Chapter 39
MUFFINS, MOXLEYS, AND MURDEROUS INTENT
SEYOON
Garrett sighs and pockets the list of questions he was reading off to me. “You’re exceptionally bad at this.”
I cross my arms and glare. Somewhat because of the sun filtering into the confession booth around his silhouette, but mostly because I hate him. “Maybe you’re a bad interviewer.”
To be fair, my answers to questions like Why did you promise to team up with Vendredi and then change your mind? and What happens if you lose tomorrow? have been more strangled than spellbinding.
“We’re obviously not going to get any good footage out of you right now,” Garrett says, “so you might as well help me out with something else.”
Anything to get out of answering more questions about how I feel now that Dean’s mad at me. I follow Garrett away from the confession booth and to his cabin, which surprises me. He lets us in and then heads straight to the kitchen.
“What do you need my help with?” I ask.
Garrett rummages around his cupboards, pulls out a box of Moxley Muffins mix, and throws on an apron. This time, it’s a pale blue one that says in a fancy cursive font: I Cook as Good as I Look. Why did I come here?
“Baking!” Garrett chirps. “I’m hungry.”
I balk. “Your assistant couldn’t help you with this?”
“It’s Luke’s day off, and unfortunately, tasty little treats don’t qualify him for overtime. Plus, I don’t have to pay you. Go on, there are extra aprons in that drawer over there.”
On principle, I don’t want to do anything that would make Garrett’s life easier, and I don’t get why he can’t make these himself, but Moxley Muffins sound pretty good right now.
I pilfer through the options, picking a black apron with bold papyrus font that says This Shit Is Gonna Be Delicious!
I stand on the other side of the counter opposite Garrett, who hands me a few eggs to crack into a bowl.
“You know what I realized recently?” Garrett starts conversationally. “You’re more like your mom than I thought.”
“Is this small talk? We don’t have to do that. I crack eggs better in stony silence.”
“Really. What you did for Dean yesterday, sharing your points with him? It seemed like something Jungeun would do.” Hearing Umma’s first name said so familiarly makes my ears ring. “Despite what a pain in the ass you are sometimes, you really are a good kid.”
My thoughts stall like an old engine. I wait for a punch line to come to soften his words, reduce them to another joke or empty comment. But Garrett doesn’t follow up.
“You believe that?” I ask.
“I do.”
He means it. His words, with nowhere else to go, sink into me, pressing heavy fingertips into places I didn’t know were sore. It’s a weird feeling, for Garrett of all people to be telling me this. It’s not a bad feeling. Just new. It’s the kind of thing I’d always hoped Appa would say to me.
“Well,” I say, embarrassed, “Dean shared his points with me before. I was just being a good teammate.”
Garrett fetches a carton of blueberries and stirs them in. One rolls out of the bowl, and I play with it in silence.
“I have a question for you,” he eventually asks. There’s a layer of hesitation to his voice. “Let’s say, at the final challenge tomorrow, Dean ends up beating you. Would you regret sharing your points with him then? Would you regret being that kind of player?”
I pause and think about it. Tendrils of dread creep through my veins as I really picture it.
The view of being behind. Coming home to Umma empty-handed.
No longer having a home to share with her.
It’s the worst possible reality. But the heartbreak in Dean’s face last night was a visceral pain, too.
So was the look of hurt on Vendredi. The disdain on Amelia’s. I shut my eyes.
“No,” I eventually decide. “I wouldn’t regret it.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I’ve lost before. But…” My throat gets tight, and I swallow past it. “But what I regret more is being a bad teammate. That I can’t come back from. Not again.”
The scraping of the spatula against the sides of the bowl stops.
I look up. Garrett is wearing the same creased expression he had when he saw Umma.
He purses his lips, considering something.
Then he gestures at the collar of his shirt.
I get what he means and fumble at my own collar to turn off my mic.
“You remember the final race between your mom, Vince, and me, don’t you?
Of course you do. You must also remember how there was a fork in the road, and how I was the only one to go down the correct path.
” Garrett exhales through his nose and plants both his hands on the countertop.
“I knew which way to go because Blake told me.”
I blink. My neurons are slow to fire, slower to connect. “Blake… helped you cheat back then?”
He nods. “And she wants me to help Carter cheat now.”
For a long time, I don’t get it. No, I do, but it doesn’t sink in yet. The anger fills me slowly, like water dripping steadily into a pool.
Then I get it.
I can’t speak. My teeth rattle in my clenched jaw.
The blood coursing through my veins is molten.
I grip the edge of the counter, trying not to let the rage overtake me.
I knew it. I knew it should’ve been Umma.
