Chapter 35 Season 20, Episode 8 “… To Keep Me from You! （Part Two）”
“… To Keep Me from You! (Part Two)”
Barnes wanted to call the kids together the next morning, but I insisted on speaking to them first. Privately. No producers. I suspected my worst nightmare and got it, stamped across their eager faces: they thought we were getting back together. “Where’s Baba?” Wallace asked.
I couldn’t admit I refused to sit in the same room with him. I wouldn’t be the bad guy. “He’s got a lot of confessional interviews to do since he arrived late,” I lied.
God, what did that mean? Before I could scour my memory, Troy cracked the door, tapping his watch. “I need five minutes!” I snarled, then revolved to Andie. “Young lady, you know you can’t watch television without your aunt’s supervision.”
“I didn’t! It wasn’t on the TV, it was on the iPad—”
“Then congratulations, you just lost all screen privileges until I get home.”
Andie naturally threw a tantrum and stormed out, a bewildered Wallace tottering after.
“Sorry, she must have snuck down after bedtime,” Jenny sighed, clearly exhausted.
“It’s not your fault, Jen.” I refused to direct my frustrations at her, not after she’d paused her entire life to rescue mine. I tried not to dwell on how surreal and challenging this extended residency had to be, a daily simulation of the motherhood she’d long chosen to forgo.
She bit her lip. “I was wondering… is it time to cut bait and come home? You’ve made it how many episodes? That’s a sizable chunk of change.”
I paused, unsure how much money I’d racked up by this point.
I’d lost track somewhere between Cortona and Shanghai.
“Honestly, my first thought when Barnes showed up was to quit. But… there’s more money than ever at stake now that it’s an individual game.
Jen, I think I could actually win,” I said slowly, as if it were sacrilege to even imagine that far.
“Besides, I can’t leave Imogen and Erika alone here.
God only knows what Barnes would inflict on them with me gone.
If I’m going down, I have to take him with me. ”
After our goodbye, a PA brought me to the production office, where Shawn sat before Troy and Zara. This couldn’t be good.
“Guys, we’re mortified about the footage leaking,” Troy began. “The camera department in China told us all mounted units in the penthouse were removed, but clearly a few remained. Someone from the hotel likely stole them and sold the footage.”
I resisted the urge to snap. “Can the network do anything to make this up to us?”
Zara sighed. “As you know, your contracts permit us to record you everywhere except a bathroom, so while the network could never air the footage in question, they do own it.”
“Can’t they stop it circulating? Or get Marco Polo to pony up a settlement?”
“Luke, it’s the internet. Genie’s out of the bottle,” Troy replied with a wince. “And as much as we suspect the hotel staff, the network—”
“Isn’t going to piss off a major sponsor,” I concluded. “So it’s done.”
Zara nodded grimly. “It could be a bargaining chip in negotiations for future seasons?”
“That’s useless to me. I’m never doing this show again.”
“Bud, you don’t know that,” Troy said in his maddening simper.
“Don’t tell me what I know. Not after what you pulled.”
“I knew this conversation was coming.” He exhaled heavily. “Luke, Barnes called us.”
“I can’t imagine you put up a protest. It was immaculately orchestrated, by the way, guaranteeing Shawn and I saw him together,” I replied, Shawn gulping beside me.
“The biggest scandal of the year came knocking at our door. Every news outlet would kill for this footage, but it’s happening here on our show,” Troy said evenly. “Do you really think the network gave us a choice?”
“Well, I hope the folks at headquarters are comfortable with the check they wrote because it’s buying him one episode. He’s getting his ass handed to him today.”
Troy clapped, his smarmy marquee grin revived. “That’s the spirit, big guy! Settle it on the field! And remember that line for interviews later.”
“Whatever.” I stood to go, reminding myself I still couldn’t hit a producer, and signaled a catatonic Shawn to follow. “And, Troy? Call me ‘big guy’ again, and I’ll show you what it looks like to settle something on the field.”
“Here we are at the mouth of Te Awa Wakatipu—”
“Call it the Dart River,” Zara implored.
“But the Maori—”
“Have endured enough.”
An affronted Ecklund proceeded to outline the “Halo Top” Tribulation, petulantly kicking the weathered smoke-gray pebbles of the riverbank as we stood in our wet suits and life jackets.
