I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (13 page)

Someone directed me to an outdoor bench littered with red throw pillows. Lit candles (the most favored
Bachelor
and
Bachelorette
prop) rested on every inch of tabletop space available. A cameraman positioned himself to my side as I waited. Yawn. And waited some more. Waiting can be an enemy. It gave me space to do some mental gymnastics
. How’s my posture? Do I look like a hunchback? Why is Brad taking so long? Maybe he just found the love of his life and decided to send everyone home.

Once I heard footsteps, I started full-fledge panicking. What would I say? What should I say? I figured I’d act as I would on a normal date. You know, one without me needing to wear a mic pack or being accompanied by producers and cameramen. I wouldn’t bring or memorize talking points while chatting up a suitor over coffee, so being myself and letting the conversation flow organically seemed the best option. And if that meant a quiet or awkward conversation, so be it.

Brad was a gentleman, sweet and kind. He listened intently and was very down to earth. I liked that. I could tell he was nervous, which made me feel better. But while he put me at ease, my nerves were still wobbly. I was trying to find a balance between being normal, staying true to myself, and making a memorable impression. I didn’t want to be gimmicky, but I also didn’t want to get lost in the shuffle of beautiful women. We had a brief but nice conversation before a producer schlepped Brad off and I headed back to the meet and greet.

When Chris Harrison walked into the room—it was the first time any of us had seen him thus far—there was an outbreak of girlie gasps. Everyone shut up quick. Wine glasses were put down. Dresses were smoothed out. Stray hairs were put in place. “You ladies look beautiful tonight,” Chris began. “Thank you all for being here. We’re about to get started for our first rose ceremony.”
Finally
, I thought. It was three or four in the morning, and I was tired.

We were directed into another room where we were positioned on risers, being pulled by our elbows in all sorts of directions by a handful of producers.

“You here.”

“You there.”

“You switch with her.”

We waited on those risers for a long time. I was pretty certain at some point I heard a rooster crow in the distance. Then Brad came out and gave a welcome or something-or-other kind of speech, and it was time for the rose roll call. Would I get one? I wasn’t sure, but I hoped I would.

The process of waiting was awful. Brad would call out four or five names, drawing out each consonant and vowel annoyingly slow, and then walk out of the room for a few minutes, come back in, and call out another four or five names in the same unhurried manner. As I watched girl after girl walk down off a riser and accept their roses, the anticipation was eating away at me.

Finally, Brad said my name. “Emily, will you accept this rose?” I was one of the last girls called. As I accepted the long-stemmed beauty in my hand, the first thought that came to mind was,
Thank goodness I didn’t get sent home the first day.
No offense to all
Bachelor
and
Bachelorette
contestants past, present, and future—including the ten girls who went home that night—but it seemed much less embarrassing to go home during the second rose ceremony.

I crawled into bed that night, mic pack finally off, dress still on, heels hanging off my feet, makeup smeared all over my face. Falling fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, I didn’t have any energy left to celebrate my victory. If the rest of the process was as exhausting as the first day, I needed as much stamina or as many gallons of Red Bull as I could find to get through the next round of one-on-ones, group dates, and who knew what else.

seven

W
hen I woke up the next morning, besides regretting the makeup I never took off the night before—a terrible habit I’d grow accustomed to—I felt pretty good. Good, but nervous. Kind of like waking up the first day of summer camp. I smelled coffee somewhere and could hear the mingled racket of giggles and chatter and gossip on the floor below.

I sat up in bed, getting a good look at my room in the infamous Casa Bachelor. Everything always looks different in the morning light. Three plain bunk beds sandwiched into a tiny space that I shared with Michelle Money, Shawntel Newton, and Chantal O’Brien. Stuff was everywhere. Because the room was so small, it was like a black hole of jeans, tank tops, bikinis, makeup, moisturizer, flat irons, shoes, shoes, and more shoes. I couldn’t take a step without my foot getting caught in a tank top or brassiere strap.

