The Collective(35)

At the time, I said something like “Ali’s loss is Nora’s gain,” and quickly moved on to the next topic to save him any further humiliation. But now that 0001 has told me that the first part of my next assignment is to 1) catch up on this season of The Bachelor via streaming platforms and recaps, and 2) announce my newfound love of the show to whomever I can, I’m on the phone with Luke for the third time in six days, reiterating my anger over the current Bachelor’s poor choices. “I don’t understand why he kicked Alayah off,” I’m saying now, the passion in my voice surprising me. “Sure she’s a little annoying and over-the-top. But if Pilot Pete were to send home every single person on that show who is annoying and over-the-top—”

“This is weird, Cam.”

“What’s weird?”

“This. The Bachelor talk. I mean, come on. You don’t even watch TV.”

“What’s weird,” I tell him, “is that I didn’t discover The Bachelor earlier.” I’m surprised at the conviction in my own voice. But then again, when I commit to something, I do it fully. “I don’t know. Maybe starring in a viral video has made me rethink my feelings about shows where people humiliate themselves.”

“Really?”

“Also, I love the travel photography.”

He laughs a little. “Hey, maybe if you’re in the city sometime, you can hang out with Nora and me and watch Pilot Pete make more bad decisions.”

“I’d love that.” The back of my neck is starting to sweat. I’m not used to keeping things from Luke—not important things, anyway.

It’s necessary. I understand that. I can’t tell anyone about the collective—for their safety as well as for the safety of the many women involved. But it is disheartening that, for the sake of my “sisters,” I have to pull away from the one person in my life who truly feels like family.

Luke says, “I’m glad you finally appreciate quality television.”

I’m in Poughkeepsie now, heading into the parking lot of a bar called the Wild Rose. “Oh my God, look at the time,” I tell him. “It’s almost on.”

“In half an hour.”

I clear my throat. “I’m going to a viewing party.”

He says nothing for at least ten seconds. And then, finally, “Are you kidding me?”

“God’s truth. I’m in Poughkeepsie. This bar called the Wild Rose holds viewing parties every Monday night. It’s known for them. There are drinking games, and some people even dress up. It’s fun.”

“This . . . Okay, this is really super weird.”

“It’s not.” After I turn off the engine and switch from my Bluetooth to my earbuds, I catch sight of someone pulling into the parking lot slowly, a few spaces down. Silver Camry. Just like 0001 said in the instructions she private messaged me. The Camry flashes its lights a few times, and I’m able to see its license plate: the same one I’m supposed to be looking for. “Oh good, my friend is here.”

“Your friend?”

“New friend. Bachelor friend. I met her on a Reddit thread.”

“Cam?”

“Yes?”

“This is going to sound patronizing. And I don’t mean it to. . . .”

“What, Luke?”

“Are you still on your antianxiety meds?”

I take a breath. Let it out slowly. “Do you remember what you said to me? The morning after I got arrested?”

He says nothing.

“You told me to watch the video of myself.”

“Right.”

“Well, I did. And I got why you told me to do that.”

“Okay, but, Cam, that was harsh of me and—”

“You were right. I need to put all this stuff behind me—the Blanchards. The trial. All of it. And if I’m going to do that, I need activities. New friends who don’t associate me with . . . with what I went through. Friends who see me for who I am now.”

A woman gets out of the Camry. I roll down my window and look at her. She’s several years older than me but in great shape, with short, sensible brown hair and clear-framed glasses. She’s wearing ripped jeans and cowboy boots and a shearling coat. I think she looks like an early retiree taking a line-dancing class, and I wonder what she thinks of me. She gives me a tentative wave, and when I wave back, she opens her trunk and heads for the bar. “I need to move on, Luke,” I tell him as I grab out of the back seat, a plastic bag with black jeans, a black hoodie, and black boots inside. “And if that means hanging out with some random woman I met online to obsess over the marriage prospects of a Delta pilot, then so be it.”

As I pass the Camry, I casually toss the bag into the trunk and slam it shut. Luke hasn’t said anything for a while. I never answered his question about going off my meds, and I’m worried he’s going to bring it up again.

Finally he speaks. “I’m really proud of you.”

I close my eyes. Good. This is good. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m trying.”

I say goodbye to Luke and head through the parking lot and into the bar, where country music blasts through the speakers and garlands of fake roses hang from the walls and two hunky young waiters wearing tight white dress shirts and pilot hats work the mostly female crowd. There’s only one bartender—a woman in a sparkly evening gown and false eyelashes, her shiny red hair in a tossed-around updo. Clearly, she loves her job. Or The Bachelor. Or both. The costume is spot-on; she could easily be a contestant, were she around ten years younger. Maybe, like Luke, she even auditioned in the past. She’s in constant motion, juggling two cocktail shakers and laughing with customers, and she’s wearing a huge handmade button that reads FLY ME, PETE! in swirly red letters. A sign over the bar announces two-for-one cosmos and a disturbing mixture of rum, Cointreau, apple cider, and grenadine called the Final Rose. I’ve never been in a scene like this before—not as an adult, anyway. It makes me nervous, but I have to say, it’s also kind of exhilarating.