Twenty-two
Becca
I’m standing in the hotel lobby bathroom, trying to breathe deeply. I washed my hands several minutes ago and turned off the water, but I’m still holding onto the faucet handles to keep my hands from shaking.
Which is ridiculous.Telling Preston about Rob went fine. I told the story on my own terms, recited it word for word the way I planned in the pre-dawn hours. I was able to say it in a calm, composed way, I think. Definitely different than the way I told it on that balcony, my whole heart bleeding out. Wanting someone—no, not just someone,Nate—to know the real me.
This was the truth, but it wasn’t the real me. Which is better; I’ve learned my lesson on that.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My blue eyes look empty.There are dark smudges from lack of sleep under them that I was only mostly able to cover with concealer.They aren’t nearly as bloodshot as they were a few hours ago, and the puffiness has died down.There are no tears brimming over.
I don’t imagine it’s going to stay that way. But I’m hell-driven to keep them like this in front of other people. In front of the camera.
In front of Nate.
Who will likely be the one interviewing me as soon as I can extricate myself from the bathroom. If he wasn’t listening when I was talking to Preston, he certainly knows by now about my decision to stay. It was a decision I wavered on throughout the night—can I bring myself to stay and have to face all these people who know this huge secret about me? Can I bring myself to slink back home in shame? Can I force myself to deal with the hurt of seeing Nate every day?
Can I leave and never see him again?
I peel my hands off the faucets.They’re trembling, but not outright shaking; that’s a good sign. I need to get out of here or they’re going to send Darlene or Olivia in after me. I told them I just needed to use the restroom and then I’d be ready for the follow-up interview.
Will it be Nate who interviews me? I wipe my hands on my jeans. Probably it will be. Probably I’ll have to sit there and answer questions from him about Preston and me and keep wondering over and over again if Nate really did use and manipulate me. If he felt anything like I did last night. If I was just being stupid and naive.
Will he be genuinely hurt by my choice to stay? Will he act hurt to keep up the charade? Some combination of both?
My mind is clouded by doubt, cluttered with questions I can’t sort through—every time I think I’ve come to a conclusion, another one pops up, and I’m even more confused.
Of course you are, Becca, I can hear Rob say snidely. I thought I had mostly exorcised his voice, but it’s back now, a constant litany of his greatest hits.
And maybe that was the deciding factor to stay—I can’t give Rob the satisfaction. I’m doubtful I’ll end up making it more than another week anyway. Even if Preston was moved by my tragic tale, I’ve seen him with the other girls. I’m pretty sure he has more chemistry with every one of them, and from the girls’ various bragging (both outright and passive-aggressive) about their time with him, I know he’s done a lot more than a chaste end-of-date kiss with each one.
So I’m guessing he’ll send me home this week or next, and I can leave with my pride intact. I didn’t quit. It just didn’t work out.
And maybe, if he doesn’t send me home . . . maybe therecouldbe something there. I don’t feel it, but I’ve been so wrapped up in Nate, fell so hard for him, that it’s not like I’ve given Preston an actual chance. Clearly, my intuition isn’t something I should trust. It never has been.
I blink at myself one last time in the mirror. I look put together enough. I can keep myself from breaking down in front of Nate. I can keep him from seeing the pain that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to move.
I walk out of the bathroom and nearly run into Darlene.
“Becca, great! I was just about to come get you,” she says with her trademark sweet, motherly smile, which just about manages to hide her shark-like ability to sense blood in the water. “You ready for the interview?”
“Yeah.” Because I am. I have to be.
“Great,” she says again. She likes that word. “Nate’s waiting for you over there.”
Just the mention of his name knifes my heart, but I paste on a tight smile and walk over to the small side room with a padded ottoman in front of a decorative folding screen (the show seems to really like those) and, of course, lit candles. Nate’s standing just inside the room next to the cameraman, his posture stiff. He turns and looks at me, and I have to grip the hem of my shirt to stop my hands from shaking now.
He looks utterly stone-faced; expressionless. But those eyes . . .
I see hurt there, what looks like real pain, and my chest squeezes in with guilt. Maybe thisiskilling him the way it’s killing me.
Maybe he wasn’t lying. Or maybe I’m just desperate for his feelings to have been real. Maybe I’m just desperate to believe.
I’m swimming in maybes, and I can’t let myself drown. I have to build up my walls again, create a protective dam so thick not a drop can squeeze through.
“Have a seat,” he says coldly.
I sit on the ottoman and try to reflect the stone-faced look right back at him.
