Page 13 of Heart to Heart
Despite my bleak surroundings, I was much happier down here than in Simon’s office. As was Gemma, so it seemed. She walked with a pronounced pep in her step, and I practically had to jog to keep up with her.
“I see Simon spared no expense in furnishings, or color for that matter,” I observed as we made a turn down another gray hallway.
“This is where the sausage is made,” Gemma replied, her pace showing no sign of slowing. “We leave all the stuffy glitz in Simon’s office.” She glanced back at me with a conspiratorial wink. Gemma must have picked up on my unease in his office and my sigh of relief once the elevator doors had closed and we were making our way down here. “Besides, it’s not so bad.”
The moment she finished her sentence, a raucous laughter erupted from behind the closed door we were steadily walking toward, turning my whole imprisonment scenario on its head.
“Okay, this is your stop,” Gemma announced, her hand situated on the handle. “Tread lightly; they startle easily.” Gingerly, she opened the door to reveal a large room filled with unmanned cubicles, abandoned in favor of a projector screen set up near the back of the room. Several people were gatheredin front of the screen, some sitting in desk chairs they’d freed from their cubicles, while some stood around the screen that took up a third of the space. The smell of popcorn weighed heavily in the air. On the screen was a pretty, young woman, stumbling her way through a comparison of love to a toaster and then transitioning to belting out the chorus to Mariah Carey’s ‘Emotions’ without so much as a blink of an eye for a warning.
An applause erupted from the crowd once the clip ended, and a brunette from the front of the crowd aimed a remote at the screen, pausing the young woman in the midst of making an unflattering facial expression that reminded me of a former roommate of mine after a night of too much booze and equally too much Chipotle.
“That was submission number 1030, Farrah T. Thoughts?” the brunette turned around to address the snickering crowd, a pad of paper in her hand.
That’s clearly a no, I thought, leaning against a partition. No one had noticed my arrival. I wasn’t sure that I wanted them to, either.
“That one’s a trainwreck, for sure,” a woman from somewhere in the crowd offered.
Exactly.
“She’s perfect.”
Wait. What?
“I agree,” a concurrence echoed from the crowd, followed by more in support ofTwilight ZoneMariah Carey.
So, this was it. This was how the women vying for my affection were being selected—by who would make for interesting television. That shouldn’t be surprising. In the entertainment industry, ratings equaled money, and money was far more important than love to people like Simon. Wanda could breathe a sigh of relief. She would have nothing to worry about, except for maybe me giving myself a concussion from bangingmy head against the wall after spending five minutes with Farrah T. Falling in love certainly wouldn’t be a distraction.
I couldn’t be certain, although the expression on the brunette woman’s face seemed disappointed, like a mother witnessing her children purposely undermining her. She really took her job seriously. “Okay,” she sighed, “Farrah T. is through to the next round.” Resigned, she stole a glance in my direction, her eyes widening in clear recognition. I shook my head, a silent request for her to keep my presence to herself. Ruffled yet still professional, she returned to inspecting the pad of paper in front of her as she raised the remote and started the video clips rolling again.
For the next several clips, I stood back, observing the process as a group of complete strangers haphazardly decided my fate, selecting women who may, but most likely wouldn’t, be the love of my life. Another production, another part of my life that I had no say in. I knew I was far from being a pawn, that I would be benefiting the most from the show. But something about having to be a spectator as someone else decided my future didn’t sit well with me.
“All right, everyone,” the brunette woman spoke up after another questionable pick was made by her burned-out co-workers. Her eyes darted to me then quickly returned to the crowd. She’d looked at me after each selection, perhaps gauging my reaction, receiving nothing but the same uninterested, if not bored, expression I’d purposely kept on my face. “This is the last submission for this round.” Cheers erupted from the group and, if I were being honest, I wanted to join them. “Here is submission number 30807, Avery M.”
The screen came to life once more, but much like the rest of the room, I’d lost interest. Just as I turned to leave, a voice I assumed was Avery M.’s drew my attention back to the screen and a sharp intake of breath from my body when I saw the facebehind it. I knew it was impossible, but Avery’s emerald eyes appeared to stare straight into mine. Her soft curls perfectly framed her narrow face, her full lips hypnotizing me as she spoke. Unlike many of the others, her answer had obviously been thought through—maybe a little too well, as she carried herself with a vulnerability I hadn’t seen from many women before. Her heart was in this.
“…whether they’re walking in the dark or toward the light.” The clip was paused, the room remaining silent. Surely, this one was a no-brainer.
“Thoughts?” the brunette running the operation asked.
She had to be a definite yes.
“Booorrring,” a response from the peanut gallery snapped the rest of the crowd to attention, mostly agreeing with the man’s assessment.
“She seems too rehearsed,” chimed in another.
Too rehearsed? Like the one before her who choreographed their answer to “What is Love” by Haddaway? No way. Avery’s answer screamed sincerity, unlike Cora P. who, well, just screamed.
A chorus of agreement emanated from those I was entrusting to ostensibly select my future wife—Avery was out.
I shouldn’t have cared. This was just a stepping stone for me, but there wasn’t a single part of me that was okay with their decision. In no way was I supposed to interfere with the process—in no way did I ever think I would. But this was one decision I wasn’t going to let be made for me.
“Okay,” the brunette said, “Avery will not be going through.”
“No,” I interceded before I knew I had even spoken. One after another, heads whipped around to see who the interloper was who’d had the audacity to undermine their decision.
“Is that?” one of them began, apparently unable to finish their question.
“Yes, don’t stare,” his co-worker admonished him.
