Most eligible, p.18
Most Eligible, page 18
“Another bachelorette party,” one of them remarks.
The seven of us cram around a wooden table, and immediately a platter of Jell-O shots is passed around.
“Bottoms up, kids!” Lainey says. “Roland will be here in just a few minutes.”
Olie squints at the lime-green liquid in her glass, then shrugs. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
I grimace as I take mine. It’s barely two. Or actually, here, it’s four. Close enough.
“Smile, Georgia!” Lainey calls. “Roland will be here in just a minute and you don’t want him to see that hideous expression, do you?”
“It’s just my face,” I say, and Lainey rolls her eyes. I down the Jell-O shot and pucker my lips into some version of a smile that makes Brooklyn giggle as she passes me a beer.
Rhett steps forward from the crowd of producers. “Welcome to Music City, USA,” he says.
Olie winks at me.
“We have an amazing week planned for y’all,” Rhett continues. “I hope everyone is rested and ready to hit the ground running. While we’re here, there will be two dates. A group date and a one-on-one. The group date is going to be a bit of a challenge, but I think you’re all up for it.”
“Ooh,” Chloe squeals. “What’re we doing? Singing?”
“If we’re singing, then y’all are outta luck,” Olie says. “I was professionally trained in opera from birth to age twelve.”
Rhett clears his throat. “No. No singing. It’ll be single-elimination paintball. The last woman standing wins extra time with Roland.”
Everyone sits up straighter.
Addison takes a demure sip of her beer, peering at me over the rim of her glass. I bet she’s looking forward to covering me in paint.
“But for now,” Rhett says, “since we like to keep you on your toes—the first one-on-one is today.”
I let out a breath of relief. It will be Brooklyn, there’s no doubt about it. Not only that—if Roland is out with her, I’ll be able to take a long nap.
“Who do you think it’ll be?” Philippa asks, rubbing her hands together. Her beer sits next to her, noticeably untouched.
“I hope it’s me,” Addison simpers. “I just feel such a strong connection with Roland.”
My eyes are itching to roll so far back they won’t see the light of day for weeks.
“Georgia, what do you have to say about that?” Lainey cuts in. I look at her, surprised that she’s interrupted, but I guess they can cut it out in postproduction.
“I—nothing?”
“This woman pushed you off a ladder, and you’re just going to roll over?” Lainey hisses.
My face goes red as all heads turn to me.
“She did what?” Chloe gasps.
I look at Addison who shrugs as if to say, Might as well.
“Addison, repeat your line,” Lainey says.
Addison smiles coyly at me. “I just feel such a strong connection with Roland.”
“Not surprising, since you slept with him last week,” I blurt out.
Addison stares at me, eyes wide, and despite everything she’s done, I feel a little bad. It doesn’t taste good to be the villain.
“I’m not going to apologize for the connection that Roland and I have,” she retorts.
“Well, if you get the one-on-one today, I hope you point out that it’s not fair,” I say, a touch of poison seeping into my voice.
Behind the cameras, Lainey is practically salivating.
“And why would I do that?” Addison asks.
“Because Brooklyn hasn’t had a one-on-one yet.”
“It’s fine,” Brooklyn mutters. “You don’t have to…”
“Believe it or not, Georgia,” Addison says. “I don’t spend my time with Roland talking about other people. Unlike you, I’m actually focused on my connection with him.”
“I am focused on my connection with him,” I splutter. So focused that I almost hooked up with Rhett.
“It’s too bad you didn’t break your neck falling off that ladder,” Addison says, eyes narrowed to slits.
Behind the camera, Norbert’s mouth drops open. But Norbert can’t see it when Addison throws me a wink. She wants me to play into it. I know I should. I won’t look like the bad guy—that’s all her. But I’m so sick of it.
Thankfully, Roland’s arrival derails the conversation. He jogs over to our table from the street—he’s not jogging from anywhere, it’s just for the sake of making an entrance—and hugs each of us in turn. Once the sweaty hugs are over, he stands next to Rhett and grins at us. “What did I miss?”
