Page 67 of Winging It with You

“And honestly,” I add, my throat tight, “it was easier to just…run from it all.”

“I’m really sorry you experienced that. I can’t evenimagine…” His voice trails off, but before it does, a trace of sadness is unmistakable.

“It is what it is.” I sigh.

I realize Asher’s hand is still on my forearm. When I move my attention to his grip, however, he slowly returns it to his own lap. “Is that how you really feel?”

Is it? I can’t be sure. But know I’m exhausted from being angry about it. From letting my anger at Ethan and my resentment of the leaders who failed me weigh on my heart.

“It’s how I’m trying to feel about it. I need to believe the things we go through in life—the good, the bad, and everything in between—they are all somehow not-so-subtly nudging us toward what’s meant to be.”

He smiles, seemingly in agreement with my cheesy way of consoling myself, which makes me feel a little lighter. Like maybe all this—meeting Asher in the airport and competing together—is perhaps where life was meant to take me.

Both of us.

19

Asher

The Bailey’s Hotel London—Bailey’s Bar

London, UK

As we sit side by side with contestants and crew, everyone’s collective disappointment after tonight’s elimination lingers throughout the swanky hotel bar.

Ivan and Eddie were sent home, a blow to all of us, as they’d inadvertently become the resident“Have I ever told you about the time…”grandparents we all came to love.

Well, tolerate.

The vibe is mostly somber—apart from a few PAs who have made it a tradition to end each elimination ceremony with a boisterous round of shots. Jägermeister, of all things. What is this, college circa 2008?

The lounge is playing an iconic mix of American divas. Ashanti followed by Shania Twain and then back-to-back singles from Britney Spears. The upbeat tunes and rhythmic bass are incongruous with the overall mood, but even though I wasbummed to see Eddie and Ivan head home, I find myself shimmying in my stool. Just a bit.

“I’m going to run up to the room really quick,” Theo says, squeezing my thigh gently. “Don’t move.” He gets up from his barstool, smiling with signature Theo Fernandez dimples. Nodding, I sip on the drink he’d just handed me.

And as Ms. Spears warns the lounge of a certain poison paradise, Theo’s former stool is quickly occupied by the master of ceremonies himself.

Dalton.

We haven’t had too much time one-on-one, a fact that I’m eternally grateful for. But as he makes himself more comfortable next to me, clearly disinterested in the fact that my body instinctively leaned away from him, I silently pray for Theo’s quick return.

“It’s a shame about Eddie and Ivan, huh?” he says, still looking at his phone. When he’s not in front of the camera, he’s glued to some other device. On more than one occasion, I’ve gotten the tiniest glimpse at his screen to see that he obsessively checks his mentions on the app formerly known as Twitter. Out of curiosity, I looked up his account when I had a moment, and let me just say, the internet has not been too kind to ol’ Dalton McKnight as of late.

Especially the gays.

“But I guess it was only a matter of time,” he adds before I have the chance to respond, swiveling his stool toward me. He places his phone face down on the bar. The intention behind the act is alarming. Oh boy. There’s no denying that Dalton’s conventionally handsome—or he was in his prime, in a forced kind of way. He’s tall and tan and has an impossibly white smile that looks more sinister than it does dazzling. But everythingabout him, from his clothes and fading blond hair to his lingering expressions and dramatic pauses, is calculated. A strategic maneuver in whatever real-life game of chess he seems to be playing.

He reminds me of Clint in that way.

“Mm-hmm.” I say, as an acknowledgment of his presence rather than an invitation to carry on with the conversation.

“Between you and me,” he says, leaning in to me—I feel a groan building in my throat, but I force it down—“and don’t quote me on this. But I’m honestly quite shocked twoboomerslike them made it this far.” The disdain with which he says the generational term is oddly hypocritical considering he’s the closest to their age of all of us.

“Really? Boomers?” I ask mockingly, but he ignores me.

“So, I see #Thasher is trending again,” he says, reaching for his phone to reopen the social media platform. “Did you see that? The internet just loves you two.” He tilts his phone in my direction, scrolling through the hashtag as pictures of Theo and me fill his screen. If his tone was sharp when talking about Eddie and Ivan, his words now could slice through just about anything.

“I hadn’t. I don’t really pay attention to social media unless Jo needs me to do something.” I stab at my drink’s remaining ice cubes with my straw, wishing there was more of whatever drink Theo had ordered.

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