One To Watch(74)

Colin7784: men are trash





@AndersMMQB You all gave me shit when I said they shouldn’t put a fat woman on Main Squeeze, but look what happened!

@AndersMMQB This isn’t the UN, dummies. It’s reality TV. If you put a fat cow on there, people are going to call her one. It’s not Jefferson’s fault for speaking the truth. It’s Bea’s fault for expecting anything different.





In the hour after Jefferson’s outburst and Bea’s dramatic exit, her greatest source of comfort was the lock on her bedroom door. The door itself was heavy and wood, stained dark and engraved with intricate latticework. The key was old-fashioned, thick and brass, and the lock emitted a satisfying click when Bea shut out the entire mess of her life.

Bea paced the floor beside the little settee where, just the night before, Luc had held her and assured her she was beautiful. What an idiot she’d been to believe he was telling the truth.

What did she know about these men, really? Luc was a player, Wyatt was lovely but a bit of a mystery, Sam was an exuberant kid, and Asher … Asher. Maybe he was just fooling himself. Maybe she was too.

It was after midnight now—their flight back to America departed in seven hours.

“I should pack,” Bea said to no one in particular. But she didn’t. She sat on her bed, still in her gown, her face in her hands. One breath in, another out. All those weeks of holding the men at bay, trying not to form attachments—as much as that hurt, it was better than this. She should have listened to Lauren.

She tried to convince herself that this was no big deal—after all, what was she really losing? They were just hopes. They’d been intense, maybe, but she could live without them. Put off her chances at happiness for another few weeks until all this was over, just as she’d done so many times before. Waiting to schedule dates until after she got home from this next trip, after she finished up this project, after she lost a little weight. After, always after, until her romantic life became a kind of stasis, cryogenically suspended in a perpetual state of anticipation.

After this show is over, my life will change. I’ll meet so many new people. Maybe I’ll find someone then.

And then, a knock on her door.

Go away.

Another knock.

“Bea, are you in there?”

Was that Sam?

“Of course she’s there. The producers said as much.”

And Asher.

“Dude, I know she’s in there, but it’s after midnight, I’m trying to be polite.”

“Maybe she’s sleeping?”

There was Wyatt.

“No, but you see, the light is on.”

And Luc.

“Should we knock again?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to us.”

Silence, all of them listening. Bea didn’t want to hate them.

“I think we should knock again.”

But the loud click of the lock gave her away as she opened the big wooden door.

“Hi, guys.”

There they were, still in their suits, ties undone, looking shades of relieved and apprehensive—and flanked by cameras and sound guys.

“What is this?” Bea asked, suspicious.

Sam took a tentative step forward. “Can we talk for a minute?”

As the men and the camera crew filtered into the room, Bea sank down onto the bed—Sam and Wyatt sat beside her. Luc lounged on the little settee, and Asher stood uncomfortably, surveying the scene. For a moment, they all looked at one another, totally unclear on who was meant to speak first. Finally, Luc broke the silence.

“Someone must say it. Jefferson was dull and self-important, and none of us liked him.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Luc, that’s not the point—”

“We cannot allow this, this, what is the word, for one who helps Saint Nicholas?”

“An elf?” Sam offered.

“Oui, c’est ?a, we cannot let this nasty elf poison Bea’s mind against us.”

“Bea,” Sam added, “what Jefferson said down there … it wasn’t true, okay?”

Bea swallowed. “So you guys wouldn’t be happy to have twenty-five women competing for you?”

“In other circumstances, of course we would.” Luc’s manner was easy as always. “But Bea, for us this is not winning. Being with you—this is what we want. This is why we are here.”

“Jefferson was just angry,” Wyatt piped in. “He wanted to hurt you.”

“What can we do?” Sam asked. “How can we help you get past this?”

Bea just looked down, willing herself not to cry again. Sam gave her a little nudge, his shoulder against hers. She thought back to the hammam, his hands on her hips—that had been real, hadn’t it? Not a trick of her mind, a lie for the cameras? It suddenly seemed impossible to know.

“I’m so sick of questioning everything—especially you guys,” she admitted. “Since the first night, it’s felt like I’ve been some kind of detective, always on guard, looking for signs that none of this is real. And now, with so few of you left, with how much I like you … it feels unhinged. What Jefferson said—I guess in a way that was easier to believe.”

Wyatt looked concerned. “You’d rather believe we’re all lying to you than that we all genuinely like you? Why, Bea?”