One To Watch (13 page)

It only took a few seconds for Bea to get used to the lights. In a way, they were helpful; she couldn’t see the audience or the crew, only what was happening onstage a few feet in front of her. For her first several minutes on camera, that was restricted to Johnny Ducey’s crookedly attractive face, made somehow stranger and blurrier by a combination of Botox and the uppers Bea was quite sure he hadn’t kicked, as if he were now a wax model of the movie star he used to be.

Johnny asked Bea all the softball questions Lauren had prepped her for, and Bea delivered all her scripted answers, eliciting the appropriate laughter, empathy, and applause from the studio audience. By the time they broke for the first commercial, Bea was feeling much calmer. This wasn’t a massive first date on live TV where it actually mattered what the men across the table thought of her—it was the highly scripted opening act of a story with a preordained ending. This was just the requisite meet-cute that would lead to romantic dates and declarations of love and, eventually, a picture-perfect engagement. Lauren had a plan—all Bea had to do was follow it.

When the commercial break was over, Bea stood at her mark at center stage. Behind the mansion, the sun was setting over the Pacific, and the whole set was bathed in a soothing pink glow, accentuated by the warm lights.

Bea smiled placidly as her first suitor walked toward her.

He was backlit at first, but as he came into focus, Bea took in his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his muscles rippling beneath the perfectly fitted fabric of his Italian wool suit, his thick golden hair, warm brown eyes. He was looking at her with distaste—or maybe, worse, disgust.

“Hi,” he said tentatively, well mannered but clearly perplexed. “Are you … Bea?”

“Yes, hi, I’m Bea.” She struggled to maintain composure even though her heart was pounding. “What’s your name?”

“Brian,” he replied. “So, you’re the person we’re going to be dating? Sorry, I’m just a little surprised.”

That makes two of us, buddy,
Bea thought—this guy didn’t bring a new look to the show in any way whatsoever. She smiled wider.

“Yep, that’s me! I guess you should head over there, and we’ll talk later?”

Bea nodded toward the risers behind her where the men were meant to stand and wait as the rest of them filed onstage. Brian wandered off, looking dazed—Bea felt the same way. Was this just ratings bait, throwing out a stunning Adonis before Bea got to meet the diverse range of men who might actually look like they had any interest in dating her? That must be it. Of course that was it. Bea squared her shoulders and mentally prepared herself to meet the next man, someone she could sell to the world as her Prince Charming. She could do this. She was ready.

Then the second man appeared.

He was imposing and Latino with powerful arms and pillowy lips, like a young Javier Bardem with a mischievous smile. He wore fitted jeans and a button-down, but the ten-gallon Stetson made the outfit.

“Well, howdy,” he greeted her warmly with a thick Texas accent, and Bea was momentarily so captivated that she forgot to be horrified.

“Hi, I’m Bea.”

“Bea? Jaime. It’s a damn pleasure to meet you.” He kissed her hand. “Can I say damn? I don’t know the rules.”

“Who cares about rules?” Bea blurted, and Jaime let out a full laugh, a great laugh—the audience appreciatively joined in.

“Talk more soon, I hope.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed off—Bea didn’t bother not to stare at his ass as he left. Talk about
damn
.

Except—wait. That was two men who could just as easily have been Calvin Klein models as contestants on this show. But before Bea could think too much about what was happening, the third man walked onstage: He was young and Black with a broad, muscular frame, a thick mustache, and a dazzling smile, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan. No. This wasn’t happening. These were all the same men you always saw on
Main Squeeze
—more diverse by skin color, sure, but so far, Bea thought these men looked far more likely to give advice on weight-lifting technique than give her the time of day.

Bea needed to talk to Lauren—crap, they were on live television—could she maybe signal a producer? Get someone’s attention? She turned to see who might be around, which of course was the exact moment the third man extended his arms to give Bea a hug hello, and poked her directly in the stomach instead. Bea closed her eyes and imagined the moment replayed in slow motion on YouTube, an unflattering GIF of her mid-section shimmying up the list of trending topics on Twitter.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I was trying to hug you—”

But Bea didn’t care what Mustache Man had to say, she just needed to get through this, needed to get to the next break so she could talk to Lauren.

“It’s
fine,
” she insisted through gritted teeth. She willed her facial muscles to relax. “I’m Bea. What’s your name?”

“Uh—Sam,” he sputtered, thrown off by her bizarre behavior.

“Great!” She tried to sound normal, but her panic was bleeding through. “See you soon, Sam!” She gestured toward the risers, and off he went.

Two more until commercial,
she thought.
Keep it together. Two more.

The next man was already walking toward her, a laid-back guy with a golden tan.

“Hey, am I in the right place?” he joked. A few audience members laughed uncomfortably.

“I hope so!” Bea smiled. “I’m Bea, and you are?”

“Confused,” he retorted. “This is
Main Squeeze,
right? I’m on television right now?”

“If you’re not, I’m not totally sure what all the cameras are doing here.” Bea fought to maintain a light tone. This guy needed to move the hell along.

“Cool. Um. I think I’m gonna go?”

Bea’s heart stopped, and all the noise of the set—the hum of the generators, the grind of the cameras, the whispers of the audience—fell suddenly silent.

“What?”

“Yeah, I gotta—it was nice to meet you, though.”

