8. 6.
6.
Sebastian
The girls line-up behind me as we all smile at the cameras with annoying sweetness.
For the first time since I threw my hat into the hypothetical ring of The Final Rose, I wonder why the hell I even started this.
It might be my mother’s voice saying I shouldn’t, or my traitorous heart, who’s foolish enough to believe in happy endings, but the first elimination leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I know nothing about them.
Our interactions count for less than a drunken hello in a pub. I’ve had longer conversations through a bathroom stall than with these women behind me.
Now and again, I glance over at Callie, wanting to find her reassuring smile, but she’s chewing on her thumb like there’s no tomorrow.
The host says more nonsense to the camera and after a second, we are done. I’m rooted in the spot, not sure where we can go from here.
Fingers close around my arm, taking me out of my head. Vera stands there, looking up at me. We let the other girls talk as they shoot small waves and anxious smiles.
They all look stunning today, and Vera fits the part. Her soft caramel hair falls down her shoulder in perfect waves. Her brown eyes hold me captive from the second I face her. She’s dressed in a beautiful golden gown that shows exactly who she is. Though garments shouldn’t talk, Vera’s choices make her glow under the harsh lights.
“I know the normal way to go about this is to thank you for keeping me.” Her hand finds the back of her neck like she’s struggling to talk.
“You don’t need to thank me…”
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “The thing is… I don’t know why you did it. We barely talked. I was pretty sure you didn’t even know my name. Maybe you thought I was pretty and decided to keep me and that’s fine, but as your first choice?”
She takes a second, sucking in a breath before asking, “Is this fixed?”
My lips part with the voracity of her accusation. Her eyes shine and right there I know Vera is just like me, a romantic. She’s here to fall in love and being picked first feels wrong if it isn’t sincere.
“Sebastian, that blue looks great on you.”
The voice calls me to whip my eyes from Vera to a girl, and once she approaches, the rest of them circle us and the moment is broken. I throw them a media-trained smile and keep things light. Vera watches me in doubt and my stomach plummets.
In a way, her accusation is true. Callie whispered in my ear to pick Vera, and that’s why I did it.
Callie, a producer.
She has access to the backstage, to the showrunners. She understands what’s happening much more than I do.
As I numbly talk about my choice of suit and how the beverages are indeed heavenly, my mind doesn’t rest.
I should take the opportunity to get to meet the girls, but all I can think about is Callie.
Why do I trust her? Why did I let myself forget for a second that she’s a producer?
It wasn’t long ago when I called Maverick and told him I was going in with my eyes wide open. I would let nothing steer me. No one could put words in my mouth.
And here I am. Right in the first week, a marionette.
I remove Elliana’s bio from the pile and then spread all the pictures on my hotel bed. I take the armchair to the side, my elbows resting on my knees, and I breathe.
Maybe I’m blowing this out of proportion, but I can’t shake Vera’s insinuation. And what bugs me is that I don’t feel manipulated.
Callie told me something, and I followed. No questions asked, no moment where I reminded her this is my life. I should eliminate who I want.
I just blindly followed her, and I wonder if it’s possible to trust someone so quickly. Especially someone you shouldn’t. The phone rings, but my eyes never leave the pictures. I don't know why I’m playing the staring game, but I am.
It rings again, and this time I glance in the direction of the hotel phone. No one knows I’m here but the production, so obviously it’s one of them. I stand up and reach for the bedside table, my pajama bottoms hanging low, and my forehead scrunched in a frown.
“Yes?”
“Oh good, you’re there.”
Her voice fills my ear, and for just a second, I forget I was supposed to be angry. She has a raspy quality to her voice, a little out of breath at times, sassiness, and something else.
I close my eyes and breathe, “Something wrong?”
“What are you talking about? I promised to call so we can talk about the girls. You said you needed someone.”
I said all that, but now I’m struggling to remember why it was appropriate to confide in a producer. It’s the way Callie talks, the way she moves around the set that almost makes you think she’s a friend.
But she’s the one conducting the one-on-one interviews, isn’t she? It means she’s literally paid to make us feel at ease.
