“Because your book series getting canceled is depressing,” he says as if he doesn’t even know why we’re discussing it. “And way too hard to explain to the audience.”
“I know it’s depressing,” I say, pulling my sunglasses down over my eyes. We’re not allowed to wear them on camera. “I lived it. But you have no idea how humiliating it will be when everyone up in New York thinks I’m touting myself as some bestselling novelist when the second book in my series sold two hundred copies and the third one got canceled.”
“You think anyone is obsessed enough with you to know that?”
“It’s publishing,” I say. “Everyone’s keeping score.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the kind of person who doesn’t care about what a bunch of smug New York assholes think of you?”
I look over at him, and there’s something different in his expression than what I’ve seen since we got on set. He’s sizing me up. I just can’t tell if it’s for manipulation or because he’s seen me naked.
“I don’t care what anyone watching this show thinks of me. I care deeply what people in New York think of me. I’d like to sell another book one day.”
He smiles without showing his teeth. “It’s funny you think people in New York City don’t watch this show.”
“Right, right. But they watch it for the laughs.”
He shoots me a look that I don’t miss. “Sure.” Then he returns to his phone like anything I, a contestant, say is too inconsequential to give his full attention.
Irritated, I sit in silence for the rest of the drive.
About an hour later, we pull up to a big field. I take a look out at the vast emptiness, and then look back at Henry. “Not exactly California glamour.”
“The budget’s for later in the season, so try to be enticing.”
I sigh. “Try not to humiliate me.”
“No promises,” he says, walking off to where the production team is gathering. I momentarily keep my eyes trained on his back until I spot Charlotte watching me. I wave at her and smile, going off with the other girls.
“What do you think’s going on?” Rikki asks, catching up to me from the other van.
“Where’s Marcus?” Candy says. She’s unbelievably short and is bending her neck at a strange angle to try to see around Aaliyah.
Grace-Ann sighs. “I’m soooo fucking jealous of Shae getting the first one-on-one.”
“Why?” I ask. “Did he give you some indication he was into you?”
She scoffs. “Didn’t he give all of us that?”
I shrug. Kendall smiles her Cheshire-cat smile. “Not as much as Jac,” she says, nudging me. I’d think it was playful if I didn’t know better.
“Don’t you want to make sure this is real before you jump in headfirst, Kendall?” I answer with as much pleasantness as I can.
“I always jump in headfirst,” she tells me. “It’s my most charming quality.” She winks, a game of one-upmanship.
“Ladies!” Charlotte yells, getting all of our attention. “Marcus will be here momentarily. Look alive. Smiles!” she says, pointing at me specifically.
I try.
“Great! And here comes our leading man!”
The girls go wild as Marcus gets out of a car, with a small blond woman in jeans on one side, and Brendan the host in an over-the-top patterned green sweater on the other side. Marcus is casual in jeans that hug his hips and a solid white T-shirt, accentuating the solidness of his body. The woman with him veers off to the producers, hugging Elodie and then putting an arm around Henry, grinning up at him.
She’s Janelle, Marcus’s producer, and she’s fine. It doesn’t matter. None of it really matters.
I turn away, focus all my attention on Marcus, who looks to be joking around with Brendan, laughing openly. For a moment, I think he looks right at me as he approaches our group with a charming smile.
“Hello, girls!” he says. Girls. That word again. We all smile up at him like he’s the sun. “You all know I’m here to find my future wife and, well . . . I thought a little push might go a long way with that,” he says, pointing at the white tent to our left. “Inside, I’ve picked out some wedding dresses for you all—but what I need now is to see which you’ll pick out for yourselves.”
The girls scream at this, going into a frenzy. So many of them have been dreaming of picking out their wedding dress from conception or whatever—maybe just since they got cast on the show. The producers encourage us to “act excited” as we head into the tent, which seems to be code for “try to kill each other so we can show women as animals desperate for marriage.” In protest, I enter the tent last, which does not go unnoticed. One of the production assistants makes me have a staged conversation with Aaliyah about putting on wedding dresses and they get a clip of me saying the whole thing feels a little archaic to me. The things I shouldn’t have said on camera are starting to pile up.
I go through the aisles, touching the fabric of each of the dresses. It feels too cliché for me to go with one that isn’t white—I bet Kendall would get a kick out of that—so instead, I decide to go for an unexpected shade of white. What I said is true—I haven’t spent much of my time thinking about wedding dresses. My entire life, I’ve lacked serious boyfriends and any desire to play into the blushing bride stereotype. It’s a part of myself I don’t much prefer to examine because it says something about my wanting so desperately not to conform that I turn into something I hate, which is a person who hates things just to hate them and won’t let other people enjoy them.
Still, I hate these girls and their love for these wedding dresses, and I think it’s wrong that they don’t hate themselves, too.
“You should wear this one,” Henry says, touching a dress as he walks over to me and pulling it off the rack. It’s light gray, off-color and off-kilter but still elegant, an intricately laced top with a chiffon skirt tumbling down into an almost-black ombre. Henry is watching me thoughtfully as I run my fingers down the fabric of the front.
“Why?” I ask him.
One half of his mouth goes up. “Because I said so and I’m in charge?” he suggests, his eyes twinkling.
“So, that’s what you think of me, I shouldn’t wear white?”
“No,” Henry says wisely. “That’s what you think of yourself.”
“I’m not like the other girls in that way, am I?” I do like the dress, I think as I look at it. It’s a dress that doesn’t give a fuck but it doesn’t feel flagrantly anti-conformist either. “They look like they should be wearing white, but Jac—maybe we put her in something else.
“But then again,” I say. “You being in charge? I need a better reason than that.”
