“I didn’t call you a skank,” Addison says. “I called you asnake.”
“Well that’s not—” Madison starts, then cuts off as Preston walks into the garden with Yasmine at his side.
“What’s going on here?” he asks cautiously. “I’ve been hearing some . . . tension.”
“There’s something you need to know, Preston.” Madison steps forward with an expression of perfect sorrow for his plight. “Someone isn’t here for the right reasons and has been sabotaging other girls’ formal wear. If we could chat privately, I’ll be happy to—”
“It wasn’t me, Preston,” Daisy squeals. “Even if my dress was involved.”
“I think Daisy might have been framed,” Addison says, squinting like she’s Sherlock Holmes piecing it all together. “She’s my roommate, and if Madison really was lurking around my room—”
“Ladies,” Preston says, holding up his hands and looking like he wants to just vanish into the hedge rather than deal with any of this, which I can respect. “Obviously, I need to sort this out. If someone is really sabotaging dresses . . .” He shakes his head. “Honesty is everything to me and is something I need in my future wife.”
There’s a murmur of agreement from all the women, even as they glare at each other.
I, on the other hand, do or say nothing. Guilt trickles its way down my spine.
I am clearly not the pinnacle of honesty, supposedly dating Prince Charming when I clearly have feelings for another guy.
Telling everyone in my life a big ball of lies about my marriage, never letting anyone know the truth.
Preston sighs. “I just need some clarity on this. I’ll want to get every side of the story. Madison, would you like to join me first?”
She nods, trying to hide her glee. “Of course.”They head down the garden path.
Jo rolls her eyes. “Great party,” she says, and chugs the rest of her wine, grabbing another glass at the same time. She’s got the right idea there. It’s going to be a long night.
Ican’t believe those bitches,” Jo says for the third time in the last twenty minutes. She’s sprawled out on her bed, the wispy curtain hanging down around her.
“I know, right?” I murmur. I’m in my own bed, the journal open before me and my pen poised to write, as it has been for the last twenty minutes since we got back to our room, changed into pajamas, and climbed into bed. Normally Jo falls asleep instantly after these long days, and I’m not far behind—especially if I’ve had a few extra drinks.
But tonight we’re both having trouble settling in, though for very different reasons.
“I got no time with him,” Jo says. “None. And it’s not like we got a chance to talk on the date today. I was on a horse, for shit’s sake. It’s those bitches’ fault, making all that stupid drama.”
“It sucks,” I agree, not bothering to point out how much she seemed to enjoy watching the drama. I didn’t get any more time with Preston than Jo did, despite my having been slightly more involved in the whole wardrobe sabotage disaster. But Londyn somehow co-opted my side of the story as her own, and I didn’t mind at all. It would have been nice, I suppose, to get to know Preston a bit more, but conspiracy theories about my stuck zipper aren’t exactly the topic I would choose.
Mainly because there’s no way I wouldn’t be thinking about Nate the whole damn time.
“We’re both going home, you know,” Jo says, as if she’s hoping to rile me up to match her anger.
I chew on my lip. I’d been thinking the same thing, but the certainty of the way she says it makes my stomach do weird things. “You really think so? Maybe Preston would rather send the drama girls home.” It occurs to me that I don’t know Preston well enough to know whether he would be inclined to do that or not.Then again, even if he would be, the producers will want to keep the drama rolling as long as possible. Probably the girl with the dead husband isn’t quite as compelling to them anymore—especially because I’ve avoided their increasingly frequent questions on the subject.
Especially with Nate. Because I hate having to lie to him most of all.
But if I get sent home now, will I ever see Nate again? Yeah, he may be physically attracted to me. He may have wanted to jump me, though I was pretty much putting my ass directly in his face, which probably isn’t a great way to see if a guy wantsmorethan sex. But if that’s all it is for him, then he might not bother contacting me afterward. After all, I’m sure he’s not hurting for women wanting to get with him—not even on this show, judging by how many of the girls (cough,Londyn) I catch checking him out. My stomach flips again.
Maybe he does feel that same connection with me that I do with him, though. Can I really leave before I know for sure?
“Maybe,” Jo says. “Preston does seem like he’d prefer a classier woman than all those drama queens.”
It’s interesting listening to Jo now. She’s starting to sound more and more like them—still in her own Jo way, of course—but talking unironically about “the journey” and the kind of woman Preston clearly prefers and how it all feels like a fairy tale. Like the show itself is seeping in through her skin, the constant barrage of leading questions and the sheer boredom of hours pent up in a mansion with nothing to talk about but our shared prince.
Am I doing this, too? Are we all slowly but surely becoming Stepford Princesses?
I toy with the pen in my hand. I’m writing a journal entry that is really a letter toThea and Rosie. I’ll read it to them when I get home, talking about all the dresses and the fancy dates. I miss them so badly my heart hurts, and I can’t wait to curl up with them on the couch and spin this fairytale world for them—all the PG parts of it, at least.
But I stare at the next page and I want to spin a fairytale world for myself. Something I couldn’t really bring myself to believe in before and am still not sure I can.
