Chapter Sixteen
Always be prepared to take your clothes off.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
I do not die on reality TV.
Instead, the crash mat balloons around me, absorbing the impact of my fall. Norbert charges in, arms flailing as the mat puffs and billows beneath his stomping feet.
He lunges toward me and heaves me over his shoulder as easily as if I were a sack of potatoes. I shriek and try to wiggle free as he starts running off the mat.
“Norbert! Put me down!”
“I’m taking you to the hospital!” he bellows. We’re almost at the edge when he trips and we fall spectacularly, tumbling onto the concrete.
Honestly, I might’ve preferred dying to this catastrophe.
I’d thought my most traumatic Ferris wheel experience had happened already, my dad’s knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel on the way home.
I was scared of what my mom would say, but I think he was more scared that she was right: Since he’d moved out, he didn’t know me at all.
At least this time there was a crash mat to protect me from the fallout.
“Norbert!” Lainey screams. “Unhand her!”
Norbert grunts and sets me on my feet, then looks me up and down. “Are ye hurt?”
Roland rushes forward, takes me by the shoulders, and looks me up and down. “What happened?”
My eyes go straight to Addison, who’s staring at me, her eyebrows knitted together. Nice of her to be concerned. But when she catches me looking, she turns away.
I fix my eyes back on Roland, my hands still shaking from the fall, my teeth chattering violently. He pulls me into his chest. I wish I could stay cocooned in his arms until the entire season is over, but after a few minutes, I step back and try to calm my racing heart.
Glancing at the cameras, I weigh my options. I know what Lainey wants me to say. But I don’t want to play into Addison’s villain angle and cause more drama, so I decide on a middle ground.
“I—I think I slipped,” I say. “I’m not really sure. It felt like maybe Addison pushed me a little, but I might be wrong.”
Roland frowns as Addison takes my place in front of the cameras. In the huddle of producers, Lainey is smirking. Behind her, the sky is quickly turning black with rain.
“To the vans!” Norbert bellows when Addison is done with her interview. Rain starts to splatter the pavement. We head toward the waiting SUVs and Addison bumps my shoulder as she passes. I think I hear her mutter, “Sorry,” before she climbs into one of the black vans with Roland.
Norbert shuffles me toward a different SUV—right, because now that we’re back on the ground, Addison refuses to be in a moving vehicle with me. Classy. As I duck into the back seat, a loud creak comes from across the parking lot, and I look around for the source of the noise.
Just past the fire truck, the Ferris wheel has started to spin again.
The rain comes down in torrents outside the SUV’s tinted windows. When we pull into the mansion’s driveway, I’m drenched as I sprint to the front door and let myself inside.
“Georgia!”
I jump, expecting to see Addison, but their car doesn’t seem to be back yet. Instead, I see Nina, who’s leading Monica down the hall, an arm around her shoulders.
Monica sniffles and wipes her eyes. “Thanks,” she whispers. Offering me a tight smile, she retreats up the stairs.
“What happened to her?” I ask Nina.
She looks at me, her eyes going wide. “What happened to you? Did Addison actually try to drown you?”
I glance down at myself, realizing I’m soaked from head to toe. “No, no. It started raining on us.”
She glances outside, like she’s realizing for the first time that it’s raining.
“So you won?”
I blink at her in confusion, then it clicks. The date. “No, Addison’s still here. We’re both staying into next week.”
Nina scowls. “Figures. But I’m so relieved you’re back. She really didn’t try anything?”
I shake my head, keeping my mouth tightly shut. She’ll find out when the season airs, but right now, I don’t want to be the victim to Addison’s villain. “What’s up with Monica?”
Nina wrinkles her nose, then glances up at the ceiling cameras. We’re not wearing mics, but they’re capturing our every move. “She asked me not to tell anyone.”
“Oh, of course.” I nod, deflating a bit. But Nina is right not to tell me, because in just a few short weeks, I’ll betray them all.
“Well, I guess it’s okay,” she says.
“You really don’t—”
“No, no, I’m sure she would’ve told you.
You’re a house favorite after all.” She smirks and my heart squeezes with guilt.
“She had an interview with one of the PAs and he was asking her about her anxiety and I guess she got a little, well … anxious and revealed too much. She takes meds for it—I mean, I do too, but you don’t see anyone asking me about it. ” Nina shakes her head, sighing.
“Is that allowed? Since she plays tennis professionally?”
