Chapter Twenty-Five
If there’s no champagne toast at the end of the night, you know things have gone terribly, terribly wrong.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
“She almost stabbed me!” Addison sobs. She’s wrapped in a blanket in the living room with several cameras pointed at her. Apparently having someone (Olie) fall on you from the roof means you no longer have to be naked. I should try it sometime.
“I was standing on the veranda waiting for her to come down and—and—” Addison hiccups. “And then she attacked me!”
“Someone make her a cup of tea,” Lainey barks.
She deposits Addison in a squashy armchair by the fireplace and fusses over her blanket. Philippa and Chloe jog in through the open back doors, a large paint splatter covering Chloe’s stomach.
“I didn’t attack you,” Olie says impatiently. She pulls herself free from Norbert’s grip. “I was trying to sneak into your room from the roof—”
“To kill me!” Addison shrieks.
“No!” Olie says. “You weren’t even in there.” She reaches into the side of her boot and pulls out a warped paperback, then tosses it on the table.
Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack stares up at us.
“I was going to put that in your room,” Olie says. She meets my eyes, and I give her a small smile, but it’s hard when she looks so thoroughly defeated.
“Wuzgoingon?” Roland skids Tom Cruise–style into the room in his socks and boxers, white T-shirt rumpled like he just rolled out of bed.
“Put some pants on,” Lainey snaps. A PA hurries over with a pair of pants, and Roland hobbles into them. “Olie, I’m incredibly disappointed. Trying to sabotage another contestant goes against the foundations of sisterhood that Love Shack is based on.”
Philippa snorts, earning her a glare from Lainey.
“You’ve left me no choice,” Lainey continues, turning back to Olie. My breath gets shallow. Is Olie about to be kicked out? “Since it seems that the rules of this show mean nothing to you, you can’t be upset when I change some rules too. We’re doing the elimination ceremony early—now.”
“Wait, wh—” Roland starts, his eyes ping-ponging between Lainey and Olie, but Lainey cuts him off.
“Need I remind you who’s in charge, Mr. Marchetti?”
He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
“We’re doing the ceremony now?” Monica asks, her voice trembling. “Shouldn’t we change first?”
“No need,” Lainey says brusquely. “Now let’s get started.” She signals to get the cameras rolling as we arrange ourselves in the customary semicircle.
It feels like years ago that there were twenty of us standing in the rose garden in Malibu, fresh-faced and innocent. But now, the aesthetics couldn’t be more different. Our dirty bare-bones outfits are a far cry from the elegant gowns Love Shack viewers are used to. And no one’s smiling this time.
Of the six of us, Philippa is the only one who seems unscathed.
Everyone else looks like they’ve just escaped a reality TV torture chamber.
Monica has a large paint splatter on her back and has lost one of her boots.
Chloe’s entire stomach is covered in neon green.
Addison looks downright traumatized. And Olie …
well, Olie has twigs in her hair and a large scrape on her chin, not to mention the rainbow of paint covering her from head to foot.
Even Roland looks miserable. Lainey pulls him and Rhett off to the side and starts whispering furiously, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. When they return, Roland’s jaw is trembling.
“Ladies,” Rhett says, “it’s been quite a day. Per the rules of the game, we don’t quite have a winner, but I’m afraid we do have to say goodbye to one woman right away as she was hit first during paintball: Chloe.”
I fight to keep my face impassive as Chloe steps forward and takes Roland’s hand.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” she says. “As sad as I am to leave, I know it’s been worth it.” She steals a glance back at us but stays focused on Philippa, whose eyes are glistening. “Because I really did find love,” Chloe continues, dropping Roland’s hand.
I blink in confusion as Chloe walks back to us, but as she takes Philippa’s hand, it clicks.
“Will you come home with me?” Chloe asks.
Philippa takes Chloe’s hand and nods, tears streaming down her face.
My throat is tight as they both hug me goodbye and leave to whatever TV afterlife (or likely, SUV ride to the airport) awaits them.
Roland looks like he doesn’t totally understand what just happened, but having only four women left spikes the tension in the air. I glance at Rhett, who’s deep in thought, pacing a hole in the bearskin rug.
Lainey takes a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s trying to go to her happy place. “Roland? Are you ready?”
“But Lainey,” he protests, “I can’t—”
“You can and you will. Or do I need to remind you how precarious your position is?” She steps closer to Roland and lays a hand on his forearm. “You can’t marry a woman like that,” she says quietly. “You have a reputation to uphold. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Roland swallows hard, nodding, as Olie trembles, still in Norbert’s firm grasp. Roland lifts his head to look at the four of us, then he looks back at Lainey, who just nods. A death signal if I’ve ever seen one. But I can’t tell if it’s me or Olie getting the axe.
I stand up straighter, ready to go out with my head held high.
“Olie.” He says her name so tenderly it breaks my heart. If I have to leave, I’m glad she gets to stay a little longer.
Olie wrenches free from Norbert and runs up to Roland, throwing herself against his chest. “Thank you,” she sobs. “Thank you so much, baby.”
Roland pats her hair, tears leaking from his eyes. Slowly, he detaches her from his chest and looks down at her, setting his jaw. She freezes, as my stomach drops with sick anticipation.
“No, you have to go, baby,” Roland says.
“Wh—but, what’re you saying? You can’t do that—she can’t make you do that!” Olie looks frantically at the sea of producers, at Lainey, at Norbert, but no one moves. “Rolie, baby, please,” she begs, grabbing onto his arm. “Please don’t do this. Please!”
“I’m sorry,” Roland says, voice tight. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have a choice.”
I look between him and Lainey as Olie breaks down in sobs. Lainey’s mouth is set in a grim line, but she makes no move to interfere.
Norbert steps forward, pulling Olie gently back from Roland.
“Rolie—Roland, please,” Olie cries, but Norbert starts to haul her away, her heels skidding on the hardwood floor.
“Out you go, lass,” Norbert says, and even he sounds a little sad.
Monica turns her head so she doesn’t have to witness Olie’s undignified exit. I’m tempted to do the same, but something keeps me watching until she’s out of sight, her howling sobs echoing through the foyer.
I half expect the producers to start interviewing us about how Olie’s leaving makes us feel or some other bullshit, but once Roland retreats to his room in tears, the cameras cut.
“What, no champagne toast for the winners?” Addison asks, tossing her blanket onto the couch, apparently fully recovered from her “near death” experience.
Monica throws her a dirty look. “How do you live with yourself?”
Addison just smirks as Monica trudges upstairs.
I’ve never felt less like a winner. Maybe I’ll feel better tomorrow, but somehow I doubt it.
I ignore Addison and follow Monica upstairs.
In my room, I peel off my clothes and pull on a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt.
It’s only midafternoon but I’m exhausted—and starving.
The vodka sloshes around unaccompanied in my stomach, but the thought of eating another Love Shack–approved salad or bran muffin isn’t appetizing.
What I really want is a grilled cheese. Or a burger.
Or literally anything that would make Lainey turn up her nose.
There’s a soft knock on my door, and I press my eye to the peephole. But it’s not Lainey come to scold me for my impure thoughts about cheese. It’s Rhett, his face bulging in the warped glass.
I open the door a crack, and he glances up and down the hall, then steps into the entry of my room.
He has a set of keys in one hand and a black baseball cap in the other.
On the front of the cap, the words Rhett Auburn are stitched in white thread, accompanied by a small horseshoe.
He reaches up and puts it on my head, tugging on the brim so it sits more snugly in place.
I peer up at him. “Why are you giving me merch?”
He twists his jaw to the side, smirking, and pops up the collar of his jacket as he says, “Want to get out of here?”