Chapter Thirty-Six
The finale: the moment when you find out if you’ve wasted six weeks of your life or found your forever partner. Whatever happens, we hope this book has been helpful to you. And don’t forget: Burn after reading.
—Shacking Up: The Definitive, Unauthorized Guide to Winning Love Shack
Monica looks as green-in-the-face as I feel as we walk down the shell-strewn path to the beach.
Though our dresses are similar styles—long flowing skirts with intricate bodices—I feel like the girl about to get stood up at prom next to her classy red-carpet vibes.
It doesn’t help that my dress was a last-minute decision.
They’d been saving it for whoever made it to the proposals, and Lainey decided the dark maroon color would go better with the setting than what they’d originally picked out for me.
The result is a few empty inches between my boobs and the dress that had to be safety-pinned into submission.
But since this is my last day of putting up with Lainey, I barely flinched when one of the pins nicked my skin.
The producers arrange us on a little rocky cliff jutting out over the beach. On TV, it’ll look perfect: the ground beneath us falling away into pristine ocean. But the reality is a sloping five-foot drop-off behind us and some trash caught in the rocks.
Lainey fusses over the hem of Monica’s dress for a solid minute before Monica finally swats her away.
Lainey is beside herself with nerves. Her usually coiffed hair is sticking up in odd places, and one of her white go-go boots appears to have lost a heel.
She hobbles over to me next, but before she can attack my outfit, a black SUV pulls up at the other end of the path.
Impulsively, I grab Monica’s hand and squeeze. She hangs on tight like I’m her lifeline.
A pair of men’s shoes descends from the vehicle, and Roland steps out.
Immediately, the cameras whip into action, capturing his sleek entrance.
He’s wearing a handsome pewter-colored suit that highlights the gray of his eyes.
He looks at Monica and me and smiles tightly, then walks down the shell path toward us.
I glance back at the SUV, expecting Rhett to hop out next, but the driver closes the rear door and pulls away.
“Where’s Rhett?” Monica whispers.
“I’m not sure,” I murmur.
My stomach squirms as Roland reaches us and takes his place on the outdoor carpet. Monica drops my hand and smooths the front of her dress, but she already looks perfect. She has nothing to worry about.
Another car approaches the path, but instead of stopping, it keeps going down the hill toward the beach. Rhett must be doing a grand entrance after Roland gets set up.
With no indication that she’s concerned by her host’s absence, Lainey beckons for Roland to begin.
“Monica, Georgia,” Roland says, looking at each of us in turn.
“The past six weeks with you have been truly life-changing. I’ve learned so much about both of you and I’ve also learned a lot about myself.
You might not be aware, but yesterday an article was published about me, and every word of it was true.
Ever since my injury last year, I’ve been using performance-enhancing drugs in competitions.
It was wrong and I’m owning that. I’m taking time off from playing—it’s not going to be easy, but I know I’m on the right path now.
I would understand if this changes things for you.
” He glances between us, but when neither Monica or I say anything, he continues.
“You’re both amazing women and I have a lot of love for both of you.
But today”—he pulls a small box from his pocket and takes out a glittering diamond ring—“I have only one ring.”
The air tenses around us and Monica stands up even straighter. Roland clears his throat, but before he can speak a shout echoes around us.
“ROLIE!”
Roland falters, his eyes going wide. He looks around, searching for the source of the voice.
“ROLIE, IT’S ME!”
For a wild second I think it’s Rhett, arriving late and having completely lost his senses.
But it’s a woman’s voice. And it seems to be coming from below us—from over the little cliff.
Roland rushes over and bends down, the shock on his face turning to pure glee.
He reaches down and drags Olie up the hill.
She’s wearing ripped overalls and a dirty white tank top.
Her hair is tangled and her lip is bloody, but she only has eyes for Roland—Rolie, that is.
“Baby,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t leave you—I missed you so goddamn much, I wanted—”
“What the hell is happening?” Monica steps forward and places herself between Roland and Olie. “What are you doing here?”
