My throat closes up. Am I? Will I ever be? “It’s always scary, wondering if something like that is possible. Again.” I wonder if anyone will notice the tiny, accidental hitch between those two words.
Will Nate notice?
Preston considers this. “I would think it might be less scary. If it can happen once, it can happen again.”
“Right,” I say with what I hope does not look like the world’s most forced smile.There’s a panic blossoming in my chest, that if I don’t say what they want—what he wants, what the producers want, what America wants, what my family wants—then I’ll never be free. I force myself to straighten. “The reason I’m here, though, is that scary as it is, I believe I can find love. I believe there’s someone out there for me, someone I can share the rest of my life with.”
Preston leans in closer, and I have another panicked second where I think he might kiss me, but instead he smiles. “I’m really glad to hear that, Becca,” he says. “I hope that—”
“Oh my god, who put the melted chocolate there?” a girl shrieks from back by the pool. “You! You wanted me to sit in it!”
“Don’t blame me. It’syourass that apparently can’t get enough carbs,” another one snipes back.
Preston closes his eyes, looking pained, then opens them again. “I, uh. I should probably go find out what . . .” He tilts his head back to where the commotion is starting all over again. “But thanks for being so open, Becca. I’m so glad to have the opportunity to get to know you.”
“You, too,” I say—awkwardly, because he doesn’t actually know me and I don’t actually know him.
He takes his hand away from mine, and I don’t feel the loss of it the way I did with Nate.The tears are burning behind my eyes, and I feel queasy. I look back at the statue, who’s still silently judging me.
I know, I think to her.I’m messed up. Go ahead, write a fucking book about it.
My hands are trembling, but I try to hide that, smoothing out my skirt and standing up, heading slowly back to the pool area. My whole body feels like a rubber band pulled tighter and tighter, but I can’t let it snap, not in front of the cameras, not in front of anyone. I hold it together.That’s what I’ve always done.
The camera follows me around the bend, and yeah, the drama is definitely fired up again, accusations flying and Preston trying to rein it all in, and I’m just so, so tired and the weight of everything is a boulder, slowly crushing me—
I can’t be here. I can’t do this. But what am I going to—
I notice then that there are no cameras on me anymore. Not a single one.They’ve all focused on Chocolategate. I do see Nate, finally, and my stomach flips all over again, but he’s watching the chaos with a grimace on his face I think he’s trying his best to hide.
I want him to see me. I don’t want him to see me.
I back up until I’m out of sight around the corner.Then I undo the side zipper of my dress and reach underneath to my mic pack and turn it off. I feel like I can’t breathe. I hurry toward a side door of the hotel and step into the lobby. It’s a fancy hotel, with a grand piano in the foyer and a professional pianist playing classical music. Everything shiny and gilded, with lots of mirrors in ornate frames—god, there are so many mirrors, I can see reflections of myself everywhere, like I’m in some horrible funhouse and I can’t escape.The room is spinning.
One of the receptionists asks if I’m okay, and I manage to give her a wave, but I keep moving, though I don’t know where I’m going. Just away. I head up the thickly carpeted staircase to the second floor, but there’s nowhere to hide here and I don’t think I can hold myself together long enough to make it back to my room.
I burst through a door to the outside, to the giant wraparound stone balcony that surveys the whole of the hotel property. I’m disoriented as to which side of the hotel I’m on, but the pool’s not here. No one’s here. I’m alone.
And that’s when I let myself sink down to the decorative tile and sob.
I don’t know what’s so different now, why I can’t keep it together anymore. I just know I’m exhausted.Tired from the stress of the show, from the jet lag and the long days of boredom, from missing my daughters, from wondering if the man I have feelings for could truly want me back.
But it’s more than that. I’m exhausted from carrying my past around with me like a locked briefcase chained to my wrist.
I hate you, Rob, I think, my knees pulled up to my chest, crying into chiffon.I hate you for what you did to me, I hate you for what you took from me, I hate what you’re still taking from—
“Becca?”
I startle and look back. It’s Nate, standing in the doorway between the balcony and the upper level of the lobby, his eyes wide. He closes the door behind him and crouches next to me. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
The stark concern in his voice guts me, as does being so close to him. I want him to wrap his arms around me and hold me while I cry.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” I manage, the words catching in my sobs. “I can’t—I can’t . . .”
He reaches toward me, and there’s this breathless moment where I think he might brush back the hair that’s fallen from my bun, that he might tuck it behind my ear, his fingers light on my skin. But then he drops his hand and uses it to brace himself on the tile while he sits, and maybe I imagined it, maybe I imagined everything, after all.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I do. I want him to know, even as I’m terrified of what he’ll think of me after. I want him to know me, for good or for ill.
