Page 108 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
“You have to cut someone,” he says, voice lighter now. Friendly. Manipulative. “We’re getting to the point in the season where feelings might start getting in the way.” Rich is piling it on, the way only he can. All I feel is the pressure to pick one of them and the certainty that I can’t win here.
I lie and say I don’t know yet. That I haven’t decided. That I’ll think about it. His face is unreadable. For a second, I wonder if I’ve convinced him. If I’ve convinced myself. How am I supposed to cut Wren when I’m the only one who seems to remember what this whole thing was supposed to be?
It’s the world’s worst situation. I can’t see a way out.
Rich gives me a long look, like he’s waiting for me to crack. I don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he jerks his head toward the confessional trailer. He’s already turning around, assuming I’ll follow like he’s got me on a leash. “Let’s get a few takes while the day’s still fresh.”
I go along for the walk of shame, following him in. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The confessional trailer reeks of fresh paint and desperation. All I hear are ghosts. This is the same trailer where we… where I pressed Wren… where I thought… My head spins with the intensity of that night, with the memory of her moan still lingering in my mouth.
I sit down on the bench, stiff as hell, and try to swallow down the regret clawing its way out of me. Rich gets comfortable right across from me, acting like we’re on some kind of buddy cop mission to save America from being bored. He flips open a notepad and looks at me like he’s expecting an entire season’s worth of drama to pour out of me.
It’s classic Rich. Straight to the point, relentless and cunning. “Okay, talk to me about Raven. And Wren. Anything special going on there?” He’s fishing with dynamite. He knows it.
I try to play it cool, keep my voice as neutral as a Switzerland postcard. “They’re both funny,” I say. “I like being around them.”I almost say more, but I catch myself before too much spills out. No way am I giving him what he wants. Not yet.
Rich acts like I’ve just handed him a season finale wrapped in a bow. He lifts a brow, ready to pounce. “More than the others?” It’s a direct hit. He knows it.
I shrug, trying to make it look effortless, like my entire sanity isn’t on the line here. “I enjoy both of them. I’d rather keep them than, say, Divya.” Maybe that’s a mistake. I already know how this game works, but I have to try.
Rich doesn’t even let me finish. “Can’t lose Divya. She’s the villain. Ratings love her.” It’s like he’s saying water is wet. My teeth grind together. I nod, trying not to explode. I knew it before he said it but hearing it out loud makes me want to punch the wall, the world, or maybe just my own idiot self for thinking I could control any of this.
I’m on the edge of cracking. On the edge of giving him everything he needs.
“Okay,” Rich says, already standing and giving a thumbs-up to the camera crew. “Now give us a take. Look right at the camera and say you’re torn. You have no idea who to send home. You’re emotionally exhausted from the decision.” His hands move like a conductor leading an orchestra, in total control. He doesn’t even sit back down. He’s already planning his next ambush. He clicks his pen, ready to jot down the next scoop.
I stare straight into the lens and say the words. I make my voice quiet, thoughtful, convincing. Try to sound like I’m baring my soul.
“She’s…” I stop myself. Not now. Not like this. “She’s entertaining. People like her.”
But it feels fake as hell.
As soon as they callcut, I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling. All I can think about is Wren’s face when she turnedaway from me this morning. Like we were strangers. Like none of it meant anything.
Her laughter echoes in my ears.
If we meant something to her, anything at all, I didn’t get the memo. She was so quick to forget, to move on like I was just another stage prop. I remember her bright face, the way she laughed and tossed her hair in the wind. It stabs at me. It’s impossible to believe it was the same Wren who wouldn’t even look at me in the hotel room, eyes downcast and voice a whisper.
How did I end up being the one who got played? How did I let myself fall so hard when she barely fell at all? Here I am, following Rich like some desperate dog, trying to decide which one of them I can stand to lose the least.
I don’t even know how I ended up in this trailer, trying to breathe through the mess I made. I was convinced she felt it, too. The connection. The spark. I thought it was real, but now… now I’m the one sitting in this claustrophobic room, trying to figure out where the hell I went wrong.
Here I am, lying through my teeth, pretending I don’t know who I want to stay.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m the only one who ever believed this could be more. How do I sort out the truth?
thirty
RYAN
The sun’salready slipped beyond the horizon, leaving behind dusky hues. Everything around us smells like the sharp mix of lavender-scented disinfectant and astringent lemon soap.
We’ve finally been liberated from the grimy clutches of the obstacle course, each of us emerging one by one from the chaos, victorious in cleanliness. Everyone’s been scrubbed, polished, and repaired, ready to brave another evening in the artificial romance wonderland. Hair is back in place like nothing ever happened. Makeup, flawlessly reapplied.
Now we’ve traded the wild frenzy of the day for a bougie, low-key atmosphere. Instead of wet and wild, we’re back to pretending we’re a group of sophisticated folks having a civilized glass of wine and nibbling on artisan cheese. Acting more like casual friends than cutthroat competitors. As if we aren’t in the middle of a dating circus that airs weekly on national television.
Elena’s determined to set a scene tonight. She’s turned off half the lamps and lit candles across every table, the flickering flames casting romantic shapes against the walls. The cameras, ever-present but trying to stay invisible, have been pulled back to give the illusion of privacy.
It’s supposed to be the moment in the show where it feels organic. Like we’re not all aware of the microphones pinned to our collars. More intimate. Relaxed. Real.
