Eight Weeks to Mr. Right (12 page)

I wanted my privacy back. But it had been my choice to go on the show. Any consequences that now came out of that were my own fault.
 

“I’m running out to get eggs,” I called to Ben one evening from the living room. “Need anything?”

“Just a kiss,” he said, appearing in the doorway, and I shivered in delight at his words. It was all still so new, yet so familiar, like we’d slid right back into the place we’d left off all those years ago.
 

His lips brushed mine, his hands snaking around my back to draw me in, and then, feeling exhilarated, I headed out into the chilly night.
 

For the first time in months, days of the week were starting to mean something again: there were the days that Ben was home during the day, and there were the days he wasn’t. I started looking forward to the weekends just like I had in high school, time that he and I could spend together. And just like in high school, I was falling for him. And fast.

There was a corner store down the street that sold everything from liquor to pantry staples to soft-serve frozen yogurt, and I popped for a dozen eggs, waving to the cashier, a Moroccan man named Ahmed I’d come to recognize in my short time in the neighborhood. Day and night, he was here.
 

“Mrs. Right,” he said, nodding at me in greeting, and I shook my head, smiling. He’d taken to calling me that once he’d found out I was on the show, a fact he’d figured out from days spent reading the tabloids that lined the front of the counter. I didn’t mind when he said it, though, as from him I felt no judgment about my role, only mild interest.
 

I grabbed the eggs, but before checking out picked up a tabloid on an impulse. It was the same magazine that had printed the photo of me and Ben, but today it featured an unflattering shot of a B-list celebrity on a beach vacation with the headline, “Fat or pregnant? Rumors fly!”
 

It was exactly what I hated about tabloids, but at least this time it wasn’t about me. I flipped through the magazine, wanting to verify that there was nothing on
Mr. Right
this week — wanting, I suppose, to reassure myself that my status as a villain was old news, that the gossip world had moved on and I could get my life back.
 

There was news of Hollywood breakups, flings, fashion disasters, parties, upcoming movies…and then, in the middle of the magazine, a photo of Isabella from our promo shots. I paused.
 

“What’s in a name?” the headline asked. I read on. “Over the weekend one of our reporters made a startling discovery: Isabella Alderisi of the new reality dating show
Eight Weeks To Mr. Right
hasn’t always gone by her current name. In fact, a source close to the reality star confirmed that until taping of the show began in February, she’d spent her life as Isabel Holt. Our source, who wishes to remain anonymous, said that she believes the woman began going by Isabella and adopted her Italian maternal grandmother’s last name as an attempt to appear more interesting to the cultured Andrew Audrave, the male star of the show and eponymous Mr. Right.”

I laughed to myself, closing the tabloid and replacing it on the shelf. So I wasn’t the only one whose personal life was getting examined under a microscope. Poor Isabella. Worried she wasn’t interesting enough as herself, had to become someone else before she could appear in front of the world.
 

“Just the eggs, or the magazine too?” Ahmed asked, looking at me over the tops of his glasses.

“Just the eggs,” I said. I’d had as much gossip as I could handle for the day.

On Wednesday night, I snuggled with Ben on the couch, feeling the familiar sense of dread descend on me as the show’s opening sequence came on. I was grateful that this was the second-to-last episode I’d be in, aside from the live show.
 

Carson Carmichael, the show’s host, appeared on screen to introduce the episode. “We’re getting down to the wire now,” he said. “There are only four women remaining: January, Isabella, Brandi, and Abby. On today’s show, Andrew will visit the homes of each of these women. He’ll get to know their parents and siblings…and give their families a chance to know him.”

I’d been excited about Andrew’s visit to San Francisco, in part because it meant I got to take what was then a rare visit home. But as the date neared, I got increasingly worried that Andrew wouldn’t like my family — or worse, that they wouldn’t like him.