If Blake and Garrett hadn’t cheated her over, Umma would’ve won.
Her life—no—our lives would have been completely different.
Oh God. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut just thinking about it. We were robbed. My mom, Umma—everybody in this life has stolen from her.
Garrett was always a no-good, backstabbing, son of a bitch, but Blake? I trusted Blake. I was wrong to think any of these slimy executives cared about anything other than the weight of their wallets.
“Why?” I choke out. It comes out strangled. I don’t really mean why. I mean how? How could you do that to her? How could you do this to me now? How do you live with yourself?
“Because how else are we going to secure a budget for a reality show featuring family winners if one of the titular Moxleys loses?” Garrett dips his finger in the batter and tastes it.
“That’s Blake’s reasoning, anyway. I’m of the opinion that we’ll get the funding as long as Forest Feud’s a success, but hey.
She’s my boss. She orders me to do something, and I do it.
That’s why, for tomorrow’s challenge—a race, just like last time—I told Carter to take the path on the right. ”
His nonchalance only fans my fury.
Garrett has the audacity to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, kid. You were never supposed to win.”
That’s it. The pure, unadulterated rage that blows through me is so violent that bile nearly shoots up my throat.
I’ve been angry before, but this is different, worse than any time I’ve been angry when Appa would raise his voice at Umma or when I caught the other volleyball team at districts cheating.
This is like hot oil spitting at my fingertips, so scalding it hurts to hold, tempting me to flick my hand out and burn someone in reach.
“I’m going to tell you something now, and I’m just going to say it once,” Garrett says carefully, wary of my trembling fists. “Repeating yourself is for people who get paid by the hour.”
“Fuck you,” I bite. I’d leave if my limbs would cooperate.
“Mean, but understandable.” Garrett pushes the mixing bowl out of the way and leans forward.
“I said tomorrow’s challenge is a race, yeah?
It’s not identical to the one from my season—we’ve changed it up—but there’s still a fork in the final road.
Like I said, I told Carter to go right. But you? You go left.”
“I’m sure you’d like that, asshole.”
“I would. Because left is the quickest way to the finish line.”
My next insult dies on my tongue. “Wait, what?”
“You weren’t supposed to win—but I want you to.” Garrett pushes himself away from the counter. “You’re a fair player. Your mom was, too. I admire that. Jungeun never got a fair chance, so… I’m making sure you do.”
He sighs and finally reaches underneath for a muffin pan to scoop the batter into.
“I know the kid’s my nephew, but Carter’s sportsmanship leaves something to be desired.
Besides, like I said, I think we’re going to get funding for Moxley to the Maximum even if Carter loses, so no sweat off my back.
If we don’t, whatever. I’ll milk the Moxley Merch cash cow a little longer. ”
I’m still stiff when Garrett loads the tray into the oven.
He comes around the island and takes the list of questions from his pocket.
“What you do with this information is up to you. Believe me or don’t, I get paid the same.
Muffins will be done in twenty-five. Do me a favor and go record your final interview question so Blake doesn’t realize you’ve been missing this whole time. ”
Numbly, I shuffle out of Garrett’s cabin and wait until he closes the door behind me before I unfold the list and carefully read the last question.
How do you want to be remembered?
CONFESSION TAPE, FINAL INTERVIEW—Seyoon Shin, Contestant
Talking to a camera is really awkward, you know that? They never mention that part on TV. But I really have to get this off my chest. It may be my only chance to.
[She sighs and rubs her hands over her face.]
Vendredi. I’m sorry. I made you a promise I knew I couldn’t keep because I was afraid of losing you. I should’ve been honest about how I felt, I know, but I’m always scared that if I let people see the weakest parts of me, they’ll leave.
[She fidgets, dropping her eyes to her hands now.]
I did the same thing with another friend, too. Amelia. If… if you see this, I’m sorry. I promise to call and finally explain everything. We both know there’s a lot to talk about.
I know I don’t deserve it, but if you guys let me, I want to make things right. I want to be a better friend. I promise I can be.
[Her eyes get watery. She inconspicuously wipes them by rubbing them. She clears her throat.]
… And to my dad, who may or may not be watching. Whether I win this whole thing or not, it’s not because of you or in spite of you. There’s only one person I’m doing this for, and she’s already proud of me.
[Seyoon pauses, then smiles at the camera.]
A smart woman once told me winning isn’t the most important thing. I was too stubborn to believe her then, but I get it now.
I don’t want to be remembered as a winner. I want to be remembered as a fair player, a good teammate, a better friend. I hope people see this and remember me for my efforts. I hope they see that I tried. I hope that counts.