I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (15 page)

The glamour of being on
The Bachelor
was wearing off of most of us by this time. Jet-setting to exotic locations aside, being in this kind of situation gets a little hairy the more you, little by little, invest into the man of the hour. For me, my emotions were beginning to lose some balance. I started getting pelted by anxiety and bushwhacked by jealousy (more on that in a minute).

Remember how I said I love the mountains? This was still true in Costa Rica, to a certain extent. It was pouring rain on our first group date, which demanded us to rappel down the side of a mountain on a flimsy rope. Looking up at a mountain is an entirely different thing than going down one. Maybe this sounds boring, but no, I’m not an adventurer. I’m not the girl who says with a beaming smile that she is “up for anything!” I don’t rock climb. I don’t ski. And the only water sport I’ll participate in is floating on a tube in wave- and wake-free water. Rappelling down massive waterfalls? Not so much fun. Especially not on a date. And not on one where you’re already covered head to toe in a drenching plastic-bag poncho feigning excitement while raindrops pound into your eyeballs.

When it was my turn, the minute I bounced off the side of the mountain, I got even more drenched by the violent spray of the waterfalls. It was like rappelling while someone blasts you with a gushing garden hose at point-blank range. At one point, between the driving rain and the falls, so much water was pouring down my face I could barely see and forgot to kick off the mountain wall as the rope lowered me further down. I hung there in limbo, soaked to my underthings, screaming for
someone to “get me out of here” until one of the locals was able to rescue my wet self. I was proud that I didn’t chicken out, but felt pretty embarrassed because I looked like a troll. I tried to avoid Brad the rest of the outing and couldn’t wait to get back to the dry hotel, exotic creepy crawlers and all.

Later that night, all of us hit the pool. It was my first time being filmed while in a bikini, and I may not have looked it, but I was very uncomfortable. Ever since being pregnant, I’ve been insecure about my body (tropical drinks help numb the insecurity). We were having fun, drinking, and being silly when Brad came up and asked me to swim with him to the other side of the pool. You don’t see this on TV, but the first part of our conversation stumbled around very awkwardly. As we dipped our legs in the warm water, I said, “I’m starting to really like you, Brad, and that’s super crazy.” Good, right? I’m opening up, being more vulnerable. And then I said, “But I do things in relationships, you know, to sabotage them.”

I know—what on earth, right? The funny thing was, it wasn’t really true. Right before I had gotten into the pool that evening, some of the producers asked why my other relationships had failed. I didn’t give an answer, but my brain started spinning its wheels. Sure, after Ricky’s accident I had dated a few guys here and there, but I never fell in love, and none of the relationships—if you could even call them that—lasted more than a few weeks. So while Brad and I stared into the gleaming pool, the other bikini-clad gorgeous women eyeing us with curiosity, I think my insecurity got the best of me. And I babbled, definitely putting foot into mouth. I felt so weirded out after the “confession,” I cut bait. I jumped into the pool, hoping Brad and the cameras would focus elsewhere.

No such luck. The minute I surfaced, cameras were still on me. Which stunk for two reasons: one, I felt pretty silly after the conversation with Brad, and two, the jump in the pool did a number on my eye makeup, the mascara lumping around my eyes in a thick layer of mess. I knew I looked like a raccoon, so I tried to keep my back to the camera while they filmed me and Brad talking more—me trying to spit out how I didn’t want to ruin my chance with him and him eventually kissing me.

Before the night ended, Brad announced he wasn’t giving out any roses. The girls scratched their heads at that one. While I didn’t expect one, given our unpleasant talk, I had the sinking feeling, once again, that I had scared him off, yes, even in light of our smooch fest. Feeling emotionally drained, I went to bed.

The next day, Michelle told me she had snuck out to visit Brad in his villa the night before. Chantal had come home wearing Brad’s shirt from a one-on-one date, and Michelle took it upon herself to return it for Chantal, thus surprising him in his room. I laughed when she told me, thinking what a bold move it was. But I also got jealous. Michelle was aggressive and openly showered Brad with attention, making crystal clear she really, really liked him. The way she was so vulnerable with him made my guarded self feel insecure. Brad didn’t seem to mind her approach. It was obvious he dug her. And that made me worried. But it also made me think that because Michelle and I were so different, if Brad had the hots for her, then he was probably not the guy for me. And if that was the case, well, I had no choice but to move on.

