Chapter Three
I hold the show like a dirty little secret for as long as I can, because talking about it out loud, speaking it into existence, feels like an irreversible step toward actually doing it. So, when Cori comes over four days later to help me get ready for my audition, he thinks I’m going on a date.
“Let’s get a before picture,” he says, as I shut the bathroom door behind him. He’s been trying to grow a following on TikTok which he hopes to parlay into actual living, breathing clients.
When I flick on the fluorescent lights above the mirror, he winces.
“Girl, you have to do something about those light bulbs.”
He’s right. Everyone looks haggard under the harsh glow of the LEDs. “Keeps me humble.” I shrug. And light bulbs are expensive. But I don’t say that part.
He turns my chin this way and that, trying to capture the best light, and then he snaps a pic.
He examines it. “We’ll have to take the after photo in natural light.
” He puts his phone in his back pocket and then comes very close to me, examining my face with a grimace.
“Your pores,” he says, shaking his head.
“That bad?”
He answers by slinging his oversized belt bag around and digging through, extracting a packet of cotton swabs and a bottle of clear liquid. He soaks a swab and starts aggressively pawing at my face.
“Who’s the poor sucker this time?” he asks, plucking an errant chin hair.
“Don’t be mad,” I say. He leans back and cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not going on a date. I’m going to an audition.”
“Why would I be mad? Get it, girl.”
“It’s for a reality dating show.”
At this, he leans back, his mouth slightly open, and then he starts to laugh. A low deep belly laugh that shakes his whole chest. And goes on really long. Too long, actually. Kind of rudely long, in fact.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m just trying to imagine you, little Miss Won’t-Go-On-A-Second-Date, falling in love on national TV.” He dissolves into laughter once again.
“Okay, enough,” I say, leaning around him to examine my face in the mirror. “Plus, I go on plenty of second dates.”
“No, you go on plenty of first dates.”
He’s not wrong. In the months since Dylan left, I’ve been on all the apps. Not looking for love, obviously, but it’s nice to be treated to a meal, or a movie, or even just a draft beer at a dive bar. I relish an excuse to put on a nice dress and be another person for a few hours. “So?”
“So, then you make up some excuse to never see the guy again.” Cori rolls his eyes at my incredulous expression. “Where’s the lie?” He waits for me to answer, but I can’t come up with a defence. He tilts his chin and raises his eyebrows. “What was wrong with the last guy you went out with?”
“He played pickleball,” I say, cringing as the word leaves my lips. “Ew.”
“Oh, wow, huge red flag,” he deadpans. He digs into his belt bag again, this time producing a concealer stick. “May I?” he asks, but he swipes it underneath my eyes before I have a chance to respond.
“And he was, like, too into his dog. It was all he talked about.”
“Not an animal lover. You really dodged a bullet, there.” He jabs at my face with a fluffy brush. “And the guy before that? The one who took you to Red Rock?”
I grimace. “The one who wore the sweat-wicking shirt?”
“Yes, the one who dressed appropriately for a hike in one-hundred-degree weather—what was his deal again?” He leans back to inspect his work.
“Well, aside from the horrible style choice—” I pause to give Cori a look, like who wears performance fabric on a first date? “—he was, like, so organized. Like, in a psychotic way. He had the whole hike planned out to the minute, just so we wouldn’t miss the sunset from the top.”
Cori bites his lip, as if to hold back a smile.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Look up,” he says, brandishing a mascara wand.
I look up, fighting to keep my eyes open as he brushes my lashes. “For real, what’s with the look?”
“There’s no look, I just—” He sighs, putting his hands on his hips. “Cleo, I love you, but do you even hear yourself ?” He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “This guy plays the wrong sport, that guy was too organized, and wasn’t there a guy whose sunglasses were too tight?”
“They were! So distracting.”
He shakes his head. “No, that’s not a thing. You just pick every guy apart to find something wrong with them—you don’t even give them a chance.”
“Yeah, but I—”
Cori waves a dismissive hand. “Look, honey, I know it’s been hard.” His tone softens. “Dylan was a real shit, and—”
I interrupt him with a bitter laugh. I think Dylan’s many wrongdoings qualify him for a category well beyond ‘real shit.’
“He ruined my life.”
Cori sighs. “But what? You’re just never going to trust a man ever again? You’re just going to find whatever excuse you can to rule out every guy you meet so there’s no chance of you developing feelings for them?”
I sniff. I’ve never put it into words like that, and admittedly, it doesn’t sound great, but yes, that is exactly what I plan to do. “What’s it to you?”
