The redhead walks into the main room and Nate spots me. He gives me a smile, which I return weakly, trying not to remember the fantasies I’ve had about him or the way it felt when he held my hand.The fizzy bubbles are making my stomach turn, and his smile drops. I think he might be about to head my way when there’s a massive swell of excited cheers.
I turn back around, expecting that Preston has stepped into the room, but it’s actually the host of the show, Swiss Barrington. “My ladies,” he says in his British accent, bowing deeply. As far as I know, the British accent is real, though I imagine the name is not. But I don’t know, maybe his parents are sadists. He’s dressed in this light blue brocaded jacket with long tails and a ruffled collar, with short silk pants and white tights (are they called hose?) and slipper-like black shoes.The specifics of the outfit—the colors and cut of the coat—differ from season to season, but he always ends up looking like the prince’s flamboyant butler. “Gather around, ladies, gather around.”
I look back at Nate, who makes an encouraging gesture to join the group of women bunching around Swiss.
Right. Because this is what I’m here for.
I take another drink and join the throng in the semi-circle.The room may be big, but with all thirty of us pressed close together like this—many jostling for a better position—it feels like I’m trapped in a stifling cloud of perfumes and ruffles.
“Welcome to the castle,” Swiss says with the dimpled smile he’s known for, and the girls cheer some more. Swiss is no Preston (or Nate, for sure) but he’s a good-looking guy, probably in his late forties. I remember hearing that just last year he married a lady who used to be onThe Real Housewives. RealityTV is a small world, I guess. After all, Nate used to work with Jason Winslow and went on a date with Su-Lin, both of whom were onStarving with the Stars.
I wonder if Nate has met the rest of that cast? Is he friends with all of them? Would he ever introduce me to celebrity chef Fez Richards?
I blink.Not unless Fez happens to show up on set here, I tell myself.Because it’s not like you’ll be seeing Nate after this is all over. I force myself to focus on Swiss and not drain the rest of my glass in one gulp.
“It’s always exciting to start a new season,” Swiss says, “and to help a new prince—and future princess—on their journey to find love. You’ve all had a chance to meet Preston, but I know you’re eager for more time. So don’t let me delay you any further . . .” He gives us a sly smile and gestures back toward the entryway. “Prince Preston Carmichael.”
Preston steps into the room, and I feel like I’m at a boy band rock concert in the sixteen hundreds. Granted, there are no sobbing histrionics (those will come later, I’m sure) and most of the women are able to contain themselves from actually jumping up and down and screaming, but the energy is palpable. I’ve got to admit, I’m kind of feeling it too, the excitement of this whole thing.
I lean into that; it helps to drown out the less pleasant emotion I was feeling.
“Hi again,” Preston says, grinning at all of us. He really does have a very nice smile. “I’m just so . . . wow. It’s hard to speak with so many gorgeous women all staring at me.”
Giggles from the crowd.
“But I’ll try my best.” He runs a hand through his hair, somehow managing to do so without messing up the style. “I know that each one of you have given up so much to come here and meet me, and I am so grateful. I think this is going to be an incredible experience, and I hope—” He draws in his lips, then nods decisively. “No, not just hope. I truly believe my future wife is in this room.”
My heart pounds, thinking of Nate’s question in the carriage:This guy could be the one, right?
The thought brings me more panic than the happy, melting feelings I’m sensing from the women around me.
Is there even a “one” for me? I thought I’d found it before, but I was so wrong. I want to find love—real, unselfish love that builds up instead of tears down. Iwant to beopento that. I’m a different person now, but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t be wrong again. It doesn’t mean I won’t put my trust in the wrong person.
Ican’tbe wrong again, not like that.
“Now, Preston,” Swiss says, stepping back out in front of us. He’s holding a glittering tiara that some producer must have given him while Preston was talking. “You’ll get your chance to speak with all these lovely women again, but first I want to set out this beauty.” He holds up the tiara. “This is the At First SightTiara. Preston, when you are ready, you’ll give this to the woman that you feel has captivated you the most this evening.” Swiss carries the tiara over to a glass side table on which sits a puffy red pillow. He rests the tiara on top, where it will sit there throughout the evening, sparkling with the reflected light of the million candles, taunting us with possibility.
Swiss then departs, back to wherever he holes up until the next dramatic pronouncement, and barely two seconds go by before Preston is seized by one of the girls.The girl, I am rather delighted to see, is Madison.
So much for not wanting to come off as desperate. She shoots a triumphant look at the other pageant queen, Addison, who was inches away from getting to him first.
I’m cool waiting my turn. I’m not in any rush.
The next hour or so drags on. I try to get to know the other girls as much as is possible in this kind of setting, where half the time they’re just gossiping about each other and the other half they’re saying things like “I can tell Preston has a really strong connection to his family” or “I can tell Preston is looking for a strong woman, but one who has a softer side, too.” One girl goes on and on about her PhD in Russian literature to everyone she talks to, possibly because she thinks we’ll all bow out under the sheer intimidation of a woman who has written a dissertation onAnna Karenina.
I try not to look around for Nate during all of this; I try not to be hurt that he hasn’t come to talk to me yet, as I see producers moving among the girls and pulling them out one-by-one for interviews. I try not to imagine all the commentary I want to share with him about all of this or what he might say in return.
There are trays of finger foods set out for us, but the women are drinking way more than they’re eating. Carline is showing off some kind of twerking move to the other girls, her Rapunzel wig half off her head and her face flushed.
“You thinking of joining in on that?” A girl’s voice says from behind me. She’s one of the few I haven’t talked to yet. Like all the women here, she’s beautiful, but she’s got a tougher vibe to her. Her black dress is more slinky than poofy, her makeup’s a little smokier, and her blond hair cropped in a pixie cut that manages to look both cute and edgy.
I raise my eyebrow. “Twerking? No. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m way too old for that.”
The girl grins. “I think we all are. I’m Jo.” She reaches out to shake my hand.
“Becca. It’s nice to—Oh, um.” I grimace and make a small gesture to her right boob, which shifted when she reached out and is now on the verge of baring itself to the world. I step between her and the camera pointed our way.
“Oh my god,” she says, her cheeks turning bright red. She adjusts her top. “This dress has been having side boob issues all fucking night.This happened when I was talking to Preston, too! Of course I didn’t know about it untilafter.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m totally going to be known as the slutty one.”
