I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (17 page)

The next rose ceremony took place on a dock overlooking a river occupied by hordes of hippos watching us suspiciously as they swam stealthily around the peaceful waters. Chantal and I waited for Ashley to make her appearance so the three of us could wait together for Brad to hand out the remaining two roses. I could tell something was wrong with Ashley when she came toward us. She looked as though she’d been crying all night. The sun beat down strong on my shoulders as Brad made his way down the dock and, not saying a word to us, reached out for Ashley’s hands. Together they walked away. I didn’t know what they were doing or where they were going.

As Brad and Ashley left, the cameras zoned in on Chantal and me, who had to stand and wait, and wait, and wait, until the pair came back. We couldn’t talk to each other, so we stood in silence, the background of the wild, chirping, snorting, and howling engulfing the quiet. Ashley never came back, just Brad.

After he announced that Chantal and I were the final two
lucky women left standing, he asked the producers if he and I could spend some time together, alone, off camera. Graciously, they agreed. (Side note: That was the last I saw of Chantal.)

I don’t know if it was the romantic evening we had shared the night before, the emotional high of being the “chosen one,” or what, but I was getting more excited about this whole thing coming to what seemed to be a very hopeful close. It’s amazing how powerful emotions are, how quickly they can change or be influenced.

Capetown was next, our final destination. There I met Brad’s family, his mom and two brothers and their wives, who were really nice and made for wonderful company. On one of our outings, his brother said something like, “So have you poked the bear yet?” I didn’t know what he meant or what he was talking about, so I just laughed it off and started talking about something else. I realized what Brad’s brother was saying toward the end of my last date with Brad, the one before the final rose ceremony.

Before that Last Chance Date, producers had been pushing me to dig a little deeper with Brad. “Ask him harder questions,” one said.

“Like what?” I asked. For Pete’s sake, I felt like Brad and I had talked about everything already.

Reeling from so many different emotions, I was filled with doubt by the time Brad and I reunited for the Last Chance Date. When he and I had a chance to sit down and talk after soaking in the Capetown scenery via helicopter, I started, unintentionally, poking the bear.

The conversation focused on the topic of Ricki. “I can’t wait to be a stepdad,” Brad said, grinning.

I nodded and began my passionate interrogation. “Well, what exactly does that mean?”

For the next few minutes, Brad would offer how ready he was to be a father. And I would question his statements, posing more questions of my own, and reiterating that parenting wasn’t a walk in the park. The same conversation kept cycling. And cycling. And cycling.

The minute I emotionally stepped away from the moment and could begin to see what was a pointless conversation, I noticed Brad getting angry. He kept touching the sides of his face, shifting his eyes down, giving me a little less eye contact. I’d never before seen him do that. Once he started turning red, it was obvious he was on the verge of losing control but was trying hard to contain his emotions. Yup, I had poked the bear.

When Brad left the room the first time, the time you don’t see on the episode, I sat on the couch wondering what on earth I had done. I was confused. On one hand, I was totally turned off by his reaction. On the other hand, the more I thought about the situation, the more I could understand he was probably at his breaking point. Being on the show is demanding. And Brad was under a lot of pressure. Eventually, he did come back and gave me a stiff hug to end our evening.

I went to bed that night questioning our relationship, as well as my confidence in Brad picking me now that I had just really ticked him off. I had woken up early the next morning, spending time alone on my balcony, when I saw Brad on his balcony a floor down from me and over to the left. “Hey,” I called out. Brad turned his head and replied a stale, “Hey,” before hurriedly ducking back into his suite. Something seemed off. He looked like he was hiding something. (What I didn’t know was
that Brad had flown my father in for the day so he, in person and off camera, could ask for Dad’s blessing to marry me.)

For the next few hours, as I was getting ready for the final rose ceremony, I had my picture taken a hundred different times in a hundred different ways doing a hundred different things.

“Emily, pick up your cup and look to the side.”

“Emily, write in your journal.”

“Emily, walk toward that palm tree and look pensive.”