I can’t forget about that.
“You didn’t need to ring me. The elimination is over.”
She blows a raspberry. “Well, but you have a group date to go on and many more eliminations. So, let’s talk.”
My chest constricts. My eyes are glued to the pictures of the girls in front of me.
“Sebastian?” Her voice calls my name. “Why are you being so weird, dude? What the hell is going on?”
I don’t ask how she knows something is wrong with me. Instead, I let out a shuddering breath and give up on the charade.
“Why Vera?”
“Again with this?”
“Why are you pushing so hard for her?”
“I told you, Sebastian, I–”
“That’s the thing, Callie, you didn’t. You were so against eliminating Vera, but don’t you think I deserve to know why?”
“She’s lovely and deserves a chance.”
“So do any of the girls,” I’m quick to reply.
She groans like I’m being impossible. My fingers rake through my hair in my irritation.
“Did you ever think this was going to be easy?” she fires back.
“I didn’t think–”
“You can’t fucking crumble in the first elimination!” I’m taken aback by her ferocity.
“I’m not crumbling!”
I’m the definition of crumbling.
“Oh boy,” she scoffs. “You’re crumbling like… like…”
“Rhubarb crumble.” I’m nothing but helpful.
“Oh, my god no. Like an apple crumble! Like a cookie! Who the hell thinks about rhubarb first?”
I try to hide my reaction, but her exasperation over the rhubarb makes my lips twitch. Defeated, I sit down on the bed, trying to find a space away from the pictures.
“I didn’t think it was going to be this hard.” I confess. “I thought I was going to click with people straight away and just follow my instincts. But I was lost there. That elimination had no rhyme or reason. I just said names in no particular order.”
She grunts, the phone rustling as she moves around. “I’m going to need wine if I’m going to deal with your idealistic ass.”
I chuckle. “Are you home?”
“Yes, in the smallest apartment on the bad side of town.”
I remove the photos from my bed. “I thought you had a good job.”
“It’s an expensive city.”
Liquid sloshes as she pours herself a glass and I ask, “Red or white?”
“Cheap rosé .”
“Pink. What a classy lady.”
“You can’t knock boxed wine until–”
“Boxed wine?!”
“Don’t you even start. You’re a sommelier or something? Actually, you know what? Don’t answer that. I want to keep liking you.”
I want to dig deep into this whole liking me business, but she talks again. “Tell me what got your panties in a twist, Riggs.”
“Crumbles, panties in a twist. Is it in your job description to emasculate the contestants?”
“No, that’s just one of the perks. Out with it. Tell me or I’ll ignore you in favor of any sitcom rerun.”
I blow out a breath. Finally, my bed is free of pictures and I put my feet up, resting my back against the headboard. I know I unraveled because of what Vera said, but I don’t want to throw her under the bus.
“Today… it felt rigged.”
“Rigged?” She seems to pay attention.
I lift a shoulder she can’t see. “You are clearly pulling for Vera, and I don’t know your motives. I feel you’re steering me one way and I’m letting you do it because I don’t know any better.”
I finish talking, and she takes a moment to reply, and I know I just poked my finger in the right spot.
“Callie…” I start, but she finally talks again.
“No, no. It’s not rigged. But hey, you say you know nothing about them yet? We know plenty. Our casting had loads of interviews with all the girls and now that I know you, I can match you properly. It’s in the show’s best interest to see your happy ending.”
“So, you truly think Vera is for me?”
“I know she’s kind, smart, and adorable in a very real, dorky way.”
“And you think that’s my type?” I’m messing at this point because she just nailed it. That description is pretty much my type. The girl next door with wit and sarcasm. And maybe shapely legs and a nice bum…
And now I’m imagining Callie and the way her denim shorts fit her so perfectly. I’m thinking of her quick comebacks with that throaty voice of hers and the wicked grin she gets when she pulls my leg.
“Listen,” she starts, unaware of my unrequited lust. “I get to know a lot of guys, in and out of The Final Rose –”
“Let’s talk about the ones you met out…”
“Ha! Only your love life may be discussed in these phone calls.”
