Chapter 9
SLOW IT DOWN
BENSON BOONE
OWEN
“It’s… something…” Brooke and I stand with the other contestants, gaping at our new home, and if she’s feeling anything like me right now, she’s very aware of the collection of cameras pointed in our direction as we take in all of the glory of our new place.
And there’s very little.
“It’s a camper for fairies,” Brooke whispers through giggles, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth.
Though the idea of stepping into this miniscule camper—if you can even call it that—makes me prematurely claustrophobic, the sound of Brooke laughing after so much tension back at the house during counseling has me finally relaxing at her side.
Things have moved quickly, obviously, but I thought over the last week we’d settled into a rhythm that wouldn’t spook her.
For all intents and purposes, little has changed between us.
I’ve taken things slow, nudging her into marriage a bit like I’d gentle a wild cat who thinks it’s been taking care of itself, never realizing you’ve been leaving food out for her all along.
Only, I don’t want to tame Brooke. I just want to take care of her.
And, as a part of that gentle conditioning, do I take the opportunity to touch her as much as possible now? Um, yeah. Unapologetically so.
She’s wearing my ring, and she’s got my last name—or will soon, if I have anything to say about it—and now that the dam is broken and she’s allowed a bit more between us, I can’t seem to help myself.
But I’m a man, not an animal. So I’ve been careful not to overstep the boundaries Brooke evidently wants to maintain between us.
I’m also not crazy.
Which is why I’m positive that if we hadn’t been interrupted back in the kitchen this morning, we would have kissed.
Again. And it wouldn’t have been a chaste church-kiss, I can tell you that much.
It wasn’t just me, which is why I couldn’t resist kissing her during marriage counseling, using the presence of the Lovetts as a safety net.
Oh, the pastor and his wife are our pseudo chaperones? Don’t mind if I do.
It’s a little convoluted, but it’s working. I just think of it like me leaving out a nice, warm bowl of milk for my feral cat—aka: treasured wife—to… lap up. I’ll keep slowly offering her more and more until she finally chooses to come inside and let me really take care of her. Forever.
If I’m to encourage Brooke to have confidence in the longevity of our relationship after a lifetime of doubts, I’ve got to use every chance—every tool in my loving-Brooke arsenal—at my disposal.
But somewhere between our almost-kiss in the kitchen and the real one I placed on her unsuspecting, perfectly tantalizing lips mid-marriage counseling, something jarred her. I’m holding steady, though.
We’re only in the second inning, and there’s plenty of game left to play.
I’ve studied Brooke for every year I’ve loved her, and I’m fluent in her love languages.
So I’m gonna write that woman a love letter in all the ways I know she’ll understand—and won’t be able to deny.
Starting with wrapping my hand around her curvy waist and pulling her into my side so there’s no doubt about who she’s married to in this bunch and who she’ll be spending all of her time with in that tiny excuse for a camper.
“Think we can make it, Mrs. Jones?” I whisper conspiratorially, running my thumb where it meets a bare patch of skin on her back. “It’ll be tight quarters.”
She stares ahead, murmuring out the side of her mouth, “If we can even manage to get you through the door. You’re like a giant next to that thing.”
“Just imagine it’s one of your little collectibles.” And it could be. I’m not sure my body will actually fold into the RV we’re staring at.
“They’re so cute,” she says wistfully. “But they aren’t fit for full-sized humans.”
“What is this?” I ask in my best Zoolander voice.
She answers in kind, “A center for ants?”
“These are the Airstream Tinkerbells.” Sumer Morison pulls our attention back to the matter at hand.
Wearing some sort of oversized, bohemian dress for our first day of shooting, she raises her arms in the center of the camper circle and rotates, really selling our new digs as a camera on a giant arm pans around her overhead.
Brooke can barely contain her giggles. I elbow her, but that only makes it worse.
“The Tinkerbell is a state-of-the-art, single-axle travel trailer equipped for your every need.”
“Unless you need to stand up straight,” one of the guys beside us quips.
His wife hip checks him but says under her breath, loud enough for me and Brooke to hear, “Who cares about standing. Where will we sleep?”
