America might love me, but Henry does not.
The hardest part about Dad dying was not being able to say goodbye. The last time I saw him was just like any other time. At least with Mom, despite my age, I knew things were serious and that every time I saw her could be the last. But with Dad, I barely even remember it, honestly. He dropped me off for school. I probably mumbledI love you tooas I stared blankly into my phone, and that was it.
And now I’ve missed my chance to really say goodbye again. Henry and I said bye, of course, but that was when I thought I’d be seeing him again in a few days, and that when I did, he’d be picking me. But suddenly it’s over, and I’m numb with shock.
Filming up until this point has not been what I would describe as a peaceful or even quiet process. And yet my senses are overwhelmed from the moment I walk into the airport. Cell phones ringing. Crying children up past their bedtime. News reports in English and Spanish. Security guards snapping and pointing at my dazed expression. It’s the first time in weeks I haven’t been led by the hand to exactly where I’m supposed to be.
On the plane, I’m seated in international business class, where men in golf shorts and their bejeweled arm-candy wives look at me like I’m diminishing the value of their airfare. If my brain wasn’t so cluttered and if I had a phone, I’d be furiously texting Sierra. Our imaginary conversation would likely play out like this:
Sierra:
Do they even know who you are? Are they even aware whose presence they’re in?
Cindy:
You mean a recent fashion school grad with no job prospects and only a brief stint on a cringy reality television show?
And then Sierra would say something inspirational and I would send her a series of poop emojis.
But I don’t have my phone and I don’t have the mental energy to stew over what my fellow passengers think of me, so I plop down in my seat, drink a cup of tea, and pass out.
Just like when I flew in from New York after graduation, Bruce is waiting for me. But he’s not the only one. A few photographers are circling the security exit like vultures, waiting for any semifamous person catching a late flight in. But Bruce is a pro. He swoops in, shielding me with his body from the constant clicking of the cameras.
“Cindy, what can you tell us about the villa?”
“Will we see you back at the château for the live finale?”
“Who do you think your biggest competition is?”
“What do you have to say about Addison?”
“No comment,” Bruce barks at them as a staff-only door swings open just outside baggage claim and Bruce shuffles me inside. “It pays to know the custodial staff. I’ll be right back.”
“Awww, come on, man,” I hear a paparazzo say as the door shuts, leaving me in a musty broom closet. Normally I’d have some pithy LAX joke to make, but tonight I’m just thankful for this gross little bubble of quiet.
“No dice,” Bruce tells him as he goes, I assume, to retrieve my bags.
Even in this broom closet, the world is so much louder than I remember, but I’m grateful to Bruce for helping me ease in. The silence is just as deafening, though, because then I’m just left with my thoughts and the memory that Henry and I are over.
When I get home, Erica is pacing in her kitchen. Her face is bare, and her normally effortless silk robe has been replaced with one of Dad’s old T-shirts and running shorts.
The moment she sees me, she rushes to me and pulls me in for a crushing hug. “Oh God, I wanted to fly down and escort you home myself. Beck just barely talked me out of it.” She steps back to take me in and sweeps her fingers down the side of my face before smoothing my hair behind my ear. “She said the last date went well. It went well, didn’t it?”
I nod. “It was…good.”
“God,” she says, “the network loves you. The higher-ups haven’t stopped talking about my hidden gem. Did Beck tell you…about the next season? That they’re looking at you for—”
I nod. “I…think my reality television career might be a one-hit-wonder sort of thing.”
She nods slowly. “We can talk in the morning,” she says carefully.
And I can’t help but wonder what discussions Erica’s had and what promises she’s made on my behalf.
“Uh—” My voice cracks. “I better go to my room. I need to call Sierra.”
She runs a hand up along her slender neck. “I…actually locked your phone in the safe…I saw you left it in the kitchen drawer.”
“You locked up my phone?” I ask.