With the Southern Alps looming above us, we’d travel the Dart in jet boats, shooting like bullets over the turquoise water of the wide glacial tributary.
In this spruced-up ring toss, we’d each have five minutes in a “captain’s chair” to aim twenty biodegradable golden “halos” at the dozen foot-long poles mounted in a triangle on the boat’s prow, all the while praying the rings didn’t ricochet into the water or get blown off course as we sped along.
“Three rings overboard means disqualification,” Ecklund concluded. “Remember you’re competing as individuals, and no vote can save you. If you aren’t in the top half of scores today, you’ll automatically face the Trial.”
We’d go in two heats, and Barnes (naturally) ended up with me, Shawn, Imogen, Erika, and Melange. “Well, it’s like John Waters remade Gilligan’s Island,” he said dryly, buckling into the captain’s chair before anyone could protest. “I’ll play guinea pig.”
The trick to success became obvious as the boat navigated the same five-minute stretch of curves, alternating between easy cruising and rapid careening based off the river’s irregular depth.
It wasn’t about how to throw the rings but when, so I memorized landmarks to identify each time the boat accelerated: a capsized tree to my left, a collection of boulders on my right.
It was odd watching Barnes compete after so long.
His feline agility remained precise, forearms taut even though he only sank two rings.
We hadn’t worked out together in ages. He always hit the gym during lunch, or so he claimed.
I found myself wondering anew how often he must have trawled for men at the DC Equinox, recklessly soliciting musclehead policy wonks in the steam room.
Erika capably sank three rings, but Melange landed eleven, her injured ankle not a factor.
“Do you know how many rodeos I’ve done? I’ve worn more rhinestone Stetsons than a Dolly Parton drag queen,” she chuckled.
Barnes observed her with a curiosity I recognized, clearly debating if she was to be employed or eliminated—and I felt a renewed desire to fling him overboard.
Shawn buckled in, nimbly scoring five before the boat’s first acceleration.
I was impressed until he looked over his shoulder—and not at me.
Barnes stared back blankly as Shawn defiantly launched two rings, both missing.
Refusing to let Shawn DQ over a dick-measuring contest, I shouted for him to stop, but he just doggedly grabbed another ring as the boat swerved.
All of us were now imploring caution, but only one voice pierced the veil.
“Kid, you already beat me,” Barnes called, his neutral tone somehow more disconcerting than outright sabotage.
Shawn thus sat fuming for the rest of his turn, hands clutching the ring so tightly it cracked in half, gold dye trickling down his wet suit.
Troy signaled me along, and I preemptively requested silence to avoid Barnes and Shawn jockeying to advise me.
The triangle of poles conjured memories of enforced “team bonding nights” at Dartmouth, the football bros and sorority girls melding into basement corners while I got ample practice launching Ping-Pong balls at plastic pyramids of stale beer.
My score was soon tied with Shawn, but I paused on my next ring.
Did I need to secure my place, or did I need to reassure Shawn he wasn’t getting left in the dust?
I sent the ring sailing, knowing I’d overshot. “Shit,” I cursed (maybe too dramatically). “Shouldn’t risk another one.” It was maybe the first decision I’d made in the game that had no benefit for me or my kids whatsoever. This decision was only for Shawn.
We returned to the start, Imogen pursing her lips in disapproval as she took the chair. She knew I’d thrown away that shot. She wasn’t alone, based on Barnes’ disgruntled face. Shawn, however, remained oblivious, pointedly kissing my cheek. “Nice, we both got five.”
The wind was kicking up when Imogen’s initial two rings sailed overboard.
“It might be safer to score zero than DQ!” I cautioned, but her hand silenced me.
I winced as she procured more rings, but she scored one after another with terrifying accuracy, perfectly timed with the boat’s rhythms and the increasing winds. I shouldn’t have doubted her.
Near the route’s end, she sank her eleventh to match Melange, but as she aimed for her twelfth, a new voice joined the cheers.
Three positive words from Barnes—“She’s got it,” incidentally—were enough to send a tremor through her arm, the ring flying erratically and my heart sinking with it, as Troy’s horn sounded her disqualification.