THE MOST DIABOLICAL THERAPIST THE FIELD OF PSYCHOLOGY HAS SEEN SINCE FREUD
DEAN
CONFESSION TAPE—Dean Parker, Contestant
[rehearsed, stilted]
Getting us enough points to stay in the game doesn’t mean I don’t have a backbone. It means I’m a smart player. I’mnotthe bad guy here, okay?
[He shifts awkwardly, then starts again.]
Sure. I didn’t have to call Seyoon arrogant for not wanting to bow down and beg forgiveness from the guy who started it. I get where she’s coming from. But Carter’s obviously never going to take the high road and apologize. So, somebody has to, right?
… Maybe to Seyoon, though, the high road was standing up to him.
I shut up. I don’t think I’m helping my case as much as I hoped.
I lean back against the wooden wall of the confession booth with a heavy sigh. The studio ring light around the camera burns my retinas. I drag my palms over my face, feeling more drained than I did after Mountain Marathon.
I just need to get my side of the story on tape so that the editors can’t spin the narrative too far from reality. And so my intestines will stop twisting and tying themselves into knots when people cast me long side-eyes around camp. That’s all. I’m not trying to convince myself I was in the right. Iamright. Well, I’m not wrong. But… neither is Seyoon.
There’s a knock at the door. I lean forward and push it open.
“I was just wrapping up,” I say, only to see it’s Garrett, leaning on the side of the shed.
“By all means, don’t let me interrupt,” he says. “We hardly ever get you in the confession booth. We have a severe lack of your vulnerable side on tape, Mr. Brick Wall.”
I give him a tight-lipped, straight frown but say nothing, and he points at me and goes, “Yeah, see?”
Dealing with Garrett’s antics, especially without Seyoon here to help, is the very last thing I want to do right now. Oh, the thought of Seyoon makes my stomach hurt worse. Maybe I should see if the medic has Tums. The elimination scene got pushed to tonight, so I can hide in the infirmary until then. “Well, I was done. The confession booth is all yours.”
“I’mnot here to confess my sins.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
Garrett half smiles. It’s not as condescending as usual. He opens his mouth, and I brace myself for something idiotic or exhausting, but he surprises me by asking, “How you holding up, kid?”
I blink. He almost sounds earnest. Maybe he is. “Fine.”
“You’re more like your dad than I thought you’d be.” That makes me feel good about myself for the first time today, until Garrett continues. “You’re just as hardheaded.”
“My dad’s not—”
The instinct to defend Dad dies on my tongue. Even I can’t deny that.
Garrett steps into the tiny shed. “Scoot over.”
There’s barely enough room for one person on the makeshift bench, let alone me and a grown man. I stifle a sigh and press myself against the wall as Garrett plops himself down. He reaches over and fiddles with the camera, turning it off. I raise my brow. I figured Blake sent him over, but she’d want this on camera. He should too. Garrett sits back, crossing his leg and holding his knee like he’s a therapist. The thought of Garrett as a therapist, even as a hypothetical, is so horrifying, I can’t suppress a shiver.
“So,” Garrett says. “How are youreallydoing?”
“I said ‘fine.’”
“Well, you did kind of get dumped in front of everyone.”
“Fake dumped. You know we’re not actually together. It wasyouridea. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”
“Because you’ve been prattling excuses in here for the last half hour like you’re trying to prove to yourself that you are.”
