Page 48 of Most Eligible
“What about you? How are you doing?” Guilt pinches my chest again. I wish I were only asking as her friend.
Nina puffs out her cheeks and smooths back her curly hair. “I like Roland, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t think it’ll be me. I don’twantit to be me. He’s not ready to be a dad, and I knew that from night one.”
“If you knew, then why didn’t you leave?” I’m not accusatory—I’m glad she’s stayed. But it does surprise me; she has a daughter at home, and I’m sure her job in Washington, DC, would be happy to have her back earlier than expected. “Nina?” I prod. “What’s wrong?”
Nina’s eyes sparkle with tears. “I didn’t want to fail,” she says in a small voice. “I was worried that if I left on night one, I’d seem like a huge failure.” She wipes the backs of her hands against her eyes. “Plus…” She lets out a dry sob and shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“No, not never mind. There’s no mics right now, no Lainey, no producers. You can tell me what’s going on. I promise I won’t judge you.”
“I miss her,” Nina says tearfully. “But it’s such a relief.” The words tumble out of her, and I crease my brow in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been taking care of her by myself since she was born. I had help—my mother basically lives with us, but it’s just…” She steps back, running her hands through her hair. “I feel like this is the first time in three years that I’ve been free. And I feel sofucking guilty about it. I mean, what kind of mother is relieved to be away from her child? Sofia is the best thing in my life, I love her more than anything in the entire world, I—”
“Nina,” I say, putting a hand on her arm. “You shouldn’t feel guilty about that. There’s nothing wrong with needing time for yourself—that doesn’t mean you love Sofia any less. She has the best mom ever and I’m sure she knows that.”
“It’s like a phantom limb, you know?” She smiles sadly at me. “I keep reaching for her, but she’s not there. Eres tan dulce. You’re too sweet to me.”
I feel a gnawing in my stomach as I wonder if she’ll think so highly of me once she realizes why I’m actually here—once she and the others are reduced to lines of interest in my article.
She sniffles again, and I put my arms around her. My mouth opens almost without me, ready to confess, but before I can get the words out, the lights in the entryway flicker off, and I whirl around. The red blinking light on the camera in the corner is off, the house eerily silent except for the faint sounds of rain.
“What’s—” Nina begins, but she’s cut off as a scream from upstairs rips through the air.
Brooklyn rolls into the room and locks eyes with me. “What was that?”
“No idea.”
Seconds later, Jules clatters down the stairs, her headset hanging off one of her purple space buns.
Leaning over the stairway railing, she shouts, “Power is out. Backup generator is down! Conserve walkie power!” She hops down the last few stairs and sprints off through the house without a backward glance.
Brooklyn, Nina, and I head into the dark living room, where Olie is hanging upside down on the otherwise deserted sofa. Her face splits into a grin when she sees me. “Knew you’d make it back,” she says.
The lights flicker on for a second, then out again. Olie flips upright on the sofa and looks around with narrowed eyes.
“You know, the last time this happened, they couldn’t get the power back on for almost twenty-four hours,” she says. “Someone died.”
“Someonedied?” Brooklyn repeats, dumbfounded.
“Maybe she broke her leg, I don’t remember,” Olie says impatiently. “But the point is, this isdangerous territory.”
A trickle of fear slips through me even though I know Olie isn’t right about someone having died. Even Lainey wouldn’t have let that slide, if only to avoid the bad press. And if she had, I would’ve found out in my research. More likely, Olie is referring to the mud wrestling incident in season 5 when a contestant did, in fact, break her leg.
Olie looks around at us and screams, “It’s time for America’s favorite game! TAMPON COUNT!” She runs from the room and up the stairs, her footsteps pounding overhead.
Nina looks after her, bewildered. “What’s she doing?”
“I think she’s… counting tampons?” Brooklyn offers.
I stare at her, then glance upstairs. Oh shit.
“Georgia, you look a little pale,” Nina says, laughing. “How many tampons do you have?”
“I…” It’s not how many tampons I have, but what’s hidden carefully inside my toiletry bag. I cannot let Olie find my burner.
I dash from the room, leaving wet spots in my wake, and Nina follows close behind.
