Season 1, Episodes 11/12 LuMoJun vs. the World / Re
“LuMoJun vs. the World”/“Reunion”
Given Endeavor’s blockbuster ratings, the network scheduled a live Reunion to air immediately after the finale. With my mountain of NDAs, not even my family knew I’d won.
I remember lying on the beach in the Caymans that final summer night, when Arjun proposed a trip to Europe over the holidays to celebrate.
First London, then New Year’s in Paris, concluding in Rome.
As he rhapsodized about the Galleria Borghese, I couldn’t help but feel like the pieces of my puzzle were magically fitting together.
While packing that last morning, Arjun eyed my worn copy of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. “So why the cracked spine? What makes this the one you can’t shake?”
I began expounding on Chabon’s virtues when he grabbed the novel, like it was already his. “Easy with the spoilers, nerd,” he teased. “What’s your address?”
He scrawled it on the first page beneath where I’d neatly labeled my name, as I always did in books, perpetuating an old habit of my mom’s. “Don’t rip out the page,” I said quickly.
“I’m not an animal, just a thief. You’ll get it back, but I need to see what the fuss is about.” He kissed me discreetly on the lips, and off we went into the real world.
When the show started airing that fall, it became an instant hit.
Once I even had to hide behind a dumpster at the mall to avoid a mob of teenage girls, though who knows what they thought a gay guy could provide them.
Meanwhile, Hollywood agents inquired about my interest in acting, which felt equally absurd and overwhelming, but Mitch and Jenny were convinced that I was finally back on track.
Imogen and I spoke every couple of days, but Arjun proved impossible to pin down.
I knew the time difference would be challenging, yet I was unprepared for my relationship to live solely on my AIM account.
He blamed the Gone Bollywood filming schedule, but Imogen still heard from him plenty, an uncomfortable truth she acknowledged.
“Arjun’s family is different than yours,” she reminded me.
“The ‘traditional Indian firstborn’ thing? That’s not going away.
Be patient.” But hadn’t I already spent most of my life being patient?
When I arrived at the studio lot for December’s Reunion, a packed crowd filled the soundstage to see the winners revealed live.
Even though Mitch had a horrible bug right before, he refused to miss the taping.
He was chomping at the bit to meet Arjun and Imogen.
Except Arjun wasn’t there. “He’s bringing the whole family from Bel-Air,” Mary Peach explained in the green room.
“They’re filming simultaneously for Gone Bollywood. ”
Imogen squeezed my hand. I hadn’t imagined meeting Arjun’s parents that night, and nothing I’d heard made me excited.
We were guided to the set, a kitschy fake beach where we all sat on benches made from surfboards.
I barely registered Barnes was present; I had no reason to yet.
Drew Ecklund, sporting fresh frosted tips, held court while the episode—titled “LuMoJun vs. the World”—played on giant screens for the studio audience.
Fifteen minutes before the Reunion began, the audience erupted in cheers as the Bhaduris arrived in all their splendor, camera crew in tow.
His beard trimmed razor-sharp, Mr. Bhaduri sported a regal purple suit to match Mrs. Bhaduri’s lavish sari.
She was dripping in jewels, one hand firmly steering eleven-year-old Emaan, who looked visibly uncomfortable in his constricting red Nehru jacket.
They sat in the front row while Arjun bounded onstage.
I beamed as he hugged Imogen tight; then he slapped me on the shoulder with a casual “Hey, bud.” The footage of our victory soon blurred to the live feed as Drew Ecklund ululated, “The winners of Endeavor… Arjun Bhaduri, Imogen Cuthbert, and Luke Griffin!”
During the thunderous applause I reached for Arjun, but he was sprinting to the front row as if on fire, flinging himself into his parents’ embrace. Imogen seamlessly wrapped her arms around me, voice barely audible in my ear. “Fix your face.”
I practically blacked out the rest of the taping, clinging to the large foam check they gave us, the indentations of my fingernails bitterly engraved around the edges.
Afterward, Mary Peach guided us backstage to a hallway where the Bhaduris waited.
As the Endeavor cameras vanished, Gone Bollywood seized the baton, the best friends who’d captivated the country now merely minor guest players in the glamorous universe of the Family Bhaduri.
Amid the canned lines and frozen smiles, Emaan dropped a small orange stress ball he was subtly squeezing in his hand.
Arjun always described Emaan as anxious and shy, even though he’d been on camera for years by then.
His eyes grew massive as the ball bounced across the concrete, a miniature Arjun who appeared so relieved when I returned the ball.
Mrs. Bhaduri’s hand intruded, gold bracelets clinking as she gently intercepted it. “You’re rushing to aid both my children now,” she said, her voice inflected with British gentility, yet the message was clear. She knew who I was. What I was.
“Just happy to help, ma’am,” I replied uneasily.
She granted me a studied smile, aware of the cameras. “The Southern gentleman.”
Arjun at last drifted over. “What was that, Mum?”
“I was just complimenting Luke’s manners.”
“Right, we need to get you home before the Tokyo flight tomorrow. Luke, Imogen, so glad you could cameo,” their producer said, holding open a door. We were dismissed.