I think we were all able to sleep in that morning, which would prove a rare treat, before producers began milling around the house, grabbing girls left and right for some hoped-for juicy commentaries. Madison, the girl with the fangs, was
still a hot topic. By midmorning, I definitely knew who she was. I finally said, “Fine, so do I think it’s strange? Maybe, but who cares? Not everyone may get my look. So what?” I didn’t see the point of making a spectacle out of Madison or any of the girls. We were all trying to feel our way around what was for most of us a place well outside of our comfort zones.

Obviously throughout the filming process, producers continued to ask us questions about Brad off camera and on, some of which were aired.

“How do you think last night went?”

“What did he smell like?”

“Did you have a connection?”

When it was my turn for an interview, I chose my words carefully. While I did like Brad and thought we had some chemistry, apparently so did a handful of other girls. I’d watched the show enough to see woman after woman, über-confident that whoever the Bachelor was at the time was totally in love with them and they were definitely going to get married and have babies and live happily ever after—and then, in the next shot, these same über-confident-in-love women were taking the walk of shame off the show, shoulders slumped, tears falling, feeling totally sucker-punched by love.

I had to approach this situation with wisdom, with caution. I needed time, space, to figure it all out. Even if my heart was going pitter-patter, I didn’t want to blurt out my feelings to all of America without thinking about what I was saying. Even though I liked Brad, I needed to get to know him, which meant waiting for dates and one-on-one time. And that meant waiting around for Chris Harrison to show up and tell us what was next or waiting for a knock at the front door announcing
the arrival of a date card to tell us which lucky woman, or women, would be spending time with Brad.

Group dates are the worst. They’re so long, most starting at nine in the morning and ending well after midnight, and so boring, mainly because they are so long. Of course, I didn’t know all this when I found out I was one of fifteen girls going on the first group date. I don’t know what to call that, but fifteen girls and one Bachelor does not a date make.

The plan was to film scenes for a Red Cross public service announcement. Sounds fun, right? But for a non-actress like myself, it was a terrifying experience. I felt especially uncomfortable because I had such a heavy Southern accent and had to play a Spanish-speaking maid. Have you ever heard a Spanish-Southern accent? Yeah, it’s pretty jarring. I also had to kiss Brad in one of the scenes, which felt out of place in real life. I tried to be a good sport about the whole thing, but between the lines I had trouble memorizing and trying very hard yet unsuccessfully to sound Spanish, my performance was a total flop. The director kept yelling at me and, not mincing words, finally said with much exasperation, “Emily, I would never, ever, have you at one of my auditions!” No kidding, Captain Obvious.

Then came the infamous make-out scene where Brad was on a bed and being mauled by Chantal and Britt. In true competitive form, these two bachelorettes took advantage of the opportunity and consequently sparked a whole lot of heat among the rest of the women on set. Michelle Money wasn’t the only one ticked off. I was too.
This is not okay
, I thought.
I took time away from my girl for this baloney?
The PDA spectacle left a bad taste in my mouth about Brad and his character. And made me feel pretty gross.

Later, I got to spend time with Brad—and got a rose (yay!)—after former Bachelorette Ali Fedotowsky and her then-beau Roberto Martinez had interviewed all the ladies and fed him their opinions. I felt a stronger connection with Brad, seeing him in a different light outside of what had transpired on our group date. I admitted to him that I wasn’t the type of woman to pour my soul out when I first meet someone. My mom used to always tell me, “Never chase, and never call a boy, Emily. Never.”

I adopted that mentality in most of my relationships. Some would call it playing hard to get. But it wasn’t a strategy or a ploy. It was part of my personality, and something that had been reinforced in me while growing up. Also, because I’d experienced loss in an extreme way, I remained guarded just enough that if a guy didn’t return my affection, I wouldn’t collapse under the weight of devastation. I felt the same way about the situation with Brad. If he wasn’t chasing after me, I wasn’t going to go out of my way to win his attention or affection.

When I got my first solo date card on the third episode, I was looking forward to spending more time with Brad and actually wanted to open up more, particularly about the important stuff—like Ricky’s accident and the fact that I had a daughter.