“I was just about to tell them what you’ll be doing today,” Rhett says. “Today, we have a very special guest.”
Roland grins and slaps him on the back. “I think she might be an even bigger country star than you, Rhett.”
With some effort, Rhett turns his scowl into a passable smile. “Today, Roland and one lucky lady will spend some time in Music City, USA with the legend herself, Sandra Haywood.”
“HOLY BALLS!” Olie shouts. A passing tourist throws her an annoyed look.
Holy balls is right. I only had about a billion of Sandra Haywood’s songs on my MP3 player as a kid.
“I dressed up as her for Halloween like three years in a row,” Chloe gushes. “You know, her iconic outfit? The glittery bodysuit and zip-off cargo pants?”
“I’d rather not imagine that,” Addison says, shuddering.
“I’m really excited for today,” Roland interrupts. “The car will be here in a few minutes, so I guess I better tell you who I’ll be taking.” He pauses as a motorcycle rumbles by, then continues. “Georgia, will you do me the honor?”
My mouth falls open in the silence that follows. I turn to Brooklyn, who’s putting on a brave face.
“Go,” she whispers. “Have fun!”
“What about Brooklyn?” I ignore the gasps from the huddle of producers. I’m willing to bet that nowhere in Love Shack’s history has a contestant questioned a date invitation.
“But,” Roland says, “I…” He trails off like he’s expecting everyone else to vanish and give us some privacy, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, the cameras zoom closer, and he blushes a little as he clears his throat. “I picked you for the date because I know how much you like music and … well, I thought you’d be really excited about meeting Sandra Haywood—I thought maybe you could write about it for one of your articles.”
The sad-puppy-dog look on his face is almost too much for me to bear. “I’m so sorry,” I say. They might be the truest words I’ve ever spoken to him. “That’s really thoughtful of you. I just don’t want anything between us to be unfair, do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah.” He nods, swallowing hard. “You’re totally right.”
My skin is crawling with the awkwardness of the moment. Even though the street is noisy and we can hear plates clattering from the inside of the restaurant, the silence pulls so tight around us that it could pop.
It feels like we’re in a group therapy session. Frankly, we should be in a group therapy session, but from what I’ve heard, the on-set therapist was the first to go after the network’s budget cuts.
“Brooklyn,” Roland says, turning to her, “can we talk for a minute?”
Brooklyn straightens up and folds her hands in her lap. “We can talk here,” she says. I respect her for it, but it won’t help my secondhand cringe.
“Georgia,” Lainey barks, “get up and give Roland your chair.”
I jump out of my seat and end up standing next to Rhett, who’s scratching the back of his neck and looking like he’d rather have a guitar string break in his face than witness this conversation.
The cameras reset to focus on Roland and Brooklyn, jostling the others out of the frame, and then Roland says, “Can you tell me what’s going on, Brook?”
Even Addison rolls her eyes.
“I’d rather you tell me what’s going on,” Brooklyn says. “I don’t want to cause trouble, but I’m the only one who hasn’t had a one-on-one date yet. And I assumed that since I’m still here, you’d want to spend time with me before going on second dates with anyone else.”
Roland runs a hand down his face and nods. “You’re right.”
“I feel like maybe you kept me as a diversity pick,” Brooklyn says.
Roland shakes his head. “I’m so sorry you feel that way, Brook. I promise that’s not why I wanted to keep you around. I wouldn’t do that. But … I guess I’m feeling stronger connections with some of the other girls. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have led you on like that.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I think it’s probably best if I go home. I appreciate your honesty.”
“Okay,” Roland says quietly, his jaw set tight. “I guess that’s it then.”
She nods. “One more thing?”
He looks at her expectantly.
Brooklyn flashes me a smile as she says, “We’re women, not girls.”
* * *
Brooklyn’s final line to Roland was a mic-drop moment, but her exit from the show isn’t nearly as dramatic. Since there aren’t any flights to her home in Albuquerque until tomorrow, she sits with the producers until we’re done filming, then comes back to the accommodations with us.