Olie steps back, her lip quivering. “I—I came back for Roland.”
“You can’t do that,” Monica says firmly, her demeanor collected like she’s disputing a serve to an umpire. The cameras creep up behind us to get a better view of the action. “Georgia, back me up here,” Monica says, looking at me, but I’m speechless.
“Look, Rolie,” Olie interrupts. “I know I’m not as polished as some of these other ladies, I’m not a tennis pro or…
”—she looks from Monica to me, as though trying to figure out how best to describe me—“hot and tall. But I love you so goddamn much.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and she takes both of his hands in hers.
“That night in Italy was magic, and I know you felt it too.”
“What are you talking about?” Monica cuts in. “You were in Italy?”
Olie goes pink and nods. Monica crosses her arms and turns to Roland. “I think it’s time for you to tell us what’s going on.”
“Monica, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I never—”
“BACK UP!”
I jump at Lainey’s voice. The cameras scurry backward, and Lainey pushes me into the fray, making me step on Monica’s foot.
Lainey pumps her arms in wild circles and the cameras swirl around us.
The illusion will be broken, I’m sure of it—there will be cameras in the background of some of the shots—but right now she doesn’t seem to care.
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” Roland continues. “Olie showed up in Italy and we … Addison left right after our dinner and Olie and I spent the night together.”
Olie drops to one ripped-overalled knee and pulls something out of her pocket.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. The cameras are buzzing like bees, trying to catch all of the action as it unfolds in real time.
Olie opens a small cardboard box and takes out a huge, old-fashioned-looking ring. “Best I could do,” she says apologetically, shrugging. “But I had the gem replaced, see?”
I lean closer and see a tiny tennis ball where a gemstone should be. It’s so kitschy that it almost comes back around to being cute.
“Roland Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Marchetti,” Olie says. “Will you marry me?”
Before Roland can speak, Monica launches herself at Olie, who stumbles back and topples over the cliff and down the sandy hill, out of sight. I catch Monica’s arm to keep her from following.
“YES!” Roland shouts. He looks around for one wild second, then flings himself over the drop-off and onto the sandy beach a few feet below.
We hurry forward to see him and Olie embracing in the sand, Roland pulling off his suit jacket and tie, and Olie kissing every inch of him she can reach.
He pulls away and shouts “YES!” again as Monica stands numbly beside me.
Now Roland is only wearing pants and—are they about to have sex on the beach?
Surrounded by cameras? He pulls out the million-dollar Love Shack ring and throws it back up to us.
Monica and I both look at it, then at each other, and she gives a little shrug. We let it stay on the ground.
“REMAIN CALM!” Norbert comes barreling out of nowhere and launches himself after Roland and Olie. Next goes Lainey, scrambling down the rocks.
Roland and Olie extricate themselves from the producers and begin to run, barefoot, down the beach. It’s quite a sight—both of them partially naked, Olie’s red hair streaking behind her. Camera operators and PAs jog behind them with cameras held aloft.
In all the chaos, Monica and I seem to have been forgotten. Not a single camera is on us, not a single producer is paying us any attention. It’s my first glimpse of freedom in a long time.
And then I see it—a white vintage car streaking down the road, pulling up at the end of the shell path. A man with red-brown hair behind the wheel, tattoos snaking up his arms.
My face splits into a grin. Unnoticed by any of the Love Shack crew, I give Monica a last hug, then rip off my body mic, kick off my heels, and hike up my dress, sprinting toward the car like a runaway bride, shells crunching painfully under my feet as I get closer and closer to Rhett.
He grins at me from behind sunglasses, his smile almost as dazzling as the sun.
“Get in,” he says.
I jump in the car, and he kisses me deeply before speeding away from the crowd of gawking crew members who’ve realized I’m gone, past the beach where Roland and Olie are still trying to outrun the producers, and into the gathering sunset.
“You know,” he says, “I think this is going to be the most dramatic season of Love Shack yet.”
“Doesn’t someone say that every year?” I reach over and take his hand, laughing.
But this year, I think it will finally be true.