And with that, he turned and walked offstage, passing man number five on his way. Bea closed her eyes, seized by a sudden compulsion to burst out laughing. What kind of a waking nightmare was this? What would happen if she left too? How would Lauren fill the rest of the hour?

“Hello, Bea. I’m Asher.”

Oh, the fifth man was here. He was really attractive—Asian American with black glasses and thick salt-and-pepper hair.

“Fantastic. The risers are right over there—or you can just leave now if you prefer?”

“What? Do you
want
me to leave?” Asher looked perplexed.

“Makes no difference to me!” She flashed him a grin that she was sure bordered on deranged, but she was fresh out of fucks to give about who these men were or how they saw her. Asher tentatively backed away and headed over to the riser, and then Johnny was onstage to close out the segment and take them to commercial, saying something about this dramatic season being off and running while Bea smiled and gazed blankly ahead.

“And we’re out!” a producer called as they cut to commercial. “Back in a hundred and twenty!”

A hundred and twenty seconds—Bea didn’t know what Lauren was going to say to force her to continue this torment in two minutes flat, but she was already rushing toward her.

“Bea! Bea, what the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?” Bea didn’t want to freak out in front of all these people, but she no longer felt above it, not after what had just happened. “These men hate me!”

“Bea, no—shit, shit, shit.” Lauren put her hands on her head, looking a little panicked herself. “I told that guy to walk off, okay?”

“
What?
” Bea was flabbergasted. “Why would you do that?”

“Ratings, Bea! People are going to vilify him and
love
you. They’re going to think you’re the bravest person on the planet, and they’re going to be desperately invested in you finding the perfect guy you deserve. But that must have felt awful—you had no way to know it was fake. I’m sorry, I should have told you beforehand.”

Something clicked into place in Bea’s mind—

“
This
was your plan to make America love me? To humiliate me on TV?”

“I’m seeing the flaws now.” Lauren grimaced.

“It was a bad plan!”

“Back in ninety!” the producer called.

“What about the others?” Bea demanded.

“What others?”

“The other men! You saw how they looked at me. Why would you set me up to be mortified?” Bea asked bitterly.

“You’re wrong,” Lauren insisted. “Jaime, Sam, Asher—they’re good guys. You’ll see.”

“Sixty seconds!”

“I want to walk off this set right now,” Bea rasped, her voice breaking.

“Your contract prohibits that pretty expressly,” Lauren pleaded, “but even if it didn’t, I still believe in this show. In all the lives you’re going to change—including yours.”

“Thirty out!”

Lauren looked into Bea’s eyes, her expression desperate—

“Bea, by the time this is over, you’re going to be the most beloved woman in America. But only if you stay and fight. Can you do that? Forget me, forget the show. Think of your career—your future. Think of all the women at home, glued to their televisions, who know if you find love, that means they can too.”

Bea pressed her lips together and nodded. Lauren sprinted offstage as the producer counted them back to air in five, four, three, two, one.

“Welcome back, everyone!” Johnny said brightly, as if completely disconnected from the mess that had recently played out before him. “What do you say, Bea, are you ready to meet your next five suitors?”

Bea lifted her chin and did her best to put on a good-natured expression.

“We’ll see, Johnny. If they keep walking out, maybe they’ll save me the trouble of having to hold the first kiss-off ceremony!”

Johnny looked rather like a deer in the headlights as he faked a laugh at Bea’s joke. “Okay, then! Up next, please meet Wyatt.”

Bea turned to the edge of the stage, where the next man was walking toward her. If Lauren had called Central Casting and asked for an all-American football hero, Bea didn’t think they could have done any better. Tall and muscled with blond hair, Wyatt wore jeans and boots and a charcoal flannel shirt buttoned smartly, as if this were a cozy business meeting instead of an appearance on live television. Ducking his head shyly, he looked even more nervous than Bea felt, and she warmed to him immediately.

“Hey—um, hey. Hey, Bea.” His voice shook, but he brought her into a hug that was kind and sure.

“Hi, Wyatt.” Bea felt her temper melting away. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Wyatt stepped back to meet her eyes. “What that guy did before, walking away like that. I don’t think that was right. Not right at all.”

“Me neither,” Bea said softly.

“I really like your dress.” He smiled. “Actually, I guess it’s pants. Is it pants?”

Bea laughed. “It’s a jumpsuit.”

“Well, whatever it is, it looks beautiful on you.”

Bea suddenly felt tears behind her eyes—totally disarmed by this small act of kindness, this show of support. Wyatt looked at her with concern.

“Are you okay?”

Bea nodded. “I think so.”

“Good.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and as the shadow of his tall frame blocked the hot lights for just a moment, Bea closed her eyes and exhaled. This was possible. All she had to do was keep going.

After Wyatt, the second group of men was pretty similar to the first: a parade of athletic men with bulging arms and narrow waistlines, perfectly symmetrical faces that soured with displeasure as they laid eyes on Bea. The second man in the group stopped short when he walked onstage, but recovered with relatively little awkwardness.

The third veered toward incredulity: “Uh … seriously?”

The fourth said “Wow” over and over again. “Wow. Wow. Wow.”

“Wow?” Bea ventured.

“Wow,” he parroted back.

“Who are you?” asked the fifth man.

“I’m Bea,” she replied.

“No, but I mean, who are you, like, on this show?”

“I’m the woman you’re here to meet. That’s why you’re meeting me.”