Nestled on the outskirts of Nashville, the ivy-covered house is so massive that it could swallow the Malibu mansion whole. It’s ringed with a wide veranda and tall columns stretching right up to the roof. Hundreds of towering oaks shadow the property.
“Now this is a view!” Olie shouts as soon as we get inside. She’s standing in front of the three-story wall of windows behind me, looking out over the landscape. Beyond the windows, the veranda continues, set with white-and-green outdoor furniture that looks like it’s never been used. Farther out, we can see a long sloping lawn, manicured gardens, and of course, several pools and hot tubs.
“You think those are real?” Olie points up to the half dozen taxidermied animal heads lining the room. “Imagine if they put our heads on the wall when we got eliminated.”
I shudder. “I’m glad you’re not a producer.”
After a sparse dinner, Brooklyn and I head upstairs to our room. It feels like more than just a few weeks ago that I lived alone with Presley and spent most Friday nights curled up in bed watching Tiny Desk concerts on YouTube. Going back to that will be comforting, but it’ll also be lonely. My chest feels tight as I watch Brooklyn yawn like a cat, stretching her arms over her head and sighing.
“Just think,” she says. “You could’ve been with Sandra Haywood right now.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
After Brooklyn’s conversation with Roland, the producers decided it would be a bad look to go ahead with the date. Even though I was a little disappointed, it was for the best.
We’re almost ready for bed when there’s a knock on our door. Brooklyn opens it to find Olie, Philippa, and Chloe standing in the hall.
“What’re you guys doing here?”
“Couldn’t let your last night go uncelebrated!” Olie grins and plops down onto the end of my bed, unzipping a large black duffel bag. “Plus, I have a plan to get back at Addison.” In the near darkness, the taxidermied moose head on the wall casts a shadow over her face. “She’s had it coming for a long time,” she says. “First, she tries to kill Georgia during tennis, then she canoodles with Rolie, then she tries to kill Georgia on a ladder—”
“Rolie?” Chloe giggles. “That’s what you call him?”
Pink in the face, Olie nods. “Rolie and Olie—it’s only fitting.”
“Naturally.” Chloe laughs, shaking her head.
Olie’s blush fades and she rubs her hands together. “To business.”
“What’s the plan?” Brooklyn asks.
Olie pulls something that looks like a glue gun from her bag and says with a flourish, “We tattoo Addison’s face.”
This pronouncement is greeted with silence.
“That’s a terrible idea,” Philippa says. “And why do you have a tattoo gun?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Olie says enigmatically. “Anyway, I thought you wimps wouldn’t go for that, so I have a backup.” She rifles through her bag and, once she’s elbow-deep, grunts, “Here it is,” before pulling out, of all things, a book.
Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack.
I frown. I read that same book cover to cover while prepping to come here. It’s filled with advice like “show off your good boob” and “be sure to bring up personal trauma on night one.”
“Is that mine?” Chloe shrieks.
“Did you actually bring it with you?” Olie asks.
“No,” Chloe says. “Of course not. I just thought for a second…”
I look between them, confused. “Then whose is it?”
“Addison’s,” Olie says mischievously.
“Really?” I’m shocked that Addison would be careless enough to bring it here. She may not be my favorite, but she is smart.
That book, according to my research, has been the end of many budding Love Shack relationships. While it’s silently accepted that most contestants at least flip through it, bringing it with you to set is a huge faux pas. It means you’re here for the followers, not the fiancé.
“Well, not really,” Olie says. “But we’ll make it seem like it is. During paintball later this week, I’ll sneak into her room and plant this in her stuff, then tip Rolie off about it.”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “What if you get caught?”
Olie shrugs. “Then I get caught. But it’ll be worth it. She’s got to go, and I think Rolie…” She goes pink in the face. “I don’t think he’s using his best judgment about her.”
“Easy there, tiger.” Philippa snorts, patting Olie on the shoulder. “He’s thinking with his dick, and we all know it.”
