Chapter 8
I’ve made a terrible mistake and will likely pass out at any moment. Bright overhead lights flood the stone patio of the lavish San Juan villa. A boom mic hovers overhead. Cameras surround me and the seven other reality show contestants.
Dios ayúdame. I resist making the sign of the cross to go with my plea for God’s help. An entire production crew buzzes about, making last minute preparations for our live show. My throat closes tight and dry. My heart races fast and hard.
Careful what you wish for. Or, in my case, careful what you strive and work tirelessly for. After applying for, getting a tryout for the show, making the show, and weeks of prep and interviews, you’d think I’d be excited not nauseous.
Co?o, I blame Haydée for all of this.
“One minute to live!” the show’s grip announces.
I squeak in alarm and my stomach does a NASCAR high-speed flip. The weeks of joy after making it as a contestant on the Fit for the World reality show have popped in a big, ugly way.
I take a deep breath and pull my sports bra, easing the chafing from the microphone packet strapped at my back.
“You look great.”
“What?” I blink at my fellow contestant. Around my age, a fitness instructor at an Ohio FTW, Colette Portman is striking. Tightly curled reddish-brown hair, light brown skin, dark brown freckles, and deep black eyes. Like me, she’s wearing the green-and-black FTW yoga pants and sports bra.
Unlike me, she’s calm and collected, but, as she explained to me earlier, she’s done live television before.
Her eyebrows rise and she nods expectantly toward me.
Oh, right. Insert human response here. “Gracias, thanks,” I mumble. “You look great, too.”
She pretends to poof up her curls. “I know.”
I laugh because, despite my anxiety, I like her.
Music plays through speakers, and someone starts the countdown. “Five, four, three, two…”
I’m going to die. Yep. That’s what this chest aching, sweaty palms, tight throat, and twisty stomach feeling is: impending death.
The grip points to Miguel, the show’s host, a perfectly suited, perfectly beautiful, brown-skinned man with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen.
“Hello. I’m your host Miguel Lopez. Welcome to Fit for the World. The first reality fitness show of its kind, where contestants play to win an FTW franchise and a million dollars to split with their chosen charity.”
He paces in front of us contestants. My heart plays bomba against my chest. Glare from the lights hurts my eyes. My face flushes hot, hotter, hottest.
“Each week, these fitness professionals will create new and exciting routines that includes a Fit for the World focus: strength, cardio, balance, grit, nutrition, and creativity.”
As he explains the show’s rules, a giant screen off to our right flips the green-and-black FTW logo over and over and over again. That’s exactly how my stomach feels.
“The contestant with the lowest votes every week, decided by our at-home audience, will have one chance to remain on the show by beating fitness guru Easton Blake in a challenge called The Last Stand.”
Ay, I’m not a fan of that aspect of the show and truly hope I’ll never have to use it. Though I do see the marketing savvy in it. Easton’s good looks, engaging personality, and philanthropic nature have made him a national heartthrob.
I’m hoping, at this point, that my heart is immune. Maybe not. He was the one bright spot that summer. Here’s hoping I’m the only one of us who remembers our night together.
“But contestants only get that lifeline once. The next loss takes them out for good. The final two contestants on the show will face off against each other.” With a gameshow host’s boisterous energy, Miguel strides over to the enormous screen. “Let’s take a look at the dynamic routines that won each contestant a spot on Fit for the World.”
The FTW logo fades and the big screen pops to life. The first of the winning contestants’ tryouts appears on the screen. His name is Alfonso Burton, but, before the show, he told me everyone calls him Fonzie. He’s super cute, dark-skinned with long dreads, and an engaging personality.
The big screen plays his amazing step-routine using multiple steps. He’s so fast, it’s almost blinding. A buzzer goes off, and he backflips off one of the steps. I start clapping, then freeze, because no one else is clapping. Cringing, I awkwardly lower my hands.
Kay Lee Chang is next with her dyed blonde hair, bubbly enthusiasm, pearl-pink Stetson, and country music flare. How does she keep that hat on while jumping around? After her, Elijah Cummings, former-gymnast-turned-fitness-coach kills his audition, as does Cameron Letterier ex-MMA fighter, demonstrating body weight moves and punches that showcase his endless muscles.
I watch each of my competition’s routines with an intense interest that sends me spiraling into self-doubt. I don’t glance at the screen when they play my tryout until I hear Mateo’s voice. Co?o. There were cameras everywhere in the waiting area, but I had no idea they’d filmed our exchange that day.
In the video, my hair is in a long ponytail and I’m warming up. I’m surrounded by ahundred super-toned hopefuls wearing the most colorful, tightest, crotch-hugging, decorated clothes and costumes known to man.
I sigh and look at my plain black yoga pants and top. “Maybe I should’ve worn a Wonder Woman costume.”
Mateo laughs. His black hair gleams under the lights. He has one muscular arm wrapped around his bomba drum. He looks like a Puerto Rican god. No one would ever guess that he’s a nerd with an advanced degree in mechanical engineering. Five years ago, unsatisfied with his high-paying, high-stress job in Georgia, he’d returned home. He plays a few beats on his drum. “Would’ve been great,” he says. “And me playing bomba as the Hulk.”
My face turns from worry to joy as I laugh. “I can imagine you bulked up with Styrofoam bulging muscles.”
He winks, flexes. “Who needs Styrofoam?”
A flurry of suggestive and approving comments come from the other contestants and the crew. Ay. Dios. I’m used to it. The way people go all gushy after one smile from my twin. I always tease him that I’m so short because he took up all the room in Mami’s womb.
The screen cuts to my winning performance on stage with Mateo playing drums.
My heart leaps to see it. My hips swing in graceful high-speed rhythms. My arms flow. My footwork is smooth and accomplished. I look… good. This is pleasantly encouraging, considering I’m short and strong, with thick thighs and a round ass—not the trim, fitness model type.
The screen fades to black. Miguel smiles and brings his microphone to his mouth. “Wow. What a great performance. You can see why each of these contestants deserves to be here. Now, I’d like to introduce a man who really needs no introduction.”
The gorgeous blond and tanned Easton Blake appears on the screen and my heart makes a soft jump.
I sure don’t need an introduction. Hard to forget the man who gave me the best sex of my life. And it’s not like I’ve been celibate for twelve years. Guess I peaked early. The question is, will he remember me?
My stomach drops at the thought. I hope he doesn’t. Technically, it shouldn’t matter to the show. The rules state ten years as the cutoff for any connection or business ties to anyone with the show, and we barely knew each other twelve years ago.
Still, it matters to me.
Easton remembering me would be humiliating, and not only because he fled the morning after we had sex without a word, but because we both shared our dreams for the future that night. He’s made his come true. Me, obviously not so much.
Don’t remember me. Don’t remember me. Please don’t remember me.