Chapter 45
forty-five
WREN
He gave the rose to someone else.
It’s over.
I’m over.
I’ve been wearing the same hoodie for four days, not because it’s comfortable, but because changing feels like admitting something broke.
It’s gray and oversized and smells vaguely like the cereal I’ve been eating straight from the box, but I can’t bring myself to change.
The Airbnb I’m hiding out in has blackout curtains that I haven’t opened since I got here.
Honestly, I prefer it that way. The outside world can stay exactly where it is.
The Simpsons are on auto play on my laptop.
I’m not really watching, just letting the familiar voices fill the silence so I don’t have to think.
Homer’s complaining about something, Marge is being patient.
I’m sitting on this ugly beige couch eating Frosted Flakes with my fingers because I ran out of clean bowls two days ago and can’t be bothered to wash any.
My phone is face down on the coffee table, buzzing constantly. Emails from producers. Voicemails from the show. Texts from Hana asking if I’m okay, if I need anything, if I’m planning to come to the finale taping.
I answered her once. Just once. Told her I’d be there so she could stop worrying about me. But other than that, I’ve ignored everything.
Well, almost everything.
There was one text that almost made me pick up my phone. From a number I didn’t recognize. Just three question marks. Nothing else. No name, no follow-up, no explanation.
For thirty seconds, my heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. This was Ryan reaching out, trying to explain.
Then reality kicked in and I remembered that Ryan had his chance to explain. He had his chance to fight for me, to tell me what was really going on.
He chose not to.
He chose JacqLyn instead.
So whoever sent those question marks can keep their cryptic bullshit. I’m done trying to decode messages from people who don’t have the guts to just say what they mean.
I grab another handful of cereal and try to focus on the TV. Bart’s getting in trouble at school. Classic Bart. At least some things never change.
My phone buzzes again. I flip it over to see Elena’s name on the screen. A work email. I almost don’t open it, but curiosity gets the better of me.
It’s just logistics stuff. Asking for my current address for finale-related arrangements. Wardrobe fittings, maybe, or some kind of PR thing. I don’t really care anymore, but I send her the address of the Airbnb anyway. Easier than dealing with follow-up emails.
I haven’t even asked if I still have my job.
Part of me doesn’t want to know. If they fired me because of what happened on the show, fine.
I’ll figure something else out. The last thing I want is to show up on set and have everyone look at me with pity in their eyes.
Poor Wren, who thought she had a chance with the bachelor.
Poor Wren, who got her heart broken on national television.
No thank you.
I’d rather eat cereal in the dark and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.
The episode ends and another one starts. I’ve probably seen this one a dozen times, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just noise to keep my brain from going to places I don’t want it to go. Places where I replay every conversation with Ryan, every kiss, every moment when I thought maybe this was real.
It wasn’t real. It was never real.
I should have known better. Of course someone like Ryan Haart was too good to be true. Of course the hockey player with the perfect smile and the perfect life wouldn’t actually choose the awkward production assistant who trips over her own feet half the time.
I was just a distraction. Something to pass the time while he figured out who he really wanted.
And apparently, who he really wanted was JacqLyn.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze, a handful of cereal halfway to my mouth. Nobody knows I’m here except Elena, and I just sent her my address an hour ago. There’s no way she’d show up in person.
Wait. What if something happened to Jay?
The thought gets me off the couch faster than anything else could.
I shuffle to the door in my socks, not bothering to fix my hair or change out of my disgusting hoodie.
When I open it, Calla is standing there with a tight smile on her face.
Next to her is Jennifer, the costume designer from the show, looking like a fabulous hurricane with several garment bags and a professional makeup kit.
I blink at them stupidly. “What the hell are you doing here? Is Jay okay?”
Calla pushes past me into the Airbnb like she owns the place. “Jay’s fine. But you’re not answering your phone. So we came.”
Jennifer follows her in, carrying what looks like an entire salon’s worth of equipment. She takes one look around the dark, cereal-strewn disaster that is my temporary living situation and shakes her head.
“Honey,” she says, setting her bags down. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Worse than what?” I ask, closing the door. “How did you even find me?”
“You’re not getting out of the finale,” Jennifer says matter-of-factly, unzipping one of the garment bags. “Ryan sent us.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face. “What?”
