Page 11 of Unscripted

“You’re actually my only contestant.”

“Really? Is that how it works for everyone?”

“Yes and no. Less experienced producers are assigned one contestant each.” He slowed his steps and turned to me; his brows creased together and he hesitated for a moment before continuing. “This is my first year. As a producer, I mean. I’ve been a PA for the last four seasons, but this year I finally got promoted.”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or nervous that my producer was also new to the gig.

“How exciting!” I went with. At least we’d be in somewhat of the same boat.

“It’s going to be great!” he said, his shoulders sagging in obvious relief at my response. “You are going to have the best time, and I am going to be there for you through it all, whatever you need!”

What I needed was to stay in the villa, and on the show, for as long as possible so I could continue to get paid.

But I couldn’t tell Harry any of that. And besides, I would need all the help I could get navigating the villa once we were shooting. I’d accept whatever guidance he’d offer for as long as I could.

We had made it back to my dressing room, and I was about to walk through its door when movement at the end of the hallway snagged my attention.

A tall guy in a bright pink robe, the exact same one I was wearing, was walking down the hall in the opposite direction.

His back was to me, so I couldn’t make out anything other than the broad expanse of his shoulders, which were obviously toned despite the pink terry cloth covering them, and his dark hair, which was cropped short to his head and left a bit longer at the top.

From the robe, I immediately knew he was another contestant. I shot a look toward Harry to see if he would notice as well, but he had already walked into my green room ahead of me and was yammering away about whatever it was we were doing next.

I snuck another glance back down the hallway. The guy was still there, talking to a shorter man next to him wearing a headset. A producer, I assumed.

The pair made it to the end of the hallway and just as they began to turn right and out of sight, the man in the robe looked up and over his shoulder. Maybe he could feel my eyes on him. Maybe the vibrant pink of my own robe, in contrast with the stark white hallway, caught his eye as his had mine.

Whatever it was, for the briefest moment, no more than a few seconds, our eyes locked.

His were a light green.

Time slowed down as the corner of his mouth ticked up in a small smile.

And then it was over.

He turned right, and I continued into my dressing room, and that was it.

I knew we weren’t allowed to meet the other contestants until we were in the villa, so I kept the moment to myself and tried to act normal to Harry, pretending to be deeply absorbed in whatever he was saying.

But in the back of my mind, for the rest of the day, that one moment in time, that brief encounter, played on a loop over and over again.

7

By the time I was finally wrapped for the day, I had been powdered and photographed from every possible angle. I had told producers and cameramen and wardrobe assistants how excited I was to be there and how I “couldn’t wait to get to the villa.” I talked and talked and talked about my hopes and dreams and how they all suddenly revolved around getting a boyfriend.

I played the part of the perfect dating show contestant until I was finally dropped off at Blair and Hunter’s apartment, exhausted and covered in a thick layer of body glitter.

Crawling into bed, I let out a deep sigh, eager to shut my eyes and give in to exhaustion.

It didn’t take long to realize that sleep would be hard to come by. The anxiety I had been working to keep at bay all day finally descended on my brain with full force. I knew I had to just ride it out, and so I lay still, focusing on regulating my breathing.

Everything is okay, I told myself, over and over, so many times that the words eventually lost any kind of soothing effect.

Who was I kidding? Everything was not okay. I couldn’t go through with being on the show. It had been a joke to ever think that I could.

I grabbed for my phone, drafting a series of texts to Harry explaining that while it had been lovely to meet him, I would not be getting on a plane to Italy the next day, thank you very much.

But when I finally came close to hitting “send,” my thumb froze over the phone screen, some invisible force stopping me from following through. Maybe it was decision fatigue hitting in real time. I was tired of talking everything to death. Tired of second guessing every move I made, wondering if it would get me ahead or not. That had been the crux of my entire adult life.