The show’s stylist was back with a rack of dresses for me to choose, as was a makeup artist and a local hair stylist. When it was time to do my hair, I showed the woman a picture of what I wanted done. Simple beach waves. She nodded and proceeded to whip out a curling iron the size of a pencil. I gulped. I wasn’t a professional hairdresser by any means, but I did know that particular piece of equipment wasn’t meant to create beach waves, more like orphan Annie ringlets. I kept my mouth shut though. She was the professional, not me. When thirty minutes of curling had passed, my producer, who was hanging out with me, cocked his head and asked, “Um, is Emily’s hair supposed to look like that?”

I jumped up from my chair, turning around to face the mirror, and started bawling. I looked like I had just stuck my finger in an electrical socket. I didn’t have time to get in the shower and start over, so another stylist shuttled over and tried her best to mask what was now a brushed-out, brittle mess by straightening the heck out of my hair. It wasn’t a good start to such an important day. Maybe even a bad sign.

I drove in a white Mercedes limousine to the winery where I would either get proposed to or dumped. My initial surety in
being Brad’s final pick waned. After last night’s shenanigans, who knew what would happen? My producer and I drove for miles and miles down the interstate, passing through one shantytown after another. Staring at these dilapidated tin houses stacked on top of one another, as stable as a house of cards, gave me some perspective.

Here I was, driving in a luxury car, wearing a designer dress, just having had my hair done twice, on this successful TV show, having traveled to the most exotic places in the world. I couldn’t help but think,
My word. I am so blessed.
A part of me felt guilty, almost foolish, for the opportunity I was given, while these beautiful South African people, and many more across the world, were living in absolute poverty. The tears fell, and my stomach twisted into a heavy knot.

As we pulled up a long, winding gravel road, I started getting nauseated. I didn’t feel well at all. Chris Harrison greeted me as I got out of the limo. I tried to read his face, hoping I could gauge either a hint of sympathy or excitement, some telltale sign of what I could expect. Nothing. We weren’t able to talk as we were filmed walking down a long pathway framed by enormous granite boulders and translucent ponds showing off brightly colored koi fish.

After crossing through a large room in the winery, Chris and I stood at the top of steep stairs that would lead me down yet another path where Brad would be waiting. Chris wished me luck, and I oh so carefully took step after step down that staircase, praying I wouldn’t fall.

By the time I set foot on solid ground, I was able to look up and around, soaking in the stunning scenery of luscious green
meadows and gorgeous mountain views. And there Brad was. As I stepped closer, I tried to read him.
Does he look happy? Worried? Like he’s been crying?
I couldn’t tell.

I stood before him, overwhelmed, a bit scared. It felt like an out-of-body experience, like I was hovering above, watching the spectacle, almost detached. After Brad offered a romantic monologue of his feelings for me, he said, “Please let me be your best friend. Please let me protect you and your beautiful daughter. And please give me the opportunity to love you for the rest of your life. I love you, Emily.”

Then, Brad got down on one knee and popped the question. The proposal was quiet. No dramatic music played (it is not as theatrical as what you see on TV), and no one on the set barely even moved an inch, let alone said a word. It was strange.

As I said before, in hindsight, my feelings were muddled by many different variables. Obviously I liked the guy. And obviously I wanted to get to know him better. But I couldn’t say I loved him. And while at the time I said I was falling in love with him—and on the episode you hear all the sound bites to that effect—I don’t know how true that was. Yes, I was looking for love. Yes, I wanted to fall in love so desperately. And yes, I wanted to want to marry the guy. But it was all so premature. I wasn’t ready to start a life with someone. As I said before, I had no business being engaged. When I look back at the video of that day, I hardly recognize myself. I don’t even connect with that person.

After I said yes, Brad scooped me up in his arms and said, “Wow, Em! You’re a lot heavier than you look.” Well, that about ruined the tender moment. He knew my weight had always been a sore spot. Noticing his comment bothered me,
Brad issued a quick, “Oh, I was just kidding.” You can see why this never aired. Very unromantic.

Almost immediately after the yes, the glamour and glitz and fairy tale and all the rest of the glittery-but-not-really-gold stuff was pretty much over. It seemed like someone had bellowed, “It’s a wrap, people!” Literally, the minute after I said, “I do,” all the camera equipment was shut off and started getting packed up, lighting was being broken down, and the producers and other staff on the show started making their way out of the winery. Crazy, right? There is no smooth transition back into reality. Chris Harrison didn’t guide us back into the real world with words of wisdom. No network counselor came to talk to us about what happens next. Brad and I were pretty much on our own to venture into a new version of real life.