Calla turns to face me. Her expression is serious now. “Ryan reached out to Jay. Begged him to help find you. Said it was urgent. Said he needed a favor.”
My whole body goes rigid. “You can go. I don’t want help from a man who dumped me on national TV.”
“Wren,” Calla starts, but I cut her off.
“No. I’m serious. Whatever he told you, whatever sob story he gave Jay, I don’t want to hear it. He made his choice.”
Jennifer continues unpacking her makeup kit like I haven’t said anything. “You know, for someone who works in television, you sure don’t understand how television works.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Calla says, settling onto the couch next to my cereal box, “that maybe you don’t have the whole story.”
I cross my arms. “I have enough of the story. I was there, remember? I watched him hand that rose to someone else.”
“And then what happened?” Jennifer asks.
“Then I went home.”
“Did he try to talk to you?”
“No.”
“Did he call you?”
I hesitate. Those three question marks flash through my mind again. “No.”
“Wren.” Calla’s voice is gentle but firm. “Sit down. Please.”
I don’t want to sit down. I want them to leave so I can go back to my Simpsons marathon and my denial spiral. But something in Calla’s tone makes me sink into the armchair across from them.
“Talk,” she says.
“About what?”
“About what really happened. Not the version you’ve been telling yourself. The real version.”
I stare at her for a long moment. Then something inside me just breaks. All the hurt and anger and confusion that I’ve been stuffing down for the past week comes pouring out.
“Ryan told me he was in love with me. He said we should be together after the show finished filming. And then… the producers pulled him aside right before the rose ceremony. When he came back, he was all angry looking. And then…” I cut off the flow of words, tears pricking my eyes.
Calla strokes the back of my hand. “What happened?”
“He picked another girl! Sent me packing. I was just… stunned.”
Calla looks over at Jennifer. “What do you make of that?”
“Seems like the producers made him eliminate you. They do that pretty frequently, you know. They say, ‘oh, the final decision is ours, per your contract’. They want surprises. So let’s say a bachelor obviously favors one bachelorette…
Elena will swing in and force him to choose another contestant or lose all the money from the show. ”
I suck in a breath. Money is a huge motivator for Ryan. He will do almost anything to make his account balance grow bigger. Even if it hurts him. Even if it’s not what he wants.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, but even as I say it, I can hear how weak it sounds. “If he loved me, he would have fought for me.”
“Maybe he did fight for you,” Calla says quietly. “Maybe he just lost.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that Ryan called Jay at two in the morning, Wren. He was desperate. He said he needed help finding you because they wouldn’t let him contact you directly.”
“They wouldn’t let him?”
“Contract stuff. Legal stuff. I don’t know the details, but Jay said Ryan sounded like a man who was crawling. And let me tell you, I’ve never known Ryan Haart to crawl for anyone.”
My heart starts beating faster. “That doesn’t change what happened.”
“Doesn’t it?” Jennifer starts pulling makeup brushes out of her kit. “You think he sent us here for fun? You think he’s orchestrating some elaborate plan to humiliate you further?”
“I don’t know what he’s doing.”
“He’s trying to get you back,” Calla says simply. “And he’s using the finale to do it.”
“What?”
Jennifer grins. “Honey, you are going to look so incredible tonight that the producers are going to need to bleep Ryan’s reaction.”
“Tonight?” I shake my head. “I’m not going tonight.”
“Yes, you are.” Calla stands up and walks over to where Jennifer hung the garment bags.
She unzips one and pulls out the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
It’s a soft salmon pink, floor length, with full skirts and a delicate layer of hand-stitched flowers that take my breath away.
It’s elegant and sophisticated and absolutely perfect.
“Where did this come from?” I breathe.
“Ryan had it made,” Jennifer says. “Custom fitted. He remembered your measurements from wardrobe fittings.”
I touch the fabric gently. It’s soft and expensive and clearly chosen with care. “Why would he do this?”
“Because he loves you, you idiot,” Calla says, but her voice is fond. “Because he’s been planning something, and he needs you there for it to work.”
“What if this is just another manipulation?” I ask. “What if I show up and he humiliates me all over again?”
Jennifer shrugs. “Then you’ll look incredible while flipping him off on camera.”