15. Spanish Authenticity
Spanish Authenticity
brIELLE
I ’ve never seen anything quite like a Spanish restaurant at ten p.m.—the hour when locals are just beginning their dinner while tourists are three sangrias deep.
While Annabelle, Kavita, and Chloe are currently getting their group date with Hayes after a crash course in Spanish-style cooking, the other remaining contestants—me, Serena, Gabby, and Luna—have been granted a “night off” with Skye that feels a little like being benched. But I’m going to enjoy it.
Visiting Spain is a dream come true, and I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve taken a trip abroad. I need to enjoy the experience, regardless of what happens.
Once we’re seated outside, a server approaches our table, looking every bit of the caricature in paintings of European cafes, minus the handlebar mustache. When I order our wine in Spanish, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he says in accented English.
When our prized bottle of Rioja is poured, Skye whips a Splenda packet out of her purse, rips it open and dumps it into her glass.
The server audibly gasps before covering his mouth. Clearly, it takes every ounce of his self-control not to jerk Skye’s wineglass away.
She scowls. “What’s his problem? He doesn’t have to drink it. And this dark red concoction’s gonna taste like charcoal.” She takes a tiny sip.
“It’s smoky,” I say, glancing up to see him stomp away.
Her face puckers. “Woah! This one’s a two-packeter,” she announces, slamming her glass down. Staring at me, Skye rips open the next Splenda and pours, lifting her hand to add artistic flare.
Serena chuckles. “Okay, Skye, tell us what we should order.”
“We’re in Spain. Tapas and paella.”
When the server delivers a paella the size of a wagon wheel to our table, the scent of saffron and seafood momentarily distracts us from our primary occupation: dissecting every millisecond of our collective experience competing for Hayes’s heart.
As we eat, we switch from wine to sangria, Luna filling her second glass when she says, “Ladies’ night is the best ever. No cameras, no competition, just carbs and alcohol.”
Gabby plucks a shrimp from her plate and pops it into her mouth. “I miss normal life.”
“Normal? What’s that again?” Serena’s laugh has more snark than sparkle.
“Right?” I lean forward. “I forgot how to use a bathroom without wondering if America is judging my technique.”
After we all laugh, Luna says, “Or sleep. You know, without dreaming of camera lenses for eyeballs.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Serena shudders. “It’s like we’re on display at a zoo.” Serena raises her glass. “To a night without someone asking us to emote on command.”
“Or perform onstage to prove our readiness for marriage,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.
Gabby tosses her hair over one shoulder, managing to look camera-ready even in this dimly lit corner of Pamplona. “Speak for yourselves. I’m having the time of my life. The cooking challenge today would’ve been amazing.”
“Ah, but you’re here with us instead of there with Hayes,” Serena points out, immediately softening it with a smile. “Cheers.”
We all laugh, acknowledging the truth of our situation.
“The producers probably thought the scientist, the screenwriter, the former pageant queen, and the dance instructor had enough basic rhythm not to require extra lessons,” Luna says, scooping a heaping portion of paella onto her plate.
“Or they’re saving us for something worse.” I sigh.
“Oh, they are.” Skye winks.
This earns another round of laughter, louder than the joke deserves, surely from our collective sangria intake.
I find myself relaxing into the moment. After weeks of constant competition and careful self-editing, there’s something liberating about sitting in a real restaurant, eating real food, having a conversation that isn’t explicitly designed to generate drama.
Well, not producer-designed drama, anyway. The organic variety is always a possibility when you put four women competing for the same man at a table with unlimited alcohol.
But also, I want to celebrate. On Sunday, early morning, I met with Seth in the garden, and his screenplay was amazing. We talked through my edits, and he was so happy, he gave him a big hug. I’m thrilled for him. I think his work has big potential to make it on TV, and I’m pulling for him.
“This paella is incredible.” Serena dissects a prawn with scientific precision. “The mixture of the saffron and the Bomba rice creates a uniquely aromatic compound that—” She stops herself, looking embarrassed. “And I’m being a nerd again. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, meaning it. “It’s refreshing to hear someone talk about something real instead of pretending to be fascinated by whatever the producers decided is today’s conversation topic.”
Luna nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! Like, if I have to have one more serious conversation about my ‘journey’ or my ‘walls’ or my ‘readiness for love,’ I might actually scream directly into the camera.”
