She smirks up at me. “The network vetoed her. Wanted someone more relatable. Shae read as more of a 1 in the sun type to them.” The 1 had seen three Black female leads and one Black male lead, as well as one Hispanic female and male lead apiece, and one Asian female lead, and, count them, zero male Asian leads. Brianna Smith, a veterinarian from Georgia, had been their last Black lead, three seasons ago; I guess the powers that be decided it was too soon to go down that path again.
“Fuck this show,” I say, looking back at myself in the mirror, the face of this show.
Watching Marcus propose to me onscreen is bizarre. I fool even myself when I accept the proposal, crying, holding Marcus’s face between my hands, kissing him, drinking champagne. But the audience will still think it’s as fake as everything else I’ve done all season and will hate it equally as much. And best of all, they’re absolutely right.
“I got the ring after all,” I brag to the camera in the closing moments. I was really drunk for that. “I finally got the guy.” That’s when it slips, and the camera shows how I go dead behind the eyes.
“Okay, it’s show time,” Priya says, getting up from her chair and lending me a hand to help me out of mine. She walks me to the edge of the stage, and we wait for the line producer to cue me to walk out. I’m standing there when Marcus hurries up behind me and grabs my hand. He squeezes, some sort of gesture of solidarity.
We’d spent four nights together in our château once filming wrapped, quality time given to the final couple to finally be alone together.
I’d gotten stupid drunk on our first night together, after I’d gotten my phone back and been obligated to call my family and tell them I was engaged. “I’m happy for you,” my brother said, and he really sounded it.
“We’re so excited to have Marcus join the family,” Mom echoed.
The producers and crew stayed up, drinking wine with us that first night, celebrating the end of another successful season, and neither of us tried to dissuade them. I suspect Marcus didn’t want to face the consequences of his actions, just as much as I didn’t. Henry had, of course, been absent; Priya told me he decided to fly back early.
When everyone finally left well after 2 a.m., I’d started kissing Marcus, crawled into his lap like I might be absorbed into him. I was drunk, of course, wondering if I could re-create who I’d been at the start of this experience. Want him the way I did before. Get something enjoyable out of this.
He’d let me for a while, and then he’d backed away when I’d reached for his belt.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said.
I was slurring my words at that point. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to fuck you while you’re thinking about him,” he said darkly.
He’d left me there, in a puddle on the couch, crying. I’d eventually fallen asleep there and woken around midday the next day, violently ill.
“Let’s just get through the press cycle,” he told me that night, sitting next to me, where I was still curled up on the same spot of the couch. “And then we’ll figure out what’s most advantageous for both of us.”
Practical to the end, the rest of that week and our two subsequent planned “happy couple” weekends had passed in an amicable enough truce, with the two of us bingeing Netflix and ordering takeout.
In the meantime, he’d engaged heavily on social media, eagerly commentating throughout the season and acting as if he was as shocked at the antics of Jac the Villain as anyone else. I, on the other hand, had posted my contractually obligated two Instagram posts, turned off the comments, and still kept a running tab on the nastiest hashtags (#jacthebitch, #matthismonster, #jaciskindofugly). At the same time, sales on my backlist book had steadily increased, and I’d felt no satisfaction in any of it. I’d been dumped by my agent a couple of months before the show, and I’d even had two or three agents send me kind emails. I hadn’t responded to any of them.
Marcus and I had been together the weekend the Andi elimination episode aired, and he’d been glued to his phone.
“You’re starting to really hurt my likability.”
I was shoveling Pad Thai into my mouth. “Maybe you made the wrong choice.”
“I really had been planning to keep Andi before what happened in the hot tub, but I wanted you a lot more, Jac,” he said. “That’s why I did what you asked.”
“You got me,” I answered, and he frowned.
“I’m going to post about what editing can do, I guess,” he said with a sigh.
“You do that,” I muttered, refilling my wineglass and checking the time again.
Here, tonight, he’s back in his perfectly tailored suit with his perfectly tailored smile, an All-American boy to the end.
“Let’s give ’em a good show,” he says to me with a smile. He’s still fine with this. He’s fine with all of it.
In the studio, the producers throw to Becca and Brendan, and they both put on their best, happiest faces. “Welcome to After the One! Please join us in welcoming your newly engaged couple to the hot seat—Marcus and Jac!”
Hand-in-hand, Marcus and I take the stage, head toward the couch across from Becca and Brendan, the sound of applause echoing all around us. I feel warm for a few moments, safe. This must be what it feels like to be one of the chosen ones.
I straighten my white dress as I sit next to Brendan and Becca and stare into both of their too-Botoxed faces. Becca is glowing in her third trimester, in a black jumpsuit that fits her like a glove. I can tell they are genuinely happy for us, and I almost feel guilt for letting down these two ridiculous people.
“Well, first of all,” Becca says enthusiastically, “congrats, you two!”
“Thanks, Becca. Can’t tell you how excited we are,” Marcus answers while I smile blandly at his side.
“First things first.” Brendan hops right to it. “This season must have been tough to watch back.”
“Sometimes,” Marcus admits, “but it’s also such a gift to watch our love story unfold again. Something we can share with our children one day.” He squeezes my hand and our eyes meet. I smile, making eye contact only briefly, before glancing back down at my lap. Priya is just behind the camera, ready to feed Becca and Brendan all the lines they need.
“What about for you, Jac?” Becca asks. “Some of that can’t have been easy to see.”
I swallow, put on my most contrite face. “I couldn’t watch it all, to be honest,” I say. “It got hard.”
“Do you feel like you were fairly portrayed this season?” Brendan asks, really digging into it. They have to give the people what they want.
I pause, let the people at home think I’m really taking a moment to digest the question before I answer. “I said all the things I said at some point or the other,” I concede. “Sometimes, I didn’t mean them, or sometimes, context was removed, but that’s the job of the show. To tell a story. You just don’t realize at the time that you’re the villain in the story they’re telling.”
The audience is quiet, hanging on my every word. I hadn’t planned this, not exactly, but I didn’t come unprepared. I knew an angry mob awaited me.
“What do you mean by that?” Brendan asks.