“Who made that rule?”
“Are you drunk? Me! Just now.”
“I didn’t know we could make rules willy-nilly like that.”
“Riggs, listen to me. I can see you’re for real and she’s for real, too. I think you both can get along. And I’m not saying she’s the one, ok? Things change, but I think you should give her a chance.”
Her words put me at ease, as much as I don’t want to admit.
It’s not Vera or the girl I let go that put me on edge, but how quickly I took Callie’s direction. I need to keep my eyes open during this damn show, but instead of protecting myself, I’m here chatting on the phone with the field producer.
It’s just bad all around and makes me feel dumb to take Callie’s word. I can’t stop myself from taking her friendship. It’s addictive. Every time we banter, I crave more. I can’t just keep her at arm’s length. I just can't.
“I’m going to give her a chance.” I finally agree, like I hadn’t promised that before. “We are going on a date, aren’t we?”
“With five more people.”
I groan, “Callie…”
“Hey, I did my best. It was supposed to be seven girls. You can’t have one-on-ones all the time. It’s just getting started, and it’s a mess at first. There are too many of you and–”
“And if you can’t have a camera on all of our faces, what’s the point?”
“It’s not as cynical as you believe.”
I chuckle and ask, “Do you believe in The Final Rose ?”
“Sure do. I get a deposit in my bank account every month, proving they are indeed real.”
“Cute.” And she laughs at her cleverness. “But if you could be one of the contestants? Or the main single? Would you?”
“I don’t think I could be on TV.”
“Besides the TV part. I mean, do you think the formula works?”
She sighs before answering, and I imagine her kicking her feet up and thinking about my question.
“It’s hard to take the cameras out of consideration because it’s a huge part of it. Not just because it’s a reality show, you know?” She considers it. “It’s because it is part of the formula. Being filmed changes people. Makes them consider what kind of person they want to show the world. It amplifies everything like a giant magnifying glass. People do things alone they wouldn’t do in front of a camera. I don’t mean just the nasty stuff.”
“So, it is worse, isn’t it? It means people pretend to be good because they are being watched. They aren’t real.”
“Not necessarily. Yes, we get a few weirdos who are one thing when the lights are on and another when they are off. But when you know you’re being watched, you think about your actions more. Even the nicest person would say something hurtful during a fight. But when your first fight as a couple is with cameras on your face? You think through it. And sometimes thinking better is all you need to step away and choose less hurtful words. Words you wouldn’t regret.”
I think of my posed family and see myself nodding. “But it can ricochet. Sometimes people are media trained and can’t ever let it go.”
“Well, that clearly isn’t you because I still insist you’re too sarcastic to be media trained.”
I scoff. “Oh, you stop, I’m English. But yes, I was talking about my family.”
She hums on the other side. “Must be nice when your family doesn’t say all they think of you in one blow.”
“Oh, they say it, it is just in the worst way possible, full of riddles that leave your head hurting trying to figure it out.”
“Well, my family is Colombian. Whatever needs to be said, they will say it to your face using small words because they truly believe you’re dumb.”
I laugh at the way she says it matter-of-factly. She talks again after a chuckle. “I love those dumb-dumbs but I was just saying, you know, families are weird.”
I don’t want to go into detail about how my family differs from her lovable dumb-dumbs , but I also don’t want to finish this phone call. Now it would be the best time to thank her for calming me down and letting her go.
But I can’t.
I want to talk more; I want to hear more things about her, and I want her to sass me just a little more.
“So, it’s a no to The Final Rose ?”
She laughs. “If I tell you no, would it be me admitting I don’t believe in the formula?”
“You can press the number two twice if, by contract, you aren’t allowed to say that.”
“Dork,” she grumbles, and I can almost see her rolling her eyes. “What I’m saying is that reality TV isn't for everyone. I think love can be found anywhere, Riggs. There isn’t a map or a foolproof way. Probably being a fool helps a little. It can happen to anyone at any time. You’re going down the street one day and BAM.”
“Love hits?”
“Like lightning.”