I flop down on the bed beside Chloe, who rests her head on my shoulder. The weight of it there feels soft, safe—like what it might be like to have a sister.
“In the meantime…” Olie holds the tattoo gun back up. “Friendship tattoos?” Despite the usual slightly unhinged gleam in her eyes, it’s the gentlest thing I’ve ever heard her say. She shrugs, blushing to the roots of her hair. “I don’t—I don’t have a lot of lady friends, ya know? And I know we might not stay in touch after all this, but … I just thought it might be fun. Once we’re back to real life, I’ll get ahold of Nina so she can have one too.”
As she trails off, Brooklyn wraps her arms around her. “Friendship tattoos! I love it, Olie.”
Philippa joins the hug and looks back at me. “You in?”
I sit up, but hesitate, my deception weighing heavily on me.
“Don’t worry,” Olie says. “I was a tattoo artist for a few years after high school.”
Philippa rolls her eyes. “Of course you were.”
Olie’s tattoo skills aren’t what’s worrying me, though. I know how I’d feel if I got a friendship tattoo with someone, only to realize they’d been lying to me for our entire relationship.
But I can’t refuse. “Definitely.”
I can only hope they’ll forgive me.
“I made the best friends in the world [on Love Shack]. I’d die for any one of them in a heartbeat … except Addison.”
—Olie Hoovastank III, season 20 contestant on Love Shack, in a postseason interview with Us Weekly
Chapter Twenty-Three
Something about the silence of this house unnerves me. Back at my apartment in LA, I always had the street noise to lull me to sleep, plus Presley’s snuffling. Even in the Malibu mansion, I had the other women’s snores to fall asleep to. But since Brooklyn left three days ago, there’s nothing to dull the sharp, ominous silence.
“Sheesh,” Olie says when I head downstairs into the foyer for paintball. “Did you just wake up?”
According to the large clock on the wall it’s eleven forty-five AM, so I’m fifteen minutes early for our group date prep. I shrug, crossing my arms. “I didn’t get much sleep last night … or the night before.”
“Did you sneak one of Dr. Dora’s gifts in your carry-on?” Olie makes a suggestive face.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I miss my cat.”
Olie howls with laughter. “Could you be any more geriatric? I thought I was the oldest one here!” She shakes her head, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure your kitty cat misses you too.”
Thinking about Presley makes my chest feel tight. I hope Serena remembers to play his favorite Enya album. He always nods off right at the first chorus of “Sail Away.”
But Presley is pushed far from my mind when Olie and I enter the living room.
The producers have gone all out. The most expensive décor has been removed from the walls, though the large moose head above the fireplace is still there. White sheets have been draped over the fancier pieces of furniture.
Jules is in my face with a makeup brush when the front doors of the house open and Rhett wanders in. I get one more brush of powder foundation on the nose before Jules moves on to Philippa, pulling a darker shade of foundation from her fanny pack.
Rhett shrugs out of a leather jacket and hands it off to a PA. He adjusts his flannel shirt and catches my eye but quickly looks away. We’ve been holed up in this house for the last few days, and I haven’t seen him once. I can’t help but think he’s been avoiding me.
I run my fingers over the new tattoo on my wrist. Until this morning, it was covered by a clear bandage. But now, when I touch the tiny inked rose, it’s completely blended with my skin. Fleetingly, I wonder what it would feel like to have Rhett’s fingers on it, discovering it for the first time.
Lainey calls us to attention, and my fingers drop from my wrist.
“We’re going to start with some shots of you girls getting dressed,” Lainey says. “Over here in the next room.”
I look down at my jeans and tank top. Are these clothes not good enough to cover in paint?
“Why are we changing?” Monica asks.
“You’ll see,” Lainey says.
We follow her into the next room, several crew members trailing us with handheld cameras. Like the rest of the house, the room is filled with wood paneling, but all the furniture has been cleared away. In its place are six changing stations and racks of clothes.
