It cuts to black, and a firm hand grips my shoulder. In my ear, PB whispers gently, “Wipe your eyes. Don’t give anyone the satisfaction.”
Drew Ecklund somberly struggles to declare we are “Live from Hollywood,” and the next hour passes in a perfunctory blur. Nonetheless, the machine still knows what’s required. Chrissy and Melange must exchange just enough barbs. Hartt must promise his vengeance. Greta of course must tease her upcoming arc as a high school principal—with secret motives!—on the network’s teen vampire dramaWuthering Bites. Everyone must play their roles. Except me, Barnes, Imogen, and Erika. We remain too numbfrom what we just saw, though Fortune is classically placid. But any time Drew comes to one of us, the circus is for once united, someone always to the rescue. Often Melange, Greta, or Jiamin. But mostly PB. Without fail, PB.
“Thanks,” I tell him during the Reunion’s final commercial break.
“What can I say? You were looking… totally doomed.”
I might not get another chance. “PB, I’m—”
“I know. You should be.” He coughs. “Still. Everything I said—”
“Was correct.”
“It doesn’t mean I meant it. Well, not all of it.” For someone so verbal, it’s strange to see PB quiet. “Lunch tomorrow?” he finally asks. “You’re buying.”
“I figured.”
He resurrects his wicked grin as we return from commercial. “Buddy, I’m irrevocably unemployable. What choice do I have but to spend your primetime blood money?”
I suppress my laughter, and Ecklund rouses the audience one more time. “Well, folks, we can agree that was an unprecedented season, but before we go, I have one last question… did you ever imagine anEndeavorfinale whereno onewon?”
Scattered answers sing out from the audience. Of course not. Who would?
“Well…” He pauses dramatically before screaming, “You still haven’t! Roll that tape!”
The screen bursts alive with footage from the single camera that recorded me before I took my plunge. Away I go, and the camera dully hits the damp grass, the cameraman’s feet bolting away. Two bodies then stagger into frame and tumble to the ground, one tightly wrapping her arms around the other… unknowingly crossing that painted finish line. “The winners ofEndeavorSeason 20…Erika Bhaduri and Imogen Cuthbert!”
Ecklund brandishes the giant foam check, thunderous confetti raining down. Barnes nudges a stunned Erika forward, actually laughing, “Hurry,it’s live television!” Imogen too at last rises, gripping my hand as she passes me and not letting go until long after we hear “cut.”
Imogen has officially won the most seasons ofEndeavorand the most cumulative prize money in the show’s history. Hers is the unimpeachable legacy. As for Erika, she’s the first trans winner. She’s also the first person to win after another family member won previously. Perhaps a less revolutionary headline, but it’s meaningful to me.
Following the broadcast, reporters surround them, and I hear Imogen launch into the talking points she’d already prepared, even before her surprise win. “Passing the baton,” “full circle,” “the reunion I never thought I’d get,” “next chapter…”
Imogen Cuthbert is formally announcing her retirement fromEndeavor, with Erika Bhaduri primed to assume her mantle as the show’s newest female champion. “But will we ever get you back?” an intense sports columnist presses. “Is this goodbye forever?”
Imogen considers her words, a smile tracing her lips. “In my experience, it’s best to believe every goodbye is forever. It makes it more special when you’re proven wrong.”
The buckshot of questions persists as Barnes joins me with glasses of champagne. “Imogen’s never going to let me hear the end of this.”
“It hasn’t even been thirty minutes since they won, and already it’s about you?”
“Do the math. Imogen and Erika just won more prize money than either of us.”
“We never had prize money. A legal settlement is not prize money.”
“All money is prize money.”
Before we can further dissect the nuances of game show capitalism, an exasperated Zara finds us. “Guys, I apologize. I thought I’d buried all the hospital footage.”
“No, it’s a win,” Barnes says. “I couldn’t buy that kind of publicity forAlone Together.”
“Speaking of publicity, the network wants you in dressing room 3,” Zara informs him. “One of the evening news guys showed up to get your current take on the 2016 race.”
“Christ, why do they keep coming to me? I told one blog I think he’sgoingto win, not that Iwantedhim to win. Next they’ll be asking what cabinet post I’m angling for.” Zara and I stare at him. “That was a joke,” he sighs, and walks off.
“One day your ex-husband is going to choke on his dog whistle.” Zara looks more tired than I’d expect for someone who is off the clock tonight. “Got a second?” she asks.
We pass through the empty soundstage to the vacant control room, monitors rippling across the walls. “So why the tour?” I ask, the cryptic look on her face making me nervous.