Brad and I flew in a small plane to a beautiful vineyard. If I looked uncomfortable during the flight, it wasn’t because I was having flashbacks of Ricky’s accident. Though I’d always hated flying, I really wasn’t particularly distraught on this trip. I’d been on little planes hundreds of times before.

When Brad and I got to talking about previous relationships during the beginning of our date, I seemed a big dud on TV, avoiding questions and trying, unskillfully, to switch
gears. I wasn’t scared to tell Brad about my daughter or her father’s accident, but it wasn’t an easy conversation to have.

When the moment came, my admission during dinner was far less climactic in reality than how the scene aired, with the dramatic music playing in the background and all. Brad was sweet about the whole thing. And I was very much relieved it was over. I felt disappointed when I watched the episode later; the date felt like another sob story, one of many sad tales that Brad was bombarded with on many of his dates. I felt sorry for the poor guy. I think we all owed him a nice dinner without him needing to hear about a tragic accident, an addicted family member, or any other heartbreaking story.

After that first one-on-one date, I thought Brad might not like me. Even though I was vulnerable and shared some of my personal story, it had taken so long for me to open up to him. I had this sinking feeling that Brad felt more comfortable around a woman who wasn’t so reserved and was happy to divulge personal details and feelings. I didn’t get to talk to him for about a week after our date, so the cocktail party before the fourth rose ceremony left me exasperated. I didn’t know what Brad was thinking about me or our date.

And then, as I was sitting on the couch gabbing with the other girls during the soiree, his handsome self turned up round the corner, and he asked, picnic basket in hand, “Emily, do you have a second? Can I grab you really quickly?” Our moment was brief but sweet. Brad and I talked about Ricki (who, by the way, I was calling every day). Our time gave me the boost of confidence I needed to assure me Brad still considered me as a potential bachelorette. When I walked back into the house, I felt happy, giddy even. Not that I wanted to shout
from the balcony how special Brad had made me feel. No need to stir unnecessary drama.

But my smile said it all. When I stepped into the living room where most of the girls had been before I was whisked away, you could hear a pin drop. The girls sat there, glaring. Nobody said a word. And then, one by one, they all left to go outside. I stood alone in the house, feeling paddled by a storm of insecurities, jealousies, and cattiness. This came with the reality-TV-show territory, I knew. But it sucked feeling so isolated by something you didn’t do on purpose. Not knowing what to do next, I headed to the kitchen, a girl’s best friend and worst enemy during emotional distress, where I threw back a glass of wine or two and some pizza.

We bachelorettes stayed in the Bachelor mansion for about two weeks. Outside of group dates, one-on-one dates, and solo interviews, there was a lot of waiting. We just sat around and got to know one another. The one incident I mentioned aside, I’d never been to college or had such a huge group of girlfriends, so staying in a house with many different kinds of women was actually super fun. When we weren’t getting dolled up for dates, we were doing each other’s nails and hair, talking, and eating. And yes, while the house bar was never lonely, I don’t remember anyone getting drunk or downing shots during breakfast.

What I do remember is how quickly the house became a pigsty. Without much to do during the group dates that didn’t include me, I cleaned—spraying, wiping, and bleaching to satisfy my OCD tendencies. Early on, I begged one of the producers for a vacuum. Can you imagine how much hair a house full of twenty or so women and their extensions will generate?
I’m grossed out just thinking about it. During one of the rose ceremonies, I couldn’t even pay attention to who Brad was calling because I was zoned in on a hot dog, no bun, on the floor wrapped in a tangled heap of long hair. One time when I was cleaning the bathroom, I was greeted by a half-eaten bowl of cereal in the shower stall. Now come on! Who is really that busy they need to eat in the shower?

Aside from some really awful housekeeping habits, I loved the camaraderie in the house. Ashley S. made me laugh like no other. Ashley H. was sweet and incredibly smart. Though I had mixed feelings about getting to know a funeral home director, I fast discovered Shawntel’s heart of gold and encouraging spirit. Keltie was a girl’s girl, down-to-earth, funny, and real. She was a health nut, homeopathic this and organic that, and always carried around this medieval-looking Pilates contraption.