And then—briefly, painfully—Arjun dropped any affectation, touching his mother’s wrist. “I need to meet Luke’s dad…”
Arjun’s father sighed, affectionate yet absolute.
“You know we have to get your brother home. Another time.” He broke out five crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, handing them to me.
“Now, you and Imogen celebrate on me! Have fun! You’re young and beautiful in LA! ” he exclaimed. “And both so tall!”
As they departed, Imogen looped her arm through mine and guided me to the empty green room where my father waited.
I burst into tears, that moronic check still in one hand and Mr. Bhaduri’s cash in my other.
Imogen discreetly shut the door as I collapsed into my dad.
She even found a baseball cap to shield me from lingering press on the march back to our scratched rental car, any Hollywood magic officially evaporated.
Mitch and I cruised along Melrose in heavy silence until he abruptly pulled into a loading zone.
In the rearview mirror I watched him approach a frayed woman with a placard that read “Maps to the Stars.” He returned, cars whizzing by, to spread a brochure on the dashboard, a shaky route in ballpoint pen.
“This could be wrong, but did Arjun ever mention Bellagio Road?”
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at a Mediterranean McMansion in Bel-Air. I instantly recognized those gates. I’d watched every episode of Gone Bollywood by then.
Mitch eyed me, unlocking the car. “You’ve never lost anything by being honest, Luke. Tell that boy whatever you need to say. It’ll be what’s right.” I’m not sure either of us believed that, but he was trying. God, he always tried.
I hopped the fence, and before I could wonder if I’d triggered a silent alarm, I glimpsed a light in the mammoth kitchen: Arjun and Emaan laughing over glasses of milk.
I wandered to the window, waving to catch his eye.
Arjun paused for a fleeting second, then deftly moved the glasses to the sink.
He kissed Emaan good night and ushered the kid out before tightly signaling me toward the patio, where he stalked toward me, voice low. “My dad could have you arrested.”
Bravery crept in now. And anger. “That’s probably not a story they want in the press.”
He grimaced, and I realized I wasn’t the only angry one. “Luke, I’m sorry if I’ve been unclear, but you need to take the hint. This was a summer thing. We both knew that.”
My hands balled into fists. “Did we?”
“Yes, and the network just gave me a first-look deal, so no distractions anymore.”
“But… what about Europe?”
He shrugged with the exhaustion of a babysitter reprimanding an unruly child.
“So that was bullshit? This all meant nothing?”
“No, it was fun. We got the cash and some amazing exposure. You can get the life you said you wanted now. You didn’t even need football to do it.” He revealed a remote in his hand, a side gate opening down the lawn.
I could barely breathe, shaking my head. “Don’t do this.”
“Luke, if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but this wasn’t some great romance. We hooked up, that’s all. I wanted to stay friends, but you’re making that impossible, so please leave before this gets worse. Please.”
As I staggered out the Bhaduris’ gate, I thought I’d never recover, but pining over Arjun was the luxury of a na?ve boy.
A month later, Mitch came home from the doctor with a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, which explained his persistent nausea before the LA trip.
When he began chemo, I knew it was a blessing I hadn’t gone to Europe.
Spring blew in, bringing good news from Princeton, Middlebury, and Stanford about my grad school applications—and bad news from my father’s doctors.
But I never heard anything from Arjun. He knew about Mitch though; Imogen confirmed that.
Looking back, maybe I judged him too harshly.
I’ll never understand how impossible it was to be him—closeted, famous, Indian.
But at twenty-two, I only knew I’d been abandoned.
With Jenny in total denial about our father’s prognosis, I deferred grad school to care for Mitch in Charlotte.
I only left to shoot the second season of Endeavor.
Our medical bills were mounting, so when the show countered my initial rejection with an appearance fee of $50,000, I was swayed.
Somehow I forgot the lesson I learned then: they always get you to show up.
Emaan was here. Erika was here. All grown up. Down the hall in Cortona.
I hadn’t gone to bed after Vanessa’s departure. No matter the jet lag, I’d never sleep. I’d been an idiot to imagine I’d return to Endeavor and polish my history away. No, my original sins always found me, tracking my scent like furies.
I waited in the upstairs hallway. I knew she’d appear eventually, queen of early risers. Not long after dawn, a door indeed cracked, and Imogen appeared, toiletry bag clutched tight. We stared at each other, a strange relief in being frozen, even briefly.
“I didn’t know who she was,” I finally said. “Vanessa told me last night.”
Imogen inhaled sharply, knowing whom I meant. “I’m supposed to buy that?”
“It’s the truth. And I need you to tell her that.”
Despite her scowl, I knew she believed me. “Why?”
“I’m volunteering for the Trial. If she wants me to throw it and go home, I will,” I answered. “She just has to say the word.”
“Why am I the messenger?”
“You’ll tell her off camera. And you’re still the most honest person I know.”
“That’s a shame for you.”
I stood to go downstairs, avoiding her eyes.
“What about me?” she asked. “Do I get to say the word too?”
She’d already vanished into the bathroom when I turned around to answer her.