Shawn inhaled, not nodding, not responding, both of us letting it lie.
“Jenny and Barnes hadnevermeshed, but he was terrified he couldn’t leave me alone,” I continued, the shame clawing through my voice. “She rushed down and two weeks later she offered us her eggs. She hated Barnes, but she knew me better than anyone. She understood having kids would be the only thing that saved me. She always said she didn’t want her own, but… some days I wonder if she just convinced herself of that because she already raised me.”
“Sounds like guilt might run in the family,” Shawn said softly, brushing my hair back.
“You reckon?” I laughed bitterly. “Mitch even thought his cancer was punishment for being drunk the night of my accident. He and Jenny were both positive they’d ruined my life.”
In the silence, he ran a finger along my torso, following the scars to my face. “You covered these up in the old episodes.”
I didn’t say Barnes’ name. He couldn’t be the excuse anymore. “I thought I could at least hide them, even if everyone knew they were there.”
“No, they’re there,” he agreed. “But I can’t imagine you without them. I wouldn’t want to.” We lay there, forehead to forehead, scattered stories, crucial and inconsequential, traded in the wisp of space between our lips. The echoes of our castmates returned, but we talked after they too were silent, Shawn’s thumb massaging my palm, rocking along the muscle and bone.
Sometimes I feel like a windowpane that’s retained the smeared fingerprints of the people who have pressed themselves against my life, minor gestures grafted upon me. When I cheer for Andie at soccer, I hear Mitch’s voice across the field. I order my burgers medium rare because the cute quarterback in seventh grade preferred his that way. At countless DC cocktail parties, I’d parrot Mary Peach’s jovial icebreakers to get people talking so I wouldn’t have to. Months later, after New Zealand, Andie sat nestled by me in an empty movie theater, and I absently squeezed her hand, my thumb tracing her palm, reminding me what I’d kept from Shawn.
The next morning, Shawn and I packed in silence, less because of resignation and more because we felt so secure. I promised to call him as soon as I wrapped the show, and we agreed he’d visit DC once the kids and I had settled back into a rhythm. It didn’t feel like Arjun at the end of Season 1. I wouldn’t come home guarding a secret, I knew that much; I would return with someone who wanted to try. And I’d proudly defend my right to that in any divorce court.
As I dragged our bags down the hall, I passed Camdon pulling a beer from the kitchen fridge. “Starting early?”
He glared at me, silently cracking the beer, and I kept moving. At the end of the day, Camdon was just another iteration of the football bros who ignored me once we left practice or the mind-numbing politicians Barnes trotted me out to dinner with. Had I everactuallycared what those dickheads thought of me, deep down? Now was hardly the time to start.
As if a daytime Trial wasn’t unusual enough, Troy separated the cast into two sprinter vans: me, Imogen, Shawn, Erika, Fortune, and Melange (whom medical had given crutches) in one, everyone else in the other. Our van surprisingly drove straight past the Arena and eventually arrived at the Bund, Shanghai’s historic financial district, where Beaux Arts façades gazed across the Huangpu River to a fantasia of modern skyscrapers.
Clearly still fuming, Zara assembled our group beneath the bell tower of the iconic Custom House. Surrounding us were maybe a hundred life-size cardboard cutouts ofEndeavoralumni, and I even recognized a handful: Dory, Yeats, Moon-Lynn Kosinski. Ecklund posed by his own Season 1 replica, conclusive proof he’d abused his Botox privileges. With no sign of the others, Zara rolled on Ecklund’s coverage in the interim. “You’re probably wondering why I’m standing next to this handsome guy,” he began. “Not much has changed, right?”
Imogen and I forced smiles as Melange dryly replied, “You spring eternal, Drew.”
“For today’s Trial, you’ll take a stroll down… ‘Resurrection Road’! Each pair will traverse the Bund, one to the north and one to the south. On the way you’ll collect five of these long-lostEndeavorsouls. The first team back wins, so stay alert, because you never know where these old ghosts might be hiding. Right, Drew?” He gestured expectantly to his pancake-flat doppelganger, performing a silent pantomime opposite himself.
“What are you doing?” Zara asked.
“Aren’t we, like, adding something in post?”
“No.”
As we waited, I held Shawn’s hand, somehow still certain I wasn’t making the same mistakes all over again. Even when the other van finallycareened in, I wasn’t unnerved until PB bolted to us, brows furrowed and jaw locked. I’d only seen him this anxious during Jiamin’s plot. “Troy pulled Camdon off the van at the hotel,” he said, futilely scanning the crew for some type of clue or explanation. “An hour later we left without him. Something’sup.”
He was right. Camdon was gone, and Tati was flushed from crying. Greta by contrast sported perhaps the most smug expression I’d ever seen her wear—no small feat. Troy had gone straight into a huddle with Ecklund and Zara, but now he gathered the cast. “Folks, as you can see, Camdon’s gone. Drew will explain, but we’re going to reshoot the intro Zara just filmed. There’s some new information.” He plastered on a far too sympathetic frown for me and Shawn. “I know today’s tough, guys, so thanks for bearing with us. Drew, when you’re ready?”
Shawn gripped my hand, dread engulfing his face. “You okay?” I asked.
“I was,” he said hesitantly. “Now I have a feeling I shouldn’t be.”
“Good morning, teams,” Ecklund started. “As you know, we take safety very seriously, and contestants are not allowed to drink alcohol within twelve hours of competition. This morning, Camdon snuck a beer before the Trial… and has thus been removed from the game.”
“But he’s not even competing today!” I exclaimed.
“Zero-tolerance policy,” Ecklund answered, pointedly avoiding my gaze. “However! We’ve been able to fill his slot with a trulylegendaryalternate… Come on out!”
I don’t remember if it was me or Erika who gasped first upon finally noticing the cardboard cutout of Arjun Bhaduri in the back row, fresh-faced in his 2003 best, that silly puka-shell choker hugging his neck… And then a polished man in a gray jersey strolled past Arjun’s portrait, not a hair out of place.
As effortless as breathing, Barnes met my eyes and smiled.
IV
NEXT OF KIN
In whose name?
