I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (21 page)

The show wasn’t just about me finding love. It was a job for the entire crew, producers, cameramen, and everyone in between. They all depended on me, so I sucked it up and pushed through, finishing off the evening with the final shots and interviews before collapsing in bed for a few hours. While I lay on my bed in a dazed stupor, the remaining bachelors—Doug,
Jef, John, Sean, Kalon, Alejandro, Arie, Travis, Chris, and Ryan—were packing for the next leg of this journey: London.

I’d never been to London before and I was so excited to go, downing loads of vitamin C to combat whatever illness I was suffering from. When producers shuffled me to the May Fair Hotel—a gorgeous boutique hotel that overlooked the hustle and bustle of the exclusive area of May Fair—I was a mess. I didn’t get to do much oohing and ahhing before I plopped onto the plush bed, my ears in so much pain I was afraid they were going to burst. Concerned, the producers sent a doctor to my hot-pink hotel room. He diagnosed some kind of infection and gave me antibiotics that he promised would make me feel better soon.

London was chilly, more so than Bermuda, and the stylist who had helped plan out and pack my wardrobe for the next few weeks didn’t bother to include a jacket. The last thing I wanted was to get sicker in this posh but very damp city, so my producers ran out and bought me a cashmere Burberry jacket. Not that I expected them to get me a puffy Starter jacket or anything, but the gesture was more than generous. (Note to self: get sick on every trip.)

That night my producers, noticing my Casper complexion, made an appointment for me to get a spray tan at a nearby salon. Once inside, it looked more like a creepy dungeon than a beauty shop. The service was as sketchy as the interior design. Let’s just say I came out of there as orange as Ross from the episode of
Friends
in which he overdid his spray tan. Later, over a dimly lit dinner, my producers howled with laughter, barely getting out the words, “All we can see are your white teeth!” This time, I thanked my lucky stars for cold weather.
A perfect excuse to wear gloves and cover the botched job on my hands.

My first date in London was with Sean. I liked him, the all-American boy who was good-looking, super nice, athletic, and an overall good guy. He was a great, safe choice. I did worry, however, that if I ended up not picking him in the long run, all of America would hate me. While Sean was a great catch, there was still a bit of a disconnect. I wanted him to come out of his shell more. Maybe I was to blame. Maybe I didn’t make him feel comfortable or didn’t say the right things. The bottom line was, however, the chemistry just wasn’t there.

April 2 was Ricky’s birthday, which my daughter and I always celebrate by releasing a balloon. The producers let me have the morning off so Ricki and I could continue our tradition and spend quiet time together walking around magnificent London. I was in a funk the entire day, but appreciated the producers giving me space to do this off camera. They had asked if they could film some of our private moments, but I refused. Remembering my girl’s daddy was reserved for us, off the record. And I didn’t want to share it with anyone (sorry America!).

While London kicked off relatively drama-free, the upcoming group date was a breeding ground for an inevitable firestorm. I knew it would come sometime; I just didn’t know how. The guys and I headed to a quaint English pub to sample some exotic brews. As Doug and I sipped on foamy beers, he said he wanted to talk to me about something and proceeded to inform me that sometime that day Kalon had referred to my beautiful daughter, Ricki, as “baggage.”

After Doug spilled the beans, I sat on the couch fuming. I don’t think he understood how mad I was. He tried to change
the subject and cash in on some one-on-one time, but all I could think about was what Kalon had said. Say what you want about me, but don’t you dare say a word about my little girl. And certainly don’t be a coward and say it behind my back. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to go West Virginia Hood Rat Backwoods on Kalon. As furious as I was, I felt bad for his mom. As she, too, was a single mother, I could only imagine how embarrassed she would be at his comment when the episode aired.

When I walked into the room where all the guys were chilling on buttery leather couches, I felt like spewing venom. And I did. After I gave Kalon a verbal lashing, no one said a word. Everyone was as quiet as a church mouse. While I appreciated that Doug had given me the scoop, in that moment, I felt alone. Very alone. Here I was with a bunch of guys who were all saying they liked me, yet it seemed I was fighting this battle on my own. And so I left, walking out of the pub with a scowl on my face. To my disappointment, no one followed me. Another reminder that I was alone. I was most disappointed in Arie. He and I shared such a strong connection. And he clearly knew I was upset. I hoped at least he would step up on my behalf. But nope. I got zilch.

As I walked back to my hotel, my heels clomping loudly on the sidewalk, the damp air seeped into my skin. My mind reeled. I began to wonder if the lull in the room after I reamed out Kalon was because the other guys weren’t so innocent. Maybe they had something to hide that Kalon could use as ammunition. Maybe if they tried to say anything in my defense, Kalon could have switched the attention on them and whatever hurtful or not-so-nice comment they might have said.

I cried the whole walk to the hotel, my eyes stinging, my shoulders heavy. I didn’t just feel sick from the infection I was still fighting; I felt spent. Emotionally and mentally worn the heck out. I didn’t think any of these guys were the ones for me. And I didn’t appreciate the fact that me having a daughter was used in a story line. I just wanted to shut the whole thing down and go home. Obviously no one got a rose on that group date.

The next day I had a one-on-one date with Jef. While I was happy to spend time with him because we hadn’t been together in a while, I was still grumpy from what had transpired the night before. Our time together didn’t start off well, with a lesson in proper etiquette at some fancy manor where we did more waiting around than learning. Not to mention our teacher was a very matronly and stern-looking woman who didn’t attempt to hide the fact that she didn’t like me.

Afterward, I remember standing outside a pub and watching Jef playfully poke my naturally beautiful and Bohemian-looking producer with his umbrella. Still feeling the effects of my bad mood, I groaned and thought,
Oh great, now Jef likes her
. I tried my best to squirm out of my cranky pants quickly though. It wasn’t serving anyone well. All in all, I enjoyed my time with Jef. While I had never before dated anyone who wore skinny jeans, I appreciated his carefree, fun side. He was easy to talk to and sweet.

