Linda
In the parlor, the couch’s frenzied floral pattern attacked Linda’s eyes, so she kept her gaze trained on Charity instead. The women were fighting again.
As Charity lunged toward Marion, Tristan rose.
“Whoa. Ladies, you’re both here because I care about you. There’s no need to fight over me.”
Charity displayed her palms. “Fine,” she said, falling back into the couch in a huff. “She started it.”
“Oh, that’s mature,” Marion said, then seemed to catch herself. She grabbed Tristan’s hand. “I want you to be happy. I worry about women who might be here, you know—”
“For the wrong reasons,” Tristan said. “I get it. You don’t have to protect me.”
Linda kept her expression nonplussed, like she’d practiced in the mirror again and again in preparation for the show. She pursed her lips tight. Unlike the other women, she didn’t want to fight over him. Tristan was a decent man, but Linda watched the other women fawning over him and scoffed.
All in all, he was average. Below average when it came to smarts, even if he did know the ins and outs of running a farm, which was something. Maybe his appeal was that he delivered what he promised. Even though her reason for being here wasn’t him, she might have been given a worse fate. Linda glanced again at Charity. Linda didn’t want to leave the show yet.
“Hey, let’s have a friendly competition!” Tristan gestured at a dartboard on the other side of the room.
“Yes, please,” Sabrina said, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her voice. She rushed to Tristan’s side, seizing another opportunity to stand close to him.
The camera crew readjusted their shot and checked the cast’s personal microphones. Linda stood still as Leo replaced hers with a fresh one. “Less static,” he explained.
“Maybe that’s the ghosts,” Linda said, smiling.
He winked. “Probably so.”
The crew finished. “Play away,” Becca said as she peered into her eyepiece.
“I’m going to sort y’all into two teams,” Tristan said. “Charity and Marion, you’re together.”
Marion groaned, then turned it into an unconvincing cough.
“Sabrina and Linda, you’re the dream team.” He beamed. “I know better than to break up two besties. I’ve got sisters!” Tristan winked at Charity and Marion. “Let’s let the grumpy ladies go first.” As Tristan moved beside the other women, Sabrina stewed beside Linda, who ignored her friend’s rotting mood.
Tristan explained the game. “Each team gets three shots per turn. The goal is to hit all the numbers in reverse sequential order, from twenty to one. Then you have to hit the bullseye. First team to get every number plus that bullseye wins.”
Marion stepped to the piece of tape placed on the wooden floor. The producers must have examined the house for potential activities beforehand and put it there—the work of making preplanned events look spur-of-the-moment. Marion glanced at Tristan.
“Go ahead now,” he said.
When she threw the dart, it landed in the inner area of the twenty. She jumped and yelped.
“Good job, cowgirl!” Tristan slipped an arm around her waist.
Charity and Marion both landed their next shots.
“Damn,” Linda said. “We’re fucked.”
“Speak for yourself.” Sabrina stepped to the line.
Sabrina landed a nineteen and cursed. “Here, have the next couple turns, too,” Linda said. On the second try, Sabrina sunk a twenty. Linda cheered. Tristan laughed and sipped his wine, observing the members of his harem.
The women played for twenty minutes before Tristan forced Linda to take her turn. “We want to see what you’re made of!” he said.
Linda chewed her lips. She stepped up to the tape. She’d played darts once or twice with her father in some bar with lax rules. He took her there without her mother knowing, and his friends cooed over the child in her big-girl britches, drinking a Shirley Temple while her dad downed bottles of Shiner Bock. When her father drove her home, he swerved all over the road. The thing was, she hadn’t known better then. For the longest time, that night playing darts at the bar was one of her favorite memories. She had loved the feel of the car jerking over the pavement, like the kiddie coasters at Six Flags. It was later, once she learned about the world and its dangers, that she realized her father had endangered her life. She felt like a fool—and as though she could never trust that feeling of joy again.
Linda focused on the bulls-eye. She tossed the dart. It lodged in the wood paneling of the wall behind the dartboard.
“Better luck next time,” he said. “But you can’t get better if you don’t practice!”
Linda stepped forward to retrieve the dart. She yanked it from the wall. She started to turn, but Sabrina gasped behind her.
“What’s that?” Sabrina said. Linda turned back. The hole the dart had pierced oozed, a pink line of goo trailing down the wall in a single stream.
“Ew.” Linda leaned closer. The slime smelled like rotten meat, some old takeout left in the fridge too long, but also sweet. The pink liquid frothed, the bubbles hissing as they popped. Linda started to touch it, but Sabrina grabbed her hand as it neared the substance.
“You touch every weird thing you see?” Sabrina said.
Linda lowered her hand. “What the hell is this?”
The others gathered round, studying the goo with wordless interest.
“It smells like pus,” Sabrina said. “Might be a fungus. Or something that rotted in the walls?”
The others made noises of disgust. Linda felt like she might barf. She stepped back and tried to take in a fresh breath, but all she could smell was rot. Suddenly, the whole room was filled with it.
She felt a hand on her back. “I’m okay, Sabrina,” she said, but it wasn’t Sabrina.