I remembered the phone conversation with my mom when we talked about Andrew coming over for dinner: “What do I cook for a CEO?” “Mom, he’s not coming as a CEO, he’s coming as my boyfriend. What would you cook for any boyfriend Sophie or I brought over?” “For any boyfriend you brought over with a camera crew? Probably nothing in a red sauce.”

They were all nervous. I was too. In the end, each of my family members had contributed to the meal: Mom had grilled steaks, Dad had made potatoes gratin, and Sophie had brought over an elaborate salad. I’d made pound cake with caramel sauce for dessert.
 

At first, everything had seemed to go smoothly. I thought the meal turned out perfectly, a delicious treat. I’d wanted so badly for Andrew to think so too. He’d easily made small talk with my parents and Sophie, asking about their jobs and my parents’ recent vacation to Maine, but mostly talking about his own work with La Joie. But when I’d pulled him aside after dinner to ask what he’d thought, all he said was, “It was good. I usually take my steak a little rarer, but it was good.” And about my family, a noncommittal “they’re nice.”

Why had I felt like we’d messed up? Looking back, it was clear to me that Andrew was the one who had been rude. But the episode was edited, once again, to paint me in a bad light — the producers had included every grimace I’d made, every eye roll with no context, and they were again using dark music over my scenes to suggest I was up to no good.
 

I glanced over and saw Ben’s jawline harden as we watched Andrew dining with my family.
 

“Look…” I started, feeling the need to say something but not sure what to say. “You don’t have to watch these if it’s too hard for you. I know it’s weird. I can…watch on my own.”

He swallowed. “No, I told you I’d help you defend yourself, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s being shown. I’m here for you.”

I was relieved. The truth was, I wasn’t sure I could do it without Ben. I’d really come to rely on him over the past few weeks, both for helping me online after the shows, but also to help me get through each episode as it happened.
 

I snuggled into him on the couch, and he put his arm around me. “Thank you,” I said. “I may have gotten carried away while I was on the show, but now I’m all yours.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s just hard to see this other guy spending time with you, meeting your parents and all.”
 

After dinner, Andrew and my dad had gone out to the deck to talk. I didn’t know what they’d talked about, but of course I could guess.
 

“Do you really like January?” my dad was saying on the screen.

“She’s a great girl,” Andrew said.
 

Inside, I was having a similar conversation with my mom, one that the cameras hadn’t caught. “I thought this was all about the job,” I remembered her whispering to me. “You don’t really think he’s the one, do you?”

“I don’t know,” I’d said, unwilling to admit just how much of a 180 I’d done in the previous few weeks. “He could be.”
 

In the episode, my dad was continuing to talk with Andrew. “But there are still two other women,” he’d pointed out.
 

“Yes,” Andrew agreed. “I have some tough choices ahead of me, but January is very special. And I need to know: if it gets to the point where I want her to be my wife, do I have your support?”

My dad hesitated. “You haven’t known each other very long. But it’s not my decision. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”

Out in the backyard, before he left for the night, Andrew gave me a paper heart and kissed me gently on the lips.
 

I took a deep breath. I could almost not stand to see this, and I couldn’t even imagine what Ben was thinking. I hated making him uncomfortable. I wanted him to know that he was the important one, that Andrew was less and less important to me every single day, despite what we were seeing on the screen.
 

And I wanted him to come to brunch with me. My parents wanted him to come to brunch. The only people who didn’t want him to come to brunch were the producers. And as long as they never found out, what was the harm?

“Ben,” I started, “I’m going to my parents’ house for brunch on Sunday. Do you want to come with me?”

He looked at me, surprised. “Are you only inviting me because I’m pouting?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “No. I’m inviting you because I want you there. And because you’re right, it’s silly to keep putting us on hold for a reality show that I’m about to get eliminated from anyway.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “I would love to go to your parents’ brunch,” he said.
 

Hesitantly, I added, “We will have to be careful not to be seen, though. I’m still under contract for one more week.”

He wrapped me up in a hug and gently kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry,” he said lightheartedly. “If anyone follows us, I’ll just duck.”