“At only sixteen feet long”—Sumer continues with cameras following her into one of the teensy trailers for an inside peek, only confirming the tight quarters, as we all watch via livestream on a massive screen just beyond the circle—“the Tinkerbell will house our twenty contestants for the next eight weeks as they battle for their very own mini-Airstream, the new, fully-loaded RAM 3000 that’s pulling the trailer, and their chance at the million-dollar, tax-free grand prize. ”
Though they nervously watch the screen, the rest of the couples seem excited by the prospect.
We met them all when we arrived and even recognized one couple: Gloria, the woman who stopped Brooke in the street on our wedding day, and her husband, Clyde Woodhouse.
Respectfully speaking, they’ve got to be pushing eighty years old, yet they’d managed to compile backstories on nearly every couple here, wasting no time in giving us a quick rundown on each team—calling their insider information the tea—then ranking each of us based on their expectations for our success.
Apparently, a young Air Force couple they know from Sugartree are shoo-ins for the whole thing, though Mr. and Mrs. Woodhouse expect to give us all a run for our money.
Sumer Morrison doesn’t appear at all disturbed by Brooke’s and my mutterings, or those of the other contestants, as we all talk quietly amongst ourselves.
She’s the consummate professional, running through her scripted lines, pausing when the director requests, and rerunning the shots from different angles.
“The couples will participate in daily challenges, personally filming their experiences while vying for a place in the finale and a shot at the grand prize without ever leaving the confines of their Tinkerbell,” she tells the cameras before they turn towards us.
“Alliances will be formed. Bonds tested. And only time will tell if they’ll remain sweethearts in the end. ”
Brooke shifts closer to me as Sumer moves down the line of contestants, introducing each couple one by one. When she reaches us, Sumer’s smile brightens, an excited glimmer shifting her countenance. “And here we have our newlyweds, Owen and Brooke Jones.”
We smile and give the small waves we were instructed to, waiting on Sumer’s expected line of questioning.
“Tell our viewers how recently you were married.”
“Last week,” Brooke answers shyly, curling in even closer when I tighten my arm around her.
“Congratulations, y’all. You’re officially the newest married pair to join our show. And I must say, it’s awfully convenient timing for a marriage game show. Why now? Owen?”
“You’re right.” I glance down at my wife and kiss her forehead, silently vowing again that I’ll be honest for as long as I have her.
The more I tell her the truth, the more it hopefully sticks in her stubborn but stunning brain.
“It may have been convenient, but the timing was perfect. I’ve always known she was the one for me.
It was just a matter of when we’d get there. ”
“At your wedding, which we had the honor to attend,” Sumer tells the audience, really playing to the romance, “your dear friends mentioned you had a wedding planned for later in the year, but it sounds like you couldn’t wait another moment.”
She’s not wrong.
I answer Sumer, but I hope Brooke hears my words for what they are. “It shouldn’t have taken the show or anything else. I should have asked you a long time ago, Brooke.”
There’s quiet on set, aside from the light round of awws from Sumer and the women down the line, but the only response I care about is the woman in my arms whose lower lip is trembling as she refuses to meet my eyes.
“Well, we wish you the best, Mr. and Mrs. Jones.” She turns to the rest of the group. “And in honor of our very first newlyweds, we’re starting the competition off with a friendly round of the Newlywed Game…”
All the couples cheer.
“... right after we settle you into your new homes.”
Suite Hearts, Day 1
There’s little pomp and circumstance as they lead us to our new homes. Our trailers were chosen at random prior to filming via an official number draw.
Brooke and I are in Tink number four. It’s split length wise in a vintage-style, mint green and cream palette.
If it were a VW van, it really would be the replica of Brooke’s favorite miniature.
It’s picture perfect, too, with window flower boxes and what looks to be a cozy sitting area on top, offering us a bit more space.
It’s also parked smack dab between the couple who were beside us earlier and another who look like they’re more prepared to live off grid—barefoot and in the woods—than to participate in a reality TV show.
But I just used that same TV show as a happy excuse to marry my best friend, so who am I to judge?
A crew member shows us to Tink Four and reiterates the rules: No member of the team can step out of the camper at any point in the duration of the game, unless the competition deems it acceptable, or they’ll be disqualified.
I think wistfully of stepping out of the camper in eight weeks with my bride on my arm and the grand prize in our pockets but am brought to reality when a giant timer begins counting down on the large screen.