He spins me around so I’m facing the mirror. The way he works his magic on me—transforming my unremarkable green eyes into something wild and cat-like, and how he’s given my pale, dull skin a healthy, sun-kissed glow—it’s nothing short of a miracle.
He hooks an arm around my shoulders, pulling me back so I’m leaning against him. “You think you’re going to go on TV and magically fall in love?”
I scoff. “Obviously not! I’d fake it. Put my acting skills to the test.”
He shakes his head. His eyes meet mine in the mirror, and he holds my gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again, which is not a good sign, because for better or for worse, Cori has zero filter, and if he’s editing himself then it must be really bad.
“What’s the show called?” he says, releasing me from his grasp to pull out his phone. I tell him the web address I saw on TV, and he taps it into his phone. “The branding is cringe,” he says, dragging his finger down the screen, “but it seems legit. Look, they have a casting page.”
I twist around to look. Stock photos of racially diverse twenty-somethings in swimwear, an image of a sunset over a white sand beach, a couple in front of a campfire, wrapped in a plaid blanket, roasting marshmallows.
“Let’s see their socials,” he says, clicking through to Instagram.
He scrolls the posts, which are more of the same—hot people doing wholesome things.
“Fifteen hundred followers,” he says, tilting his head.
He clicks on a few of the posts, scanning the comments.
“I don’t know, babe,” he says into the blue glow of the screen.
“The prize money is $250,000.”
He gasps. “Okay, you’re doing it.”
“You think it’s legit?”
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. It just seems weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Just that they’d just pick me, out of everyone.”
“You, my darling, are a hottie with a body. And they’re not picking you, they’re picking whatever dream girl character you invent for yourself.”
“True. Do you think I could pull off Girl Next Door?”
“I think you’re more of a loveable Villain.”
I shake my head. “The Villain never wins. And if I’m doing this, I’m in it to win it.”
“Just whatever you do, don’t be the Whiny Bitch.” He brings up his phone once again. “Hold on,” he says, tapping something into the screen. “Here.” He passes me his phone, displaying a grid of photos of a blonde woman in various poses and places. “Do you recognize her?”
I click on one of her photos, a #nomakeup selfie where she’s clearly wearing blush, bronzer and mascara. I peer at her face. She’s familiar in that she looks like so many other influencers—the right lighting, makeup, clothes and pose—but there is nothing about her that is instantly recognizable.
“No, who is she?”
Cori shakes his head. “Doomed to live in obscurity, is who she is.”
“What?”
“I went to high school with her. She went on some reality show last year, but she got kicked off pretty early. According to her, they gave her a bad edit.”
“A bad edit?”
He scrolls through her feed, then clicks on a post. The photo shows the girl from behind, in a hoodie and shorts with her hair in a messy bun, sitting on a beach looking at the sun setting over the water. I take the phone and read the caption.
There are no facts, only interpretations. —Nietzsche.
I scrunch up my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Cori rolls his eyes. “She claims they made her look bad on screen because she questioned their tactics, and so they got rid of her.”
“Huh,” I say, scrolling through more photos of her looking introspective accompanied by cryptic quotes. “Was it true?”
He shrugs. “She was always annoying, so I don’t doubt it.”
“Wouldn’t you say the same about me?” I mean it as a joke, but Cori’s face softens. He’s looking at me like we’re in an after-school special, and he’s my concerned dad. “What?” I say, squirming in the heat of his gaze.
He sighs. “You’re my best friend. And I want you to be happy.”
“I’m happy,” I lie.
“Sweetie, no, you’re not. You’re cynical.”
So what if I’m cynical? It keeps my head clear. Maybe if I had been more cynical when I was with Dylan then I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I’m just a crusty bitch, you know that.” Cori smiles, not a happy kind of smile, but enough that I know that he’ll concede. “Now, my hair isn’t going to do itself.”
He shakes his head as he plugs in my curling tongs. A few flicks of the wrist later, I have a head full of beachy waves. He puts his hands on my shoulders, appraising me.
“Gorge,” he proclaims.
“Now, can I grab a ride to the audition?” I bat my heavily mascaraed lashes.
He sighs. “Fine. But when you make it to the Oscars, I’d better be your date.”
As we pass through the kitchen, I stop to grab the empty bottle of pinot grigio. “Hey, can we stop by the Liquor Mart on the way?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I need to return this,” I say, holding up the bottle. “It tasted weird. I think there was something wrong with it.”
“But you drank it all.”
“So? They have a ‘no questions asked’ return policy.”
He tuts. “You’re such a little scammer.”
I laugh, shoving the bottle into my tote bag. “I prefer the term ‘hustler.’”