The conversation Brad and I had had at the pool weighed heavily on me. I felt as though I needed to redeem myself, to
assure Brad I liked him and wasn’t going to allow a little fear or reservation to make me hightail it to Timbuktu.

I was filled with anxiety during the cocktail party before the rose ceremony. So when Brad and I had the chance to talk alone, I was ecstatic. This was my opportunity, my time to set the record straight.

Brad and I sat on a hammock, swinging slowly side to side as a light tropical breeze settled around us. I looked into his handsome face and in that moment could sense the pressure he was under. I felt bad for him because all these girls were looking to him—some demanding, others more heartfelt—for answers. I know he signed on to do the show and had some anticipation that when a handful of girls really like you and you have to ultimately choose one, things are bound to get messy and complicated. Still, this was a lot of drama, emotionally and otherwise, to sift through.

It wasn’t easy for me to gush, but I did my best. “Brad,” I began. “I know you can’t give me reassurance about our relationship, but I can tell you that I do have feelings for you. I know I’m a bit more shy and don’t put myself out there like the other girls, but I do like you. A lot.” I’ll never forget, as my legs stretched across his lap and Brad held my hand, he started rubbing the ring finger on my left hand.

Then he said, “I’ve really tried my best to show you how I feel about you,” while continuing to gently caress my ring finger. It was the most amazing, intimate moment I’d had with Brad yet. And this time, it scared me to death.

So, sure, I was finally able to redeem that awful conversation and, yes, I got a rose that night. I should have felt confident, right? Optimistic? If not floating high on a cloud
of euphoria? But as I started journaling before I went to bed, doubt whispered in my ear.

Maybe this is all in my head.

Maybe Brad’s lying.

Maybe he said the same thing to Michelle or Chantal or some other girl.

Maybe I’m overanalyzing everything.

One of my favorite producers on the show nicknamed me Doomsday Maynard. He figured out pretty quickly that I’m my own worst enemy. I have a very annoying tendency to doubt, to worry, to fear, to question, to not get hyped up when something good happens for fear the second I blink, it’s going to get snatched away, and I’ll be left standing, the butt of some sick and twisted divine joke. In this case, there was nothing I could do other than try my best to be open to the possibility of love and wait. Wait for our next destination. And wait for another rose to settle my anxiety that this wasn’t just a made-for-TV relationship.

eight

B
y the time the six of us (Ashley, Michelle, Chantal, Shawntel, Britt, and I) reached the turquoise shores of Anguilla, I could have stuck my head in and kissed the sprawling, sandy Caribbean beach—if it wasn’t weird . . . or gross. I don’t think I’d seen the sun during the entire week we spent in Costa Rica. It was pretty depressing! But hey, I didn’t sign up for a vacation, now, did I? What can you say about Anguilla? It’s gorgeous. A tropical paradise. Sun and surf and refreshing breezes and stunning shades of blue everywhere you look.

While we were traveling to all these cool places, there were some repercussions from constantly being on the move, adapting to different time zones, different foods, different environments—all while being sequestered from the world and clustered with the same group of girls, never knowing when you’re going to be sent home. So far, outside of getting to know Brad better and hanging with the other girls around pools and hot tubs and giving each other manicures and sharing beauty tips, there wasn’t much to do but eat and drink. Eat and drink while we were giving pedis. Eat and drink while we were curling hair. Eat and drink while we were talking about
Brad. Then, eat more and drink more. Sleep wasn’t high on the priority list, and while I would usually crash earlier than most of the girls, there were plenty of times I’d get by on only a few hours of sleep.

I was so sleep deprived at one point, I remembered the sleeping pill I had packed, just in case. I was desperate for at least one night to go to bed at a decent hour and not wake up like the living dead. After taking the pill, I finally fell asleep around 3:00 a.m. Only four hours later, barely enough time for the effects of the medication to subside, I was abruptly woken up by a producer shouting to my sleeping beauty self, “Chris Harrison is downstairs. Let’s go!”

