Page 5 of Heart to Heart
“Linus,” Kiki corrected me.
“Yeah, that’s it, like thePeanutscharacter. Anyway, I thought you said Linus chose the girl with the hair.” I hovered a hand over my head, mimicking the height of the woman’s bouffant.
“Samantha. Yes, he did, and good for you for listening to me. With the way your eyes glazed over, I’d just assumed you’d mastered falling asleep with them open.”
“So, why is it still on, then?”
“Okay, so you were only partially listening to me.” She turned the television on, quickly scrolling to channel four. A handsome man with a square jaw, whom I recognized as Linus, an investment banker from Cedar Rapids, sat on a couch, talking to the pretty host with the most flawless skin I’d ever seen, pure mahogany. Kamila. Kamila Lewis, if I remember from the promotional commercials that air relentlessly whenever a new season was approaching.
“After the proposal,” Kiki began, “there’s always a show recapping the season, rehashing all the drama, making amends, and whatever other loose ends that need to be addressed. Oh, and at the end of this, they’re announcing who the new star is going to be next season. Another white guy, most likely, but I like to imagine they’re going to surprise me.”
“And what’s wrong with white guys?” Ethan asked, a hunk of cheese dangling from his mouth.
“Well, if the movie is to be believed, you can’t jump.”
As a slew of women from Linus’s season paraded on stage, some in tears, presumably over their inability to capture his heart, and others just happy for the airtime, I listened to Kiki provide her narrative of the season—who the fan favorites were based on votes and the girls considered to be the villains of the show, which made me chuckle at the absurdity all the more.
“Yeah, I don’t feel sorry for you, Jackie D., what with your banking fifty thousand big ones and all.”
“Wait? They get paid to be on the show?”
“Just the runner-up.”
“Doesn’t that, I don’t know, ensure that they’re not really there for the right reasons?”
Kiki shrugged. “Eh, maybe. But they also face total humiliation and heartbreak on national television. So, if they can’t walk away with the dude, at least they aren’t going home empty-handed. Besides, the men they choose, aside from the lack of diversity, are all top-notch guys. The winner usually lands endorsement deals of sorts at the end and gets to keep the engagement ring, whether the engagement turns into an actual marriage or not, so there’s money exchanged all the way around.”
Near the end of the show, Samantha was brought on stage, a vision in her form-fitting ruby red dress and long red hair that burned like fire against her porcelain skin. She positively beamed at Linus, gazing longingly at him like I did the cupcakes at my mom’s bakery. No way was that manufactured. You can’t fake the genuine smiles on their faces. Perhaps, just maybe, this unconventional process may work, after all.
Kamila’s buttery smooth voice, capable of putting the best ASMR experience to shame, piped in, momentarily taking our attention away from Samantha and Linus’s bliss, “This has certainly been another exciting, dramatic season ofHeart to Heart, but as smoking hot as this season has been, the next one promises to be a scorcher.” Kamila turned ever so slightly in their chair to address the audience of young women dressed in outfits that probably cost more than my rent. “Do you all want to hear who our next heartbreaker is?”
“No,” Ethan yelled, a half-chewed bite of pizza falling from his mouth. “Who is she again?”
“What a lucky woman I am.” Kiki chucked a decorative pillow at him; a dollar store find, meaning it was worth more than our couch. “And don’t misgender Kamila like that.”
After calming down the herd of screaming women, Kamila turned back to the camera. “Let me tell you, all the fuss is warranted because next season’s star is none other than former People’s Choice Award nominee andDaily Gossip’s choice for Sexiest Action Hero Alive, Tristan Tate!”
“Oh, no fucking way!” Kiki and I exclaimed in unison, bolting upright on the couch.
Tristan Tate, the only man whose poster had ever graced my wall as a teenager, right beside Vincent van Gogh’sThe Starry Nightand a now-defunct indie rock band, was going to be on the show I routinely made fun of. On cue, he walked onto the stage, all dark tousled hair and five o’clock shadow; the perfect example of cocky indifference. Yes, I was a full-blown Tater Tot—the nickname that had been given to his fans.
“Oh, no fucking way!” Ethan joined in our exaltation when it clicked in his brain who Tristan Tate was. “It’s that dude from that movie with that car and the guns, and…”
“And the bald dude with the truck—yes, we know.” Kiki shook her head. “He’s probably been in, like, every action movie you’ve seen from 2016 through 2020.”
“Why does he need to be involved in this, then?”
“You really are never listening to my nightly recaps ofHollywood Grapevine, are you?”
Ethan shook his head. “I tune out about thirty seconds in.”
“You last longer than me. I’m gone in about seven.” Ethan and I smirked, knowingly at each other.
“Why do I even bother?” Kiki sighed, turning to address us like a teacher to a class that had just failed their first exam. “Tristan Tate hasn’t worked much in Hollywood since the whole paparazzi shoving incident and all the drunken stumbling from night club to night club. After the assault, he started showing up to sets late, forgetting his lines, and was pretty much black-balled in the industry.”
“And now he’s trying to take back his career? Is he even looking for love, at all?” I asked, still solely transfixed by the man with the chiseled jawline, whose hazel eyes reflected so much inner turmoil, with their flecks of green and honey warring with each other for dominance. The winner of that battle depended on his mood, his eyes taking on a golden hue the more serious he seemed. The green had taken over tonight now that he was sitting on the couch with Kamila, laughing and carefree.
“I think love is the last thing anyone on these shows is looking for,” Ethan scoffed.
