Good Lord, I wondered,had she dated that poor child?
“But then I said: Greta, woman up! It’s Season 20, and you have 647,000 followers on Insta who need to see Mama conquer her trauma-drama.” How she maintained this schtick even without cameras present I’d never know.
“Very admirable,” I managed to reply before she was hugging me again.
“Awww, Lukey, you’ve always been the best listener! We’re in this together, right? For old times’ sake? You’re going to need an Angel keeping you safe when our side’s voting, especially since Imogen’s… not a fan.” She grimaced dramatically. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“You know, I can’t remember.”
“That breaks my heart! You two were inseparable before… thetragedy.” She grew somber, expecting me to seize the torch, but I’d never mention Arjun, least of all to her.
“Which was so long ago,” I answered innocently. If she gave me kitten paws, I’d parry with puppy eyes. “Honestly, Greta, I feel like a rookie all over again, but if anyone can get me up to speed, it’s you. Would you maybe introduce me around downstairs?”
“How could I not? Let’s show these young bucks how the OGs roll!”
With a giddy squeal, she guided me to the stairs. Just when I thought my deflection had succeeded, I glimpsed Troy and a camerawoman exit the bedroom right where Greta cornered me. I should have seen it a mile away… I’d been “story’d.” That was what Barnes called it when a cast member forced plot points into a conversation at a producer’s behest. I instantly envisioned Greta’s talking head interview spliced between what we’d just filmed (“They were all so close, butnothinglasts forever…”). I was clearly even rustier than I thought and I could practically hear Barnes laughing at me across the Atlantic.
In the palatial Romanesque living room, what had once been the monastery’s sanctuary had devolved into a den of debauchery. Hartt led games of beer hockey beneath the clerestory windows, and a shirtless Aspen made out with Solana in the narrow arcade framing the former nave. The Amish girl, naturally, did a keg stand upon what looked to have once been a baptismal font. Meanwhile, Greta squired me around like her new show pony, simultaneously campaigning to avoid the block when the first women’s Trial came around. I’d zoned out by the time we reached Chrissy, gazing out the glass doors to the pool, where Imogen and Jiamin sat with Camdon the Ken Doll. In another life, I’d have been with them. “Right, Luke?”
I snapped back, almost knocking into a cameraman. “Sorry, Greta, I missed that.”
“I was saying I’mtotallyan ally, but the girls should get Erika out early. She’d beat any lady here in a Trial, that little contender! I’d definitely want her gone before me.”
Of course Greta would encourage the Devils to throw an athlete like Erika in, given that the Angels would try to shed dead weight like Greta the first chance they got. I grunted noncommittally and sipped my drink, reminding myself I needed to be listening more than talking tonight. Chrissy nonetheless nodded exaggeratedly, as if telegraphing to the lurking camera she too was capable of real thinking. “Mmm, yeah… Hartt said facing her is basically going against aman.”
Perhaps not expecting Chrissy to so explicitly blow the subtext tosmithereens, Greta’s simper briefly faltered as the cameraman stepped closer, but I’d be damned if I let any more of this crap slide, no matter how much sway Chrissy or her boyfriend held. “Erika’s as much a woman as anyone here,” I replied tightly. “That seems obvious, and I’ve barely met her.”
Chrissy squinted at me dimly, as if only just noticing I was there (entirely possible), but Greta swiftly changed course. “Alwayssucha gentleman, this one. Oh! New eyeliner, Chris?”
Suddenly rapid Russian cut through the room, and a screaming Tati burst from the kitchen, her turquoise troll kaftan billowing. Out of nowhere, a bust of the Virgin Mary sailed through the air behind her, shattering one of the glass doors to the pool, and a totally wasted Vanessa stumbled in. “Next time I won’t miss, you Soviet cow!” she cried as Royce shoved past her, rushing to comfort Tati.
“Vanessa, we weren’t flirting! I was literally just talking to her!” Royce snapped.
Her spirits renewed, Greta eagerly stood on tiptoe to reach my ear. “Okay, so Royce and Linda Blair over there had a showmance last season, at least until she bitch-slapped him, Camdon, and PB in a drunken stupor. Now the fans call her the Loch Ness Monster on social.”
PB appeared at Vanessa’s side, but she pushed him off. “No! No more playing savior!”
“Ness, just let me help—”
“You only ‘help’ when it’s convenient. You’re no different than any scumbag here.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Actually I do, and you can fly your parents to New York for more half-ass interventions, but it won’t change that I’m a drunk. I’m done letting you screw me over on TV, then ride your white horse in off camera. So quit embarrassing yourself and spare Ellen and Hank the round trip in coach, you cheap prick. You’re not my friend,” she sneered. “You’re nobody’s friend.”
I couldn’t help but wince on PB’s behalf as Zara arrived to grimly eyethe wreckage, architectural and otherwise. “Okay, let’s pause this. Nobody move until the glass is gone.”
Never one to skip attention, Greta raised a hand. “Zara, are we sure it’s”—she exaggeratedly mouthed the wordsafe—“for us to be around her tonight?”
Vanessa’s wild, drunken eyes blazed at a new target. “Oh, fuck off, you hag! You ignorant shits aren’t any better than me! Aspen punched his own father live on primetime, and that Cajun twat robbed half the Gulf region with her bogus cleft palate charity.”
“Miles of Smiles was not bogus!” Solana interjected, scandalized.
PB tried again to lead Vanessa upstairs, but she rounded on him violently. “STOP your phony bullshit! You don’t want me here! I went in three Trials last season, even though you promised I wouldn’t. Because Paul-Bryanalwayschooses the cash first. Right, Jiamin?”
But Jiamin evacuated quickly as PB finally snapped. “Fine, Ness, you win! Wanna get slap happy like last time and catch the first plane back to America?”
“Don’t you dare play the victim. No one here’s a victim…” She trailed off, gears slowing as she shuffled toward me, inexplicably burying her face in my chest. I tentatively consoled her, though I felt like I’d just been gifted a freshly lit Molotov cocktail.