I don’t remember getting out of bed. I don’t remember putting on shoes. I don’t remember climbing down the stairs. But I made it, sitting on the couch with the rest of my fresh-eyed and perky companions, most of whom looked like they’d been up for hours. I remember looking down at one point, right before I nodded off in my medicated stupor, and noticing I had forgotten to put on pants. I was wearing a long flannel nightshirt, undies, and UGGs. That’s it. My observation was brief, however, as I immediately settled into a five-second snooze fest before I heard Chris say, “Emily? Emily?”

I immediately gained enough consciousness to open my droopy eyes wide and smile. “Oh yes, I’m sorry. Um, what’s that?” I mumbled, a little too cheerily. Chris continued to say something I don’t remember as I nodded off again, trying very unsuccessfully to stay alert.

Next thing I heard was Chris asking one of the producers, “Is Emily okay?”

“Yup, yup. Here I am!” I piped up again, absolutely clueless
to what was going on around me. By the time the sleeping pill wore off, I was petrified they would show the clip and I’d be portrayed as a pill-popping drunk or something. Luckily, in the episode that aired, I was faded in the background.

I had a one-on-one date with Brad in Anguilla. We whirred above the island in a helicopter, landing on a remote section of beach where we picnicked, swam, and cuddled. I felt comfortable with Brad, a little less guarded.

“I like it out here,” Brad said, admiring the idyllic scene around us.

“Me too.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Uh, this is a really cool view.”

“It is really pretty.”

“Can I tell you something? I get nervous around you.”

“I do too!”

“I kick myself either for fumbling my words or to be honest not kissing you,” he opened up as we sipped on champagne and munched on fancy cheese.

“This is scary,” I admitted.

“What scares you?” he asked.

“Getting my heart broken, but I know to fall in love I have to let down my guard.”

“Em, I care for you so much and I take things slowly because I like you. This is me. I move slowly. I care more for you than I should probably even say right now.” And grabbing my face in his hands, Brad kissed me.

At dinner, lulled by the calming sound of the tide as it rolled up and gracefully sprawled over the shore, Brad told me
he wanted to meet Ricki. I let out an apparently loud sigh, not feeling it at all. I know my hesitation disappointed him, but Ricki was my life. She hadn’t met any guy I dated, and really, I had only known him for a few short weeks. So for as many deep feelings as I had to want to get to know him more, and as hopeful as I was that maybe, just maybe, we could both fall in love and live happily ever after, I wasn’t ready for him to meet Ricki. She was the portal to my life, my world. She was mine.

Brad was sweet and understanding. Apart from his handsome features and bulging biceps, these two characteristics drew me closer to him. I was elated when he told me I was getting a hometown date, which was scheduled for the next week. The announcement came as a shock to the producers. Not that he picked me, but that he actually told me so before the rose ceremony. All Bachelors and Bachelorettes were sternly warned not to spoil any surprises on camera. Brad got in trouble for this one, but it upped my confidence that his feelings for me were real.

We sailed through the rest of the evening in a romantic blur. If you’re wondering whether or not it’s awkward to kiss while cameramen are filming, uh, definitely. But sometimes they are far enough away that you forget they’re there. I enjoyed cuddling with Brad as moonlight glazed the ocean’s surface, but the captivating scene wasn’t strong enough for me to ignore the obvious. As Brad and I canoodled, five other women sat in a beautiful house waiting, hoping, to do the same.

October 24 rolled around while I was still in Anguilla. It marked the sixth anniversary of Ricky’s death. I had mentioned this to the producers, but not to the other girls. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it or draw any more attention to
my story. When the anniversaries had approached in the past, I’d always just checked out, spent a good part of the week aimlessly plodding around in a dark funk. This year was different. I felt washed by an unusual, a good, sense of peace. It was the first time I was doing something in my life to move forward after losing the love of my life. It felt hopeful.

Before we left the beautiful island, it was rose ceremony time. Brad opted to nix the cocktail party because his mind was made up on whom he was going to send home, after saying good-bye to Britt earlier that afternoon. I was sad when Michelle was sent home, though I knew what a strong woman she was and was confident she’d be fine. I was going to miss my buddy, for sure, but I also knew that for the next few weeks, the remaining bachelorettes would be separated and not allowed to interact. I wouldn’t have gotten to hang out with my friend anyway.