“Think so. I think she just didn’t want it to be so public.”
“What about you? How are you doing?” Guilt pinches my chest again. I wish I were only asking as her friend.
Nina puffs out her cheeks and smooths back her curly hair. “I like Roland, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t think it’ll be me. I don’t want it to be me. He’s not ready to be a dad, and I knew that from night one.”
“If you knew, then why didn’t you leave?” I’m not accusatory—I’m glad she’s stayed. But it does surprise me; she has a daughter at home, and I’m sure her job in Washington, DC, would be happy to have her back earlier than expected. “Nina?” I prod. “What’s wrong?”
Nina’s eyes sparkle with tears. “I didn’t want to fail,” she says in a small voice. “I was worried that if I left on night one, I’d seem like a huge failure.” She wipes the backs of her hands against her eyes. “Plus…” She lets out a dry sob and shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“No, not never mind. There’s no mics right now, no Lainey, no producers. You can tell me what’s going on. I promise I won’t judge you.”
“I miss her,” Nina says tearfully. “But it’s such a relief.” The words tumble out of her, and I crease my brow in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been taking care of her by myself since she was born.
I had help—my mother basically lives with us, but it’s just…
” She steps back, running her hands through her hair.
“I feel like this is the first time in three years that I’ve been free.
And I feel so fucking guilty about it. I mean, what kind of mother is relieved to be away from her child?
Sofia is the best thing in my life, I love her more than anything in the entire world, I—”
“Nina,” I say, putting a hand on her arm. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about that. There’s nothing wrong with needing time for yourself—that doesn’t mean you love Sofia any less. She has the best mom ever and I’m sure she knows that.”
“It’s like a phantom limb, you know?” She smiles sadly at me. “I keep reaching for her, but she’s not there. Eres tan dulce. You’re too sweet to me.”
I feel a gnawing in my stomach as I wonder if she’ll think so highly of me once she realizes why I’m actually here—once she and the others are reduced to lines of interest in my article.
She sniffles again, and I put my arms around her.
My mouth opens almost without me, ready to confess, but before I can get the words out, the lights in the entryway flicker off, and I whirl around.
The red blinking light on the camera in the corner is off, the house eerily silent except for the faint sounds of rain.
“What’s—” Nina begins, but she’s cut off as a scream from upstairs rips through the air.
Brooklyn rolls into the room and locks eyes with me. “What was that?”
“No idea.”
Seconds later, Jules clatters down the stairs, her headset hanging off one of her purple space buns.
Leaning over the stairway railing, she shouts, “Power is out. Backup generator is down! Conserve walkie power!” She hops down the last few stairs and sprints off through the house without a backward glance.
Brooklyn, Nina, and I head into the dark living room, where Olie is hanging upside down on the otherwise deserted sofa. Her face splits into a grin when she sees me. “Knew you’d make it back,” she says.
The lights flicker on for a second, then out again. Olie flips upright on the sofa and looks around with narrowed eyes.
“You know, the last time this happened, they couldn’t get the power back on for almost twenty-four hours,” she says. “Someone died.”
“Someone died?” Brooklyn repeats, dumbfounded.
“Maybe she broke her leg, I don’t remember,” Olie says impatiently. “But the point is, this is dangerous territory.”
A trickle of fear slips through me even though I know Olie isn’t right about someone having died.
Even Lainey wouldn’t have let that slide, if only to avoid the bad press.
And if she had, I would’ve found out in my research.
More likely, Olie is referring to the mud wrestling incident in season 5 when a contestant did, in fact, break her leg.
Olie looks around at us and screams, “It’s time for America’s favorite game! TAMPON COUNT!” She runs from the room and up the stairs, her footsteps pounding overhead.
Nina looks after her, bewildered. “What’s she doing?”
“I think she’s … counting tampons?” Brooklyn offers.
I stare at her, then glance upstairs. Oh shit.
“Georgia, you look a little pale,” Nina says, laughing. “How many tampons do you have?”
“I…” It’s not how many tampons I have, but what’s hidden carefully inside my toiletry bag. I cannot let Olie find my burner.
I dash from the room, leaving wet spots in my wake, and Nina follows close behind.
By the time we get to the bunk room, Olie has gathered a sizeable mountain of tampons in the middle of the floor and is rifling through Addison’s toiletry kit. “What the hell?” she mutters. “No tampons? Is she a fucking Greek goddess?”