www.campcoupleup.com/audition
“Camp Couple-Up,” my mom says in a small, high voice. “That sounds fun.” I nod in reply, too shocked to form words.
I’m not one to believe in signs or any of that shit, but is this a sign? I think about the card the Silver Fox gave me. I’d almost thrown it out, but I shoved it into the pocket of my purse instead. I can almost feel it there, like it has its own gravity.
It’s definitely a sign. I have to call that number.
Maybe I won’t make the show. Or maybe, if I do, the guys will sense how much I secretly despise them all, and they’ll send me packing before the end of the first episode. Maybe I’ll find myself back on this couch before the end of the summer, still with no possibility of paying back the money. Maybe.
But there are two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to try.
Chapter Three
I hold the show like a dirty little secret for as long as I can, because talking about it out loud, speaking it into existence, feels like an irreversible step toward actually doing it. So, when Cori comes over four days later to help me get ready for my audition, he thinks I’m going on a date.
“Let’s get a before picture,” he says, as I shut the bathroom door behind him. He’s been trying to grow a following on TikTok which he hopes to parlay into actual living, breathing clients.
When I flick on the fluorescent lights above the mirror, he winces.
“Girl, you have to do something about those light bulbs.”
He’s right. Everyone looks haggard under the harsh glow of the LEDs. “Keeps me humble.” I shrug. And light bulbs are expensive. But I don’t say that part.
He turns my chin this way and that, trying to capture the best light, and then he snaps a pic. He examines it. “We’ll have to take the after photo in natural light.” He puts his phone in his back pocket and then comes very close to me, examining my face with a grimace. “Your pores,” he says, shaking his head.
“That bad?”
He answers by slinging his oversized belt bag around and digging through, extracting a packet of cotton swabs and a bottle of clear liquid. He soaks a swab and starts aggressively pawing at my face.
“Who’s the poor sucker this time?” he asks, plucking an errant chin hair.
“Don’t be mad,” I say. He leans back and cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not going on a date. I’m going to an audition.”
“Why would I be mad? Get it, girl.”
“It’s for a reality dating show.”
At this, he leans back, his mouth slightly open, and then he starts to laugh. A low deep belly laugh that shakes his whole chest. And goes on really long. Too long, actually. Kind of rudely long, in fact.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m just trying to imagineyou, little Miss Won’t-Go-On-A-Second-Date, falling in love on national TV.” He dissolves into laughter once again.
“Okay, enough,” I say, leaning around him to examine my face in the mirror. “Plus, I go on plenty of second dates.”
“No, you go on plenty offirstdates.”
He’s not wrong. In the months since Dylan left, I’ve been on all the apps. Not looking for love, obviously, but it’s nice to be treated to a meal, or a movie, or even just a draft beer at a dive bar. I relish an excuse to put on a nice dress and be another person for a few hours. “So?”
“So, then you make up some excuse to never see the guy again.” Cori rolls his eyes at my incredulous expression. “Where’s the lie?” He waits for me to answer, but I can’t come up with a defence. He tilts his chin and raises his eyebrows. “What was wrong with the last guy you went out with?”
“He played pickleball,” I say, cringing as the word leaves my lips. “Ew.”
“Oh, wow, huge red flag,” he deadpans. He digs into his belt bag again, this time producing a concealer stick. “May I?” he asks, but he swipes it underneath my eyes before I have a chance to respond.
“And he was, like,toointo his dog. It was all he talked about.”
“Not an animal lover. You really dodged a bullet, there.” He jabs at my face with a fluffy brush. “And the guy before that? The one who took you to Red Rock?”
I grimace. “The one who wore the sweat-wicking shirt?”
