Page 49 of Most Eligible
By the time we get to the bunk room, Olie has gathered a sizeable mountain of tampons in the middle of the floor and is rifling through Addison’s toiletry kit. “What the hell?” she mutters. “No tampons? Is she a fucking Greek goddess?”
The pile only adds to the general sense of disarray in the room. Shoes are flung everywhere, underwear litters the floor,and several pictures of Roland are scattered on the carpet—the ones still on the wall have been arranged into a heart shape over the windows.
“Is this a menstrual audit?” Philippa asks as she walks into the room with Chloe.
While they’re occupied, I hurry to my suitcase, pull the burner phone out, and stick it in the front pocket of my jeans. I dump my own supply of sanitary products onto the pile for good measure.
“They’re back!” Chloe squeals from beside the windows, and we rush to look out. Through the center of the Roland-outlined heart, I see a convoy of cars pulling up the mansion’s driveway. It’s like the first night all over again, but instead of drunk women, producers spill out like ants, then Roland and Addison, clinging to each other, giddy and laughing through the rain.
At the sound of the SUV doors slamming shut, the room quiets for a second, but then Olie rips open her shirt, buttons flying in all directions. “NAKED POOL PARTY!”
“Pool party in the rain!” Nina shouts.
From a bunk in the far corner, Monica says, “What’s going on?”
“You want to come?” Olie walks over to her bunk and peers down at her. “We’re going to get naked and swim in the rain.”
Monica laughs. “No thanks. I can’t risk a naked picture of me getting out.”
“Oh,” Chloe says quietly. “Maybe I shouldn’t either. The PTA moms at my school can be so judgy.”
“Come on,” Philippa wheedles, poking Chloe in the side. “No one’s going to take a picture, and the power’s all out, so there’s no cameras.”
Leaving Monica on her bunk, Olie grabs an armful of tampons and sprints from the room. The others follow cautiously, but I hang back for a minute and wander over to Monica’s bed.
“Do you need anything?”
She’s facing the wall, but flops onto her back to look up at me. “I just thought this would be easier.”
I blink at her in surprise. Our relationship hasn’t been antagonistic like with Addison, but we’ve hardly spoken.
“Me too,” I say, then push a little further. “Did anything happen?”
She bites her lip and tugs her pillow from under her head, her black hair fanning out on the mattress. Hugging her pillow to her chest, she says, “I’m really fucking good at tennis.”
I let out an involuntary laugh. “Hell yeah.”
She smiles a little. “What I mean is that it’s something I know, I’m really good at it, and I’ve been doing it for so long that I can’t imagine doing anything else. If I have trouble with something, I train twenty-four seven until I’m the best at it. But I can’t do that here. It’s like every time I mess up, they want to pick me apart—hang me out to dry. And I can’t train to make myself better. Like with my…” She pauses, unsure if she should go on, but then she does. “I take medication for my anxiety, and when the producers found out it was like this dirty thing. I’ve never felt ashamed before, but…” She breaks off, tears sparkling in her bright eyes.
I sink onto the edge of her bed and nod. “I know what you mean. Not about the tennis thing obviously. I suck at sports.” She laughs a little. “But the producers are ruthless. For what it’s worth, I think it just makes you seem stronger—being a real person.”
“Thanks, Georgia. I’m really glad Addison didn’t kill you on your date.” She winks at me, and I smile, but I’m also a tiny bit insulted. Did everyone think I was a goner? “Now go enjoy the pool party,” she says.
I leave her on her bed and head downstairs, where I find the others huddled around the bar, which Kevin seems to have abandoned.
Olie is rifling through the cupboards. She straightens up, her shirt hanging open, with several dozen tampons stuffed into her bra.
She holds out a bottle of tequila to me. “Georgia?” she says around the stem of a maraschino cherry. I hesitate, then take it and press it to my lips.
After Nina and Philippa both take double shots of the tequila, Olie downs about a fourth of the bottle and starts taking off the rest of her clothes.
“Where do you guys think Roland is right now?” Chloe asks, dreamily unbuttoning her shirt.
“No!” Nina shrieks, rounding on her. Chloe looks startled but stops talking. “No Roland talk,” Nina says. “Sorry, I just… if another person asks me how much Ilovehim, I’m going to fucking explode.”
The real question is where Addison is right now—and I have a feeling that wherever she is, Roland is too. But none of the others seem to be wondering about her.
“Bet he’s doing strength training,” Olie says, oblivious to Nina’s outburst. “He’s gotta train extra hard for Wimbledon—you know, with his bad knee.”
