered under my breath.
“Speaking of,” he said, turning to me in his barstool. He looked haggard, the way the Wall Street guys who never sleep always did. “I finished going through those tax documents you sent me, and you definitely shouldn’t re-sign your current lease. You’re in okay shape, but if you do another year at that place, your savings are going to be tapped out. You haven’t even finished another book, right? And with those sales?” He let out a sigh. Dan—that was his name. I haven’t really forgotten it, I just don’t like to remember it. We were friends before we started fucking and that had sort of ruined the whole thing. Typical. “From everything you told me, even if you sold another, it’s not going to be for what you made on that first trilogy. I’d get a roommate if I were you.”
I hadn’t said anything, staring down into my bourbon. I took the hit. “This place is dead,” I said. “Let’s just go back to your apartment.”
Priya is pursing her lips in the interview room, like she doesn’t believe me. “Sure,” she answers. “Would you say your career has made you not focus on dating?”
“I lived in New York,” I say to the camera, already getting a hang of what they want from me. “I got a huge book contract, and it was really exciting. I thought my life would be, all, I don’t know, single and glamorous, real Gatsby vibes, drama and all, and then my book didn’t do well. I didn’t like the idea of putting that much effort into another aspect of my life like dating and not seeing it pan out either. I just . . . I needed a fresh start.”
“Okay,” Priya says, “a little depressing, but we can probably make that work.” Priya isn’t looking at me anymore, her eyes on her phone. “One thing,” she goes on, glancing up at me then. “Charlotte says we’re playing you as a successful author. The whole sad sack ‘publishing fucked me over’ thing doesn’t really work for our audience. They don’t understand.”
“But, isn’t that my whole thing? I’m rebounding in my career and love life.”
“No,” Priya says, “you’re aspirational. You’re a highly successful author.”
“Oh . . . kay,” I start. “But—”
But that was part of my persona. Successful author came off a little snobby. Failed author was relatable. Something about it didn’t sit right with me, the producers stripping me of an important piece of my story.
“It’s time to leave,” Priya says, jumping up swiftly and shooing the camera guy out in front of her. I sit there, lost for a moment, unsure why, before I motivate myself to follow them.
I get into the last of the production vans before we take off, and when I look up, I see I’ve slid in right next to Henry.
“Oh,” I say, “Jesus.”
“I also accept God,” he murmurs drily. A group of girls is tittering behind us so I take my opportunity.
“Why are you lying about my career?” I ask him, quick, to not give him time to think about my words too much.
