The car stops, and Beck checks her phone. “Oh shit, you gotta catch this flight. Erica’s driver will be waiting for you at LAX.” She reaches into her back pocket and digs out a twenty and two fives. Using her mouth, she uncaps the pen she slid from her front pocket and scribbles a phone number on one of the fives. “Here,” she says and hands me the wad of cash. “Call if anything happens or your flight gets canceled. We’ve got Mallory watching the airline schedules, though, so if anything happens, we’ll send a car.”
“I…I don’t have a phone” is all I can manage to say.
“Ask the airline clerk or, I don’t know, but you’re going to miss this flight if you don’t go now.” This time it’s her who hugs me. “You’re a star, Cindy. America loves you. And I really like you too. I’m proud to call you a friend.”
I nod into her shoulder, unable to bring myself to say anything for fear I might burst into tears if I so much as open my mouth. Normally, I’d find the declaration of friendship so charming and endearing, especially coming from her, but I barely even hear what she’s telling me.
My door opens, and the driver helps me out. I wheel my bags inside as the car drives off, and wordlessly check in at the counter, showing my ID and going through the motions.
America loves you, I hear her say over and over again in my head.
America might love me, but Henry does not.
The hardest part about Dad dying was not being able to say goodbye. The last time I saw him was just like any other time. At least with Mom, despite my age, I knew things were serious and that every time I saw her could be the last. But with Dad, I barely even remember it, honestly. He dropped me off for school. I probably mumbled I love you too as I stared blankly into my phone, and that was it.
And now I’ve missed my chance to really say goodbye again. Henry and I said bye, of course, but that was when I thought I’d be seeing him again in a few days, and that when I did, he’d be picking me. But suddenly it’s over, and I’m numb with shock.
Filming up until this point has not been what I would describe as a peaceful or even quiet process. And yet my senses are overwhelmed from the moment I walk into the airport. Cell phones ringing. Crying children up past their bedtime. News reports in English and Spanish. Security guards snapping and pointing at my dazed expression. It’s the first time in weeks I haven’t been led by the hand to exactly where I’m supposed to be.
On the plane, I’m seated in international business class, where men in golf shorts and their bejeweled arm-candy wives look at me like I’m diminishing the value of their airfare. If my brain wasn’t so cluttered and if I had a phone, I’d be furiously texting Sierra. Our imaginary conversation would likely play out like this:
Sierra:
Do they even know who you are? Are they even aware whose presence they’re in?
Cindy:
You mean a recent fashion school grad with no job prospects and only a brief stint on a cringy reality television show?
And then Sierra would say something inspirational and I would send her a series of poop emojis.
But I don’t have my phone and I don’t have the mental energy to stew over what my fellow passengers think of me, so I plop down in my seat, drink a cup of tea, and pass out.
Just like when I flew in from New York after graduation, Bruce is waiting for me. But he’s not the only one. A few photographers are circling the security exit like vultures, waiting for any semifamous person catching a late flight in. But Bruce is a pro. He swoops in, shielding me with his body from the constant clicking of the cameras.
“Cindy, what can you tell us about the villa?”
“Will we see you back at the château for the live finale?”
“Who do you think your biggest competition is?”
“What do you have to say about Addison?”
“No comment,” Bruce barks at them as a staff-only door swings open just outside baggage claim and Bruce shuffles me inside. “It pays to know the custodial staff. I’ll be right back.”
“Awww, come on, man,” I hear a paparazzo say as the door shuts, leaving me in a musty broom closet. Normally I’d have some pithy LAX joke to make, but tonight I’m just thankful for this gross little bubble of quiet.
“No dice,” Bruce tells him as he goes, I assume, to retrieve my bags.
Even in this broom closet, the world is so much louder than I remember, but I’m grateful to Bruce for helping me ease in. The silence is just as deafening, though, because then I’m just left with my thoughts and the memory that Henry and I are over.
When I get home, Erica is pacing in her kitchen. Her face is bare, and her normally effortless silk robe has been replaced with one of Dad’s old T-shirts and running shorts.
The moment she sees me, she rushes to me and pulls me in for a crushing hug. “Oh God, I wanted to fly down and escort you home myself. Beck just barely talked me out of it.” She steps back to take me in and sweeps her fingers down the side of my face before smoothing my hair behind my ear. “She said the last date went well. It went well, didn’t it?”
I nod. “It was…good.”
“God,” she says, “the network loves you. The higher-ups haven’t stopped talking about my hidden gem. Did Beck tell you…about the next season? That they’re looking at you for—”
I nod. “I…think my reality television career might be a one-hit-wonder sort of thing.”
She nods slowly. “We can talk in the morning,” she says carefully.
And I can’t help but wonder what discussions Erica’s had and what promises she’s made on my behalf.
“Uh—” My voice cracks. “I better go to my room. I need to call Sierra.”
She runs a hand up along her slender neck. “I…actually locked your phone in the safe…I saw you left it in the kitchen drawer.”
“You locked up my phone?” I ask.
“Just for the night. I…There’s a lot to digest, and I wanted you to get just one good night of sleep.”
Not gonna happen, I nearly blurt. If my cell phone isn’t going to keep me up, my thoughts will. But then I remember how overwhelming just walking through the two airports was, and I think I can manage to last just one more night without my handheld information highway. I finally nod in defeat. “The triplets?” I ask.
“Asleep,” she confirms with a soft smile. “Though Gus fought until the very last yawn. I’m sure you’ll have them crowded around your bed earlier than you’d like.”
“I missed them,” I tell her.
“They missed you. And your grilled cheeses.”
That gets a smile out of me. I take my bags and head for the expansive sliding glass door leading out into the backyard and the pool house.
“I filled your mini fridge with mineral water and fruit leather,” she says. “Do you need anything before bed? A late-night avocado toast? Jana picked up some Ezekiel bread at the store.”
“I’m good. I ate on the plane,” I lie. I don’t know why, but now that I’m with someone from the outside world—even if it’s just Erica—all I want is to be alone.