But instead he says, “Do you think maybe you could find it here?”
And that’s not what I meant, it’s never what I meant, because the happiness I need is so much bigger than romance or fairy tales or beautiful dinners where I starve because starving is how everyone might like me best. That’s not real. That’s not what I want.
But that’s what this show is. It’s not about bone-deep sorrow or aching loss or anything that really matters. It’s about a happy ending, however it has to come. And I’m here to play along. “I think maybe I am,” I tell him.
Marcus kisses me tenderly, and when I pull away, Charlotte is smiling.
“TELL US ABOUT tonight’s date,” Elodie says. It’s after three in the morning, and I’m stuffed in a small room with her, Priya, and a cameraman, still wearing my tight black minidress from our date.
“No,” I say, emotionless. “I’m done. I want to go to bed.”
After dinner, there had been fireworks, which had required more cuddling up and kissing. Then a long car ride back to the mansion where fourteen girls were sitting around in a circle, waiting for me to return. Everyone looked exhausted—Kendall looked murderous—and I could only imagine how long they’d been stuck sitting there, discussing my date with Marcus.
When they’d asked me how it was, I had simply said I wanted to go to bed.
It had taken about thirty minutes to squeeze a couple of platitudes out of me, mainly because Priya said they wouldn’t let anyone else go to bed until I talked. Then they’d released the girls from the hostage situation and whisked me to an ITM room.
“You’re not going to bed, Jac,” Priya says, like an asshole.
“Or what?” I demand. “We’ll all just die here?”
She stares back at me like it’s not out of the question.
“We just need a little more from you,” Elodie says placatingly, a good cop to the end. “How was your date with Marcus?”
“I’m done with this,” I tell her. “You know exactly what you did. I didn’t want to talk about—” I stop myself, swallowing around the words “New York.” I hate having such a vulnerable underbelly, and even more, I hate having it exposed. “I want to talk to Charlotte,” I say. “I want to talk to Henry.”
“They’re sleeping,” Priya says, about three levels past over it.
I shrug. “Fuck off then.” I lean back in the chair, closing my eyes. “I want to go to bed.”
“What if we got Becca?” Elodie asks.
“Then you could have footage of me telling Becca to fuck off,” I snap.
None of them says anything for a moment. I wonder if I’ve finally crossed some kind of unholy line. The irony of me getting kicked off the 1 for being a bitch instead of for having sex with a producer is not lost on me.
“Okay,” Elodie finally says. “How about a compromise? Just let us get a clip of you saying you’re falling for Marcus, and we’ll let you go to bed.”
I imagine if I could’ve seen myself, I would’ve seen my eyes bulge out of my head. “Say ‘I’m falling for Marcus’? I hardly know Marcus. We just had our first date.”
Priya levels a deeply disgusted gaze at me. “So you don’t like Marcus?”
Instead of looking at her, I lock eyes with Elodie. “Is the only way to become a producer on this show to be a massive dick?” Priya is seasoned enough to remain stoic, but Elodie snorts.
“Can I please have a little time to process things?” I plead to them both.
“Marcus is hoping to propose to someone ten weeks from now,” Priya tells me, very seriously. “You don’t seem like you’re on the right path for that kind of commitment.”
“Have you considered being on the path to suck my ass?” I slump down in my chair.
“So,” Elodie says slowly, “you can’t see yourself getting engaged to Marcus in ten weeks.”
I’m not proud of it, but I actually scream. “I. Slept. Three. Hours. Last. Night. It is 4:30 a.m.”
Priya leaves the room without saying anything, and I let out a sigh. Elodie, seeing the way my body relaxes, says to me, “She’s just going to get coffee. Don’t get too excited.”
But I sense blood in the air. My chance. “Elodie,” I say, coating my voice with desperation, “I am so tired. Please.” And then, unbidden, because I really thought I was acting, tears come flowing down my cheeks. I am extremely aware of the camera pointed at me—at some point, you really do just get used to the fact that they’re always there, and there’s always a person behind them, running up closer to get a better shot as you make out with the man of their choice.
Elodie reaches out and grabs my hand. She’s probably close to ten years younger than me, baby-faced and always supportive. “You’re fine, Jac. I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow.”
“Can I go to bed?” I ask.
Elodie squeezes my hand, looks up at me with her doe eyes, and softly says, “Just say it.”
I close my eyes; another tear runs down my cheek. I press my palm to my cheek, wipe it away, look directly into the camera.
And I say it.
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