Page 24 of Heart to Heart
From out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a flash of blonde hair entering the room, as a woman, identified as Bianca on the sticker affixed to her yellow sundress, appeared, quietly taking a seat on the couch across from me. Our eyes met, and she flashed me a smile, which I usually would have taken as a polite gesture. But there was nothing polite behind the smile when the eyes on the smiling face were as cold as ice.
CHAPTER 12
AVERY
Kamila
Avery, let’s have a heart-to-heart.
Avery
Sure, Kamila, that sounds?—
(erupts into a fit of giggles)
Kamila
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, not again. Take—what is this? Seven? Take Seven.
I straightenedup in my chair in the private lounge whereHeart to Heartconfessionals were filmed, smoothing out the tulle of the periwinkle gown Kiki and I had liberated from the racks of a Goodwill store tucked in an affluent neighborhood near campus. If I had to guess, the gown had most likely been worn once as a bridesmaid’s dress before it hit the donation box and placed on the racks for $25.00.
But for all Kamila cared, I could be wearing a burlap sack. They sat across from me, rubbing their temples as Genesis from makeup reapplied fresh powder to cover an invisible forehead shine Kamila swore could be seen on camera. If Kamila decided to quit today, I’m certain I would be cited as the reason why.
The lighting in the room had been dimmed, and candles were lit to create a romantic ambiance, casting the room in a fairy tale glow. In my gown, it was easy to feel like Cinderella, sitting in a castle, ostensibly waiting to meet my handsome prince. All I needed was some clingy, comically mismatched rodents by my side and I would be all set.
“Are you good, or do you have anything else you want to get out of your system?” Kamila raised an eyebrow, something which I always wished I could do without looking like I was in the early stages of a stroke. “I have about ten more ladies to interview, and we start filming in an hour.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat, adjusting my posture as I willed myself not to laugh at the cheesiness of the heart-to-heart interviews Kamila was known to have with contestants before each show. I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I concentrated on getting my shit together expeditiously.
Get through this, and we’ll treat ourselves to more Brie from the charcuterie board.
You drive a hard bargain, brain, but I’ll accept your bribe only if you throw in some sharp cheddar as well.
Across from me, Kamila had taken to reapplying their trademark blood-red lipstick, recapping it and tossing it back to Genesis, who probably made ten times more catching cosmetics than I did working at the law firm. “Kamila,” I said, “I would love to have a heart-to-heart.”
Waiting for the inevitable burst of laughter, Kamila smirked when it wasn’t forthcoming as they raised their hand and snapped their fingers. “Action.”
I stood in line behind roughly three-quarters of the other women, with the remaining one-quarter standing behind me. If fans of the show only knew what a cattle call it actually was—that it wasn’t some spontaneous, magical Disney princess moment, but painstakingly rehearsed—the show wouldn’t be in its twenty-first season right now. And I wouldn’t be waiting my turn to board a limo in slippers with my mother’s cake in a box in one arm and a pair of strappy heels dangling from the fingers of my free hand.
All around the edges of the large, circular back patio, rose bushes had been planted, painting the backyard of the mansion in a brilliant fiery carpet of orange, yellow, and red blooms. Their scent wafted through the air, and if I closed my eyes, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine I was in a floral shop. A walkway jutted off to the left, leading to an inground pool that resembled a hidden lagoon with an attached hot tub. Just the thought of climbing into that pool made me say a silentthank youto Kiki for making sure I would be camera ready from every conceivable angle.
When producers received word that Tristan was on the premises, their assistants began ushering us out the back door, where they had us line up based on a list on a clipboard in their hands. This led to speculation over who had prepared the list and how it was decided who would go first, who would be last, and who would be the freshest on Tristan’s mind. That, I felt, was destined to be an unsolved mystery and probably an anticlimactic one at that. All I knew for sure was that the vanilla bean cake with homemade strawberry icing in my arms—Tristan, I’d read, had a thing for strawberries—had better beenough to woo Tristan and ensure that either he or the audience remembered me when it came time to make their decision.
Then again, with all the trinkets and props brought to make a memorable first impression by the other women in line, a baked good may be downright ordinary, even if it was Meg-Ryan-When-Harry-Met-Sally-diner-scene good.
Fiona, a short girl with chocolate brown hair, three contestants in front of me, carried a pogo stick tucked underneath her arm, which almost made me wish I were sitting at home so that I could see how whatever she had planned with that thing would pan out. Another girl, Macie, carried a pair of handcuffs, a nod to her career as a security guard. Or maybe she was a dominatrix. Everyone’s lives and careers were running together in my head, and I was doing well just to remember their names.
Applause erupted, accompanied by a chorus ofyaysfrom several of the women as the limo came into view. The rest of us, the introverts in the group, stood watching the approaching vehicle in silence. I made sure to take mental note of who the quiet ones were as, undoubtedly, they were my people.
This was it. Once we stepped inside its cab, we would be whisked away to meet Tristan while simultaneously thrust into the spotlight. There was going to be no turning back after that, and it felt as though, in that moment, I was mourning the death of my old life and ushering in a new one before the old one could even be buried.
The limo made a short loop around the mansion, starting in the back and following a circular drive that angled back to the front of the mansion. It would make this trip twenty-five times and allot for an approximate two-minute introduction with Tristan. Two minutes for him to decide who among us would be going home. Twenty of us would make it through, leaving five to be sent packing with broken hearts.
Five. I just had to be more memorable than five of these women. Five of these beautiful, professional women, all of whom were wearing their heels instead of carrying them with the straps dangling from their fingers like a bindle. None of whom would have been caught dead being photographed in a Cookie Monster onesie.
This cake had better work miracles.
With a smooth elegance, the limo glided to a stop and the door was opened by one of the clipboard-carrying production assistants. Bianca, her flaxen hair smoothed to perfection, stepped inside. She, I was sure, wasn’t a nervous wreck. Confidence seeped from her pores. In her mind, she’d already won. And that was fine as long as I came in second.