During Brandi’s segment, she pumped Andrew for information about his other dates, especially mine, but he didn’t say much. She normally kept her snark between the other women, but I supposed that with none of us around in her Alabama hometown, she had to let it out directly to him.
 

“January is just using you,” she said, her blonde hair bouncing when she nodded for emphasis, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Okay…but let’s talk about your family,” Andrew, to his credit, had said. “Tell me what I should expect from your mom.” She’d been cut at the end of this episode, and her tearful last interview in the confessional had consisted mostly of, “I can’t believe
she’s
still in but I’m gone. It’s so unfair!”

After the episode ended, I gave Ben another squeeze, then together we turned to the Internet. I responded to a few mean tweets and wrote a quick post on my blog about how much fun it had been to have Andrew come to my house and meet my family. Ben advised me not to protest the way I’d been edited in the show, but only to talk about the positives.
 

So I also didn’t mention my family’s impression of Andrew, which had been lukewarm at best. None of them had said much after he left. I’d known what that meant, so I didn’t press it. But later, after I’d been eliminated from the show and come home, when I was in the deepest depths of my pain over being dumped, Sophie had said, “You can do better.”

At the time I’d resented it. How could I do better than a CEO of a major perfume house? Who could possibly be more perfect for me than Andrew?
 

But now, I was starting to agree.

On Sunday morning, Ben drove us to my parents’ house for the first time in thirteen years. The weather was beautiful, starting out foggy and cool, but burning off around noon into a clear, sunny day.
 

We sat outside on the back deck, as promised, and stared out over the lush green lawn. It felt so good to have Ben sitting beside me — so right. So normal.
 

Sophie had brought Matt, and I got a little thrill at the idea of us being two couples plus me and Ben — three couples. For that day, I didn’t want to think about what might come next, whether this thing had to end. I just wanted to enjoy the sunshine, enjoy the good food and good company, and enjoy having Ben by my side.

My dad had made a frittata and had big slices of watermelon soaking in lime and fresh mint. There were biscuits — the same ones I’d made with Andrew on our cooking date, which I’d learned to bake from my dad — and a honey-butter spread to go on them. It was delicious, and all of it reminded me of my childhood, when my parents had made big brunches on a regular basis. This was much more typical of my family than the meal they’d made for Andrew. It felt like they’d made what they wanted to eat, not what they thought would impress.
 

We drank mimosas from fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the meal was a clutter of voices and laughter and clinking plates and glasses. My family was relaxed around Ben, and he seemed comfortable with them too.
 

“This is so good,” Ben told my dad, helping himself to another slice of frittata. “I wish I could cook like this.”

“Oh, it’s easy,” my dad said. “I’ll teach you sometime.”

I smiled.

He asked my mom about the flowers she’d planted in the yard and in planters around the deck, and she told him the names and recommended a few that would grow well inside our flat and in pots on the front steps. He wrote them down, adding, “I want to make the apartment feel homier.” He gave me a smile.

As my dad went inside to brew a fresh pot of coffee and Mom went to make more mimosas, Ben squeezed my hand under the table. I smiled at him.
 

“How are you liking the new place?” Sophie asked me, and from her raised eyebrow I knew what she was really asking: How are things going with you two?

“It’s good,” I told her, grinning. I’d fill her in on the details later.

“What have you been up to, Matt?” I asked. Sophie’s boyfriend had been quiet throughout brunch, not interacting much with the rest of us, though that wasn’t unusual for him. I thought again how odd a match they were, but if he made Sophie happy, that was what mattered.
 

“Not much,” he said, shifting as though conversation itself made him uncomfortable. “Just work and home.”

“We tried a new lasagne recipe,” Sophie offered. “White sauce, caramelized onions, with thin slices of sweet potato.”

“That sounds good,” I said.

“Let’s make lasagne,” Ben said, turning to me. “I have a pasta machine that I never use.”

“Homemade pasta? Definitely!”
 

“And you can invite us over for dinner,” Sophie joked.