We spent the next few days together at his suite. We couldn’t go anywhere because the paparazzi had somehow managed to snap some pictures of us together, so it was back to confinement. We didn’t do much of anything other than lay out by the pool, being polite to each other. The fact was, I hardly knew the guy. Oh sure, we both had experienced an intense two months, but we hardly had an actual relationship. It was almost like hanging out with a stranger, definitely not a fiancé.

When I think back, I remember hoping my feelings would grow stronger. I did love the idea of being together with someone, but something was missing. Oh, Brad and I snuggled and cuddled and all that jazz, but I wouldn’t say we had fun. You know, the kind of fun where you can laugh and joke and be silly and comfortable. Though we had some connection, of course, our time together was quiet, awkward, maybe even bland at times. I thought maybe it was normal, given the
circumstances, and he and I just needed more time off camera to unwind and resettle into somewhat of a normalcy.

A few days later, Brad flew back to Austin. And I, without a Neil Lane diamond ring sparkling on my left hand, journeyed back home. I couldn’t wear the ring at this time, so a producer took it back with her.

nine

I
t was a few weeks before November 2010 when I settled into a new and at times very emotionally draining normal. I was engaged to be married. It didn’t quite sink in, so I let myself float about the strange reality. Also, I didn’t give Ricki the full scoop when I got back. It’s not as though Brad and I had set a date; we were both very aware we needed time.

Because the show wasn’t going to air until January, Brad and I had to keep our relationship under wraps until the season finale in March. Which meant many phone calls, exchanges of cute care packages and cards, and several secret get-togethers in Los Angeles where we would stay in an undisclosed location courtesy of the network. Brad and I went incognito during those visits. Flying separately, of course, and staying put in the house so no one would know we were together.

I remember my first flight out to see Brad. Because we’d be homebound, I packed only the essentials, particularly loungewear. Lots of leggings and my cozy UGG boots. I was thankful this was one time I didn’t need to pack a gown or be strategic in my wardrobe. When we’d wake up in the morning, I’d basically stay put in my comfies, but Brad would get decked
out, wearing designer jeans, a nice shirt, and dressy shoes. So while I spent our time together looking relatively homeless, Brad looked like he was going out to eat at a trendy hotspot. Not a very warm and cozy match.

Things between us were tough during that time, definitely not lovey-dovey. So much so that a few weeks after we filmed the last show, Brad sent an e-mail, copying me, to the producers saying,
Sorry but things didn’t work out with Emily and I. It wasn’t the fairy tale I thought it would be
. That was the first of a hundred breakups. While I wasn’t surprised by what Brad wrote—I mean, really, he was right—I was surprised to hear this from him via a cc on an e-mail.

One of the producers I had become good friends with called me and said, “Hey, what’s up? What’s going on between you and Brad?”

“I have no idea,” was my reply.

Soon after, Brad and I got back together, me willing to give our relationship another shot. Look, I wasn’t perfect. Brad wasn’t the sole cause of our friction. I had my own share of insecurities and emotional baggage that interfered with what I hoped would have been a healthy relationship. Clearly, I wasn’t ready. But I kept trying to make it work. We both did. In our own unhealthy ways. In hindsight, this wasn’t a cause either one of us should have fought so hard for.

Brad and I continued to talk before the show aired in January and did a great job of keeping everything hush-hush. There were rumors going around online that Brad had dumped me, chosen Chantal, and spent Thanksgiving with her in Seattle. I can’t tell you how many people approached me around town who had gobbled up that false information.
Whether I was grabbing a coffee at Starbucks or checking out groceries at the supermarket, strangers would come up to me, with maudlin eyes and big sighs, and say, “Oh honey, I’m so sorry you didn’t end up with Brad. It’s for the best” or, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I’ll bet you’ll make a great Bachelorette!” And because I wasn’t allowed to say one word in response, I’d just politely smile and nod.