“When I’m going off to pee or take a shit, there will be no one following me. I announce a bathroom break, and I get total privacy.” I don’t bother asserting this for Jason. He would probably relish the idea of one of these punks having to watch him shit.
Rich lets out a loud laugh. “Absolutely. We’re not perverts here, you know.”
But I do know they’ve gotten plenty of shots of the Not-Wives squealing with disgust as they try to find places to pee—though obviously they couldn’t show the act itself—so I’m not putting them past sending a crew out with me, too. Hell no.Them just turning around isn’t enough.
“So if that’s all—” Rich starts.
“Jason and I get four hours a day of private time for every hour we meet with Monroe. No cameras, no sound recording, nothing. We decide whether it’s consecutive or whether to split it up.”
“Four hours? I can’t—”
“And no sound recordings of us at night when we’re in our tent.”
His face has turned slightly red. “One hour a day,” he says. “And no go on the tent. You don’t wantcertain thingsrecorded, then don’t be loud about it. Simple as that.”
Fine. I didn’t actually expect him to go for that one, given what a goldmine of drama our tent was last night. Jason and I have had our share of quiet sex when we’ve been camping near others, and really, I don’t think they’re out to make some porno of us.
It’s the private time we’d probably use for that, anyway.
“Two hours private time, then,” I say, arms folded.
“How about one and a—”
“Two.”
He sighs, but I don’t think he’s terribly disappointed about it. “Okay.Two hours for every hour with Monroe. But you’ve got to leave camp for your private time, because I can’t guarantee you won’t be on camera while you’re here.”
That makes sense. In camp, the damn cameras are everywhere.
“And,” Rich continues, “Monroe has to sign off after every therapy session that you’re actively participating. It doesn’t work if you’re just sitting there, you know?” He gives me a pat on the shoulder and I fight not to squirm. “I really think this is going to help you guys.”
Barf. I don’t think this guy could be any more fake if he was a “Prado” bag being sold on a sidewalk in New York.
But my relationship with Jason is the most important thing here. Even more important, apparently, than my pride.
Six
Jason
My mind should be on getting my team and my climbers ready for today’s bouldering exercise, but all I can think about is that fight last night with Emily.
I’m helping Geoff drag the crash pads to the base of the three boulder problems we’re going to put the Not-Wives through. We’re on the opposite slope of the canyon from our camp, the river—low on water this year, but still flowing—gurgling quietly about ten yards from the base of our first climb.The formation where we’ll begin starts at the base of the cliff, and then there’s a trail leading up to the next problem, and another to the last. It’s a gorgeous, clear day, which really just means that it’s going to be hotter than hell out here by the time we’re finished. Because the climbs aren’t high or particularly dangerous, we’re not using ropes or harnesses, but we are putting thick crash pads at the base of each problem in case someone takes a fall.
And also requiring helmets. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes explaining to these women that yes, the helmets are necessary. No, they can’t go climbing without them no matter what the helmet will do to their hair. No, we do not have a stylist ready to construct a hairdo that looks goodwiththe helmet—though I heard one of the PAs assuring them that they do have stylists on standby to help them put their coifs back together after the fact.
Yes, she said “coifs.” Unironically. Emily wasn’t kidding about that.
We use ropes to haul the crash pads up from the base of the first climb to the trail leading to the second. Geoff and I can get up these things in under thirty seconds, but we’re figuring three hours for the women to do all three. Partially because Rich has divided them into pairs and insisted they go up with partners and we expect them to actively hinder each other, and partly because none of these women have any climbing experience except Kate. I’m not even really sure about Kate.
“Hey,” Geoff says as I’m hauling up one of the crash pads. “Are you and Emily okay?”
I take a deep breath. We’re not okay, but besides the fact that we now have to do therapy on television—did I really agree to that?—I’m still not surewhy. She was so upset with me last night that I know it’s not that she’s gotten bored with me. I always expected when she was done with me, she’d break it to me kindly, but with the organized certainty with which Emily makes all her decisions.
This wasn’t that, and it sure as hell wasn’t me not loving her anymore. A “disconnect,” she said, and I’m not sure what it is or what to do about it. But it’s all going to be used as fodder for the show now, which isn’t going to help—
It occurs to me suddenly that, in addition to the problems I’m only newly aware of in our relationship, they also recorded me calling my dad a dick.
I kick at a pebble. Whatever. Let them air it, I don’t care. He is a dick.