I couldn’t wait to enjoy dessert that night in the London Eye, a giant observation wheel that cycles these egg-shaped capsules from which you can get a breathtaking 360-degree view of the city. While being in this glass pod looked intimate and romantic on TV, Jef and I weren’t the only ones in there. We were surrounded by one of my producers, a soundman and
his equipment, and a cameraman and his equipment. While I was used to having the crew around me most of the time, when you’re crammed inside such a tiny space, it gets claustrophobic and overwhelming very quickly. There was so much stuff and so many people in there, the windows were fogged up most of the time, blurring what was an exquisite view.

I knew I was going to give Jef a rose that night; I just didn’t expect to forget his name in the process (a huge faux pas for a Bachelorette or Bachelor). I was supposed to say, “Jef, will you accept this rose?” which I did, but minus the “Jef” part. My producer immediately looked at me horrified that I would forget the name of a guy who I had not only spent the day with but really liked. I don’t know what to say except my mind totally blanked. Maybe it was a warning sign, one out of what would become many. Anyway, I had to do another take, this time making sure I said “Jef.”

As I was preparing for the rose ceremony, I realized that I had forgotten to take a certain medication I needed for a facial skin condition. Disturbed by the incident in the pub the night before, I hadn’t remembered that morning. Before I started swiping on some mascara, I downed the pill with some bottled water. Ricki was with me as I freshened up. We cuddled on the bed before I had to head down to the lobby to start production when I started feeling tired, out of it. The more I fought the weird feeling, the loopier I got. Ricki was talking to me about castles and dragons, and I remember not having a clue what she was saying but nodding and replying back, “Oh yeah, I bet there were kings and queens in those castles.” Good grief!

A few minutes later, while walking into the room where the crew was preparing to film, I felt a solid three sheets to
the wind. Suddenly, it hit me. I must have taken the wrong pill. Instead of the skin pill, I probably popped a sleeping pill. (I promise you I’m not a pill popper! I just kept a tiny stash of supplements to help me get some sleep in between the perpetual schedule of events, the different time zones, and the physical demands of the show.)

Knowing I had to start mingling with the bachelors in a bit, I tried to save face and pull myself together. But it’s kinda hard when you think you’re walking, but you’re really stumbling and your eyes can barely stay open. I didn’t want to tell anyone what I had accidentally done because I was too embarrassed, but it wasn’t like I could hide the fact I was out of it.

By the time I felt like I was floating on air, I realized the pickle I was in. It was bad. Very bad. I stumbled my way in a haze over to someone who looked like one of my producers (thankfully I was right) and grabbed her forcefully by the arm. She could tell something was wrong.

“I think I made a mistake,” I whispered a little too loudly, trying hard not to slur.

Her eyes widened and before she could say anything, I reassured her in my half-conscious state, “But don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine!” As strung out as I felt, I was cognizant enough to understand an entire crew was depending on me. And there was no way I was going to let them down because of a careless blunder. As production got under way with only a half hour or so before I needed to start filming, I chugged cans and cans of Red Bull, hoping it would counter the sedative effects. And what do you know? It worked.

Aside from sending Alejandro home (you guessed it, we just didn’t share a connection), the evening was uneventful—in
a good way. I didn’t slur my way through the rose ceremony or fall asleep during my announcement to the remaining eight guys that we would be heading off shortly to Dubrovnik, Croatia. I felt great. Perhaps a little too wound up, but that was way better than being dozy.

After my final interview of the evening, actually early morning at this point, I crawled into bed, wrapping my arms tight around my little girl. Though I was barely awake at that point, desperate for some shut-eye, I stared at Ricki’s angelic face for a few seconds. Knowing she wasn’t able to join me in Croatia, tears fell down my cheeks. I’d have to say good-bye to her in an hour or two so I could leave the hotel by 5:00 a.m. and catch my flight.

Sensing my presence, Ricki started to stir, but her eyes remained shut. My heart broke as I saw the tears flood down her face. “Oh, Ricki,” I muttered, hugging her even tighter. As Ricki started full-on sobbing into my chest, all I wanted to do was go home with my little girl. We lay in bed for a while, both bawling our eyes out. When it was almost time for me to leave Ricki, she wiped her tears dry and smiled. As she grinned from wet cheek to wet cheek, I knew that my daughter would be just fine. Me? Not so much.

By the time I headed to the airport, I hadn’t slept in more than twenty-four hours, sleeping pill and all. Not to pat myself on the back, but if any Bachelorette ever complains of being tired, I want to be the first to have a little chat with her, to coach her through. If I can wrestle with an Ambien and win, anyone can!

I never would have chosen Croatia as a destination, but when we landed, my eyes fell on one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been. The walled city of Dubrovnik lies at the foot of a mountain surrounded by the clear blue Adriatic Sea. New, bright-orange roof tiles top ancient city walls, as modern joins beautifully with historic. Walking on the cobblestone streets, as Gothic and Renaissance monasteries, palaces, and fountains towered around, was like being transported centuries away. (Fun fact: it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site.)

But the stunning beauty of this European gem couldn’t mask the fact that I was miserably homesick. I missed my mom. I missed Ricki. I missed Charlotte. I missed . . . American food. The morning I arrived I asked room service for a bagel, and they had no idea what it was. After explaining it’s a round piece of bread with a hole in it, the person on the other line still sounded confused but assured me they would find it somewhere. Heck no! Never mind, I said. I did not want to come off as having a diva moment. I was a Bachelorette for Pete’s sake, not the Queen of England.