“You’d probably still look gorgeous doing it,” Serena says dryly. “Meanwhile, I’d resemble a constipated owl.”
The unexpected image makes me snort sangria dangerously close to my nasal passages. Gabby looks momentarily startled by Serena’s self-deprecating humor, as if she’s just discovered our resident scientist possesses comedy.
“A constipated owl,” Luna echoes, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “That’s exactly how I looked during a one-on-one conversation when Hayes asked about my five-year plan.”
“At least you weren’t dressed as a penguin.” I earn a round of laughter.
This is the strange alchemy of reality TV—forming bonds with women you’re technically competing against, finding moments of genuine connection amid the construct of romance.
In this moment, with Spanish guitar music playing softly in the background and the warm glow of too much sangria coursing through my veins, I can almost forget that tomorrow we’ll be back to angling for time with Hayes, analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning, and trying to determine if his smile means something real or is just part of his contractual obligations.
Almost.
“You know what I still can’t believe?” Gabby leans forward as she reaches for the sangria pitcher. “That Hayes actually likes all that Star-whatever stuff. Like, isn’t he a little old to be obsessed with space people with pointy ears?”
And just like that, the spell breaks.
“ Star Trek ,” Serena and I correct simultaneously, then exchange a look of mutual understanding.
She and I have become very close. On top of all we have in common, she’s earned my utmost respect.
Her parents couldn’t handle raising her between financial difficulties and mental illness, so she was raised by her grandmother.
She worked hard in school, got a scholarship for college, and pulled herself up by her own bootstraps. She’s inspiring.
“Whatever,” Gabby waves her hand dismissively. “It just seems so... I don’t know, juvenile? For a grown man with a kid to be quoting made-up alien philosophies.”
Luna laughs. “Remember when he tried to explain the difference between Klingons and Romulans during the cocktail party? I nodded like I cared, but inside I was thinking, ‘Please stop talking about fictional aliens when I’m wearing this dress.’”
I feel something protective rise in my chest—a surge of indignation that catches me off guard with its intensity.
I take a careful sip of sangria, trying to maintain my composure as Gabby continues, “Exactly! And all those weird hand signals.” She demonstrates what I assume is her interpretation of the Vulcan salute, though it looks more like an arthritic peace sign.
“Like, does he do that in bed, too? ‘Live long and...’” She makes an exaggerated sexual gesture that has Luna covering her mouth in scandalized delight.
Oh, he doesn’t. Trust me. From what I’ve experienced in the intimacy department, he handles himself just fine . Of course, I have to keep that to myself, although I really don’t want to, and Luna knows the truth, too.
“It’s not that I mind him being into nerdy stuff,” Luna says, attempting to soften her criticism. “It’s cute in small doses. I just hope he doesn’t expect me to watch all those movies.”
“They’re shows and films spanning multiple series and timelines,” I blurt before I can stop myself, my voice coming out tighter than intended.
“And they’re not just about aliens with pointy ears.
They’re about human potential, ethical philosophy, and optimistic visions of cooperation across differences. ”
The table falls momentarily silent, four pairs of eyes turning to me. I feel heat creeping up my neck, cursing my inability to let the comments slide.
Gabby recovers first. “Well, someone’s been paying attention during Hayes’s little lectures.”
“I knew all that before Hayes. I’m a nerdy fan too.” The sangria’s loosening my verbal filters. “ Star Trek has been culturally relevant for over fifty years. It’s inspired generations of scientists, engineers, and writers—not exactly a childish phase he should have outgrown.”
Luna raises her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, we get it. You’re Team Spock too. We know. You made it clear night one.”
I ignore her jab, saying, “It’s not about being ‘Team Spock.” I’m feeling that protective surge again. “It’s about respecting Hayes. If you can’t appreciate what makes him unique, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
The words hang in the air, sharper than I intended. Gabby’s eyes narrow dangerously while Luna looks genuinely taken aback. The comfortable camaraderie of minutes ago has evaporated like morning dew in the Spanish sun.
“I think what Brielle means,” Serena interjects smoothly, “is that Hayes’s intellectual curiosity is actually one of his most attractive qualities. His interest in science fiction demonstrates imagination and depth—the same qualities that make him such a thoughtful photographer.”