The five minutes with Rhys passed differently.
The conservatory had been rearranged between sessions, the crew adjusting lights and shuffling furniture in their endless quest for the shot that would make strangers sitting in armchairs look like the opening scene of a rom-com. I’d taken my seat and arranged my face into an expression that broadcast I am a composed woman in full control of this situation, a lie so comprehensive it probably qualified as performance art.
With Rhys, there was zero flirtation. The other men had all tried some version — the lingering eye contact, the strategic compliments, the subtle lean-in. Rhys sat in his chair like he was enduring a performance review, his posture perfect, his face unreadable, answering my questions with the minimum words necessary and studying me like he was waiting for a crack to appear.
“Tell me a truth about yourself,” I tried, deploying the open-ended prompt that had worked on everyone else.
“I’m an architect.”
“I know that. Something I don’t know.”
He considered this for two seconds. “I don’t like this room.”
The production assistant behind camera three coughed. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “That’s your opening move? Interior design criticism?”
“You asked for honesty. The lighting is aggressive and the chair is uncomfortable.” He shifted. “Also, you already knew I was an architect, which means you remembered. So we’re both noticing things. The difference is I’m willing to admit it.”
“You hate this.” About two minutes in. Not a question.
“I hate inefficiency.” He glanced at the camera behind my left shoulder. “And this is remarkably inefficient.”
“What would be more efficient?”
“Knowing what you actually want instead of making people guess.”
The words hung between us, live-wired and humming. “And what do you think I actually want?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He tilted his head — a movement that somehow made him seem more predatory rather than less. “Everyone here thinks they know. The romantic. The comedian. The nice guy who calls his mother every Sunday.” His mouth curved — not quite a smile, more — a dare. “They’re all performing for the version of you they’ve constructed in their heads. The confident queen. The demanding feminist. The woman who knows what she wants and refuses to settle for less.”
“And you’re not performing?”
“I’m terrible at performance.” Stated flatly, like he was describing the weather or the load-bearing capacity of a concrete beam. “I don’t have the patience for it. So I’m just going to sit here and pay attention until I figure out which version of you is real.”
“They’re all real.” Sharper than I intended. “That’s the point. Women are allowed to be multiple things at once.”
“I know.” His eyes held mine. “That’s what makes you interesting.”
Something did a complicated maneuver behind my ribs — part freefall, part cardiac event. Interesting. The man had the emotional vocabulary of a Wikipedia stub and somehow “interesting” coming out of his mouth hit harder than every “you’re beautiful” I’d heard all day combined. This was a problem. This was a Brené Brown chapter waiting to happen — vulnerability and connection and how the people who scare you the most are usually the ones who see you most clearly. I covered it by asking about the decor, the conversational equivalent of pulling a fire alarm to escape a room you were dangerously enjoying.
“You want my professional opinion?”
“I want to know if you’re capable of expressing one without insulting someone.”
“Unlikely.” He glanced around the conservatory. “The columns are purely cosmetic — not actually holding weight. Someone spent a fortune making this room look classical without understanding what classical architecture accomplishes.” He paused. “It’s a conversation that sounds intelligent until you realize no one is saying anything meaningful.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“Architecture is always a metaphor. You build walls to keep things out or to keep things in. The real question is always which one.”
“And your walls?” I asked. “What are they keeping in?”
Pain flickered across his face — there and gone. “Everything.”
The word landed through me heavily. I knew that word. I’d lived inside it for years.
The production assistant called time before I could respond.
The Attention Test began three hours later: sit in front of all ten contestants, talk about myself for thirty minutes, then quiz them on what I’d said. Anyone can fake five minutes. Thirty minutes of sustained listening is where the pretenders get exposed.
