Page 2 of Love Me Tomorrow

I have approximately two-point-five seconds to prepare myself.

Blinding light beams into my face from the bulb fixed to the top of the camera.

A bead of sweat trickles down my spine.

Like a cornered animal, I dart my gaze from right to left, left to right.Think. Think!“The guys are—”

“Specific names, please,” she cuts off, somehow managing to look both aggravated and bored, all at once. “Who stood out to you?”

Not. A. Single. Soul.

Is that pathetic? So far, I’ve met twenty-two guys. Accountants and Hollywood stunt doubles and even a former NFL player, and my stupid heart has not quickened for any of them. Objectively, I know they’re a good-looking group of men.Betterthan good-looking, honestly. Half of them could be models, and I . . . I can’t recall any of their names.

I’m not the right bachelorette.

It’s obvious to me, even if it isn’t yet obvious to everyone else, and it’s only a matter of time before the guys realize that my heart isn’t locked and loaded for this all-too-public journey. Any other woman would be thrilled to be in my position. Any other woman would be dying to spend their days flirting with twenty-seven sexy strangers.

Any other woman but me.

“I, uh . . .” I squint, trying to summon visuals of the men to mind. Dinosaur Onesie. Ring Pop Man. NippleGate Orchestrator. Stiffening my shoulders against a residual shudder of horror, I stare directly into the camera and blurt out, “I’ve always lovedJurassic Park.”

Matilda rolls her wrist in akeep-goinggesture.

I force a strained smile. When Matilda slices a finger across her throat—like she’s worried about me terrifying viewers all across America—I shake out the nerves by wiggling my toes in my shoes. Dial the smile down some. “Matthew”—Richard?Who the hell knows at this point—“seemed fun. It’s, uh, nice to know that we might have something in common.” The last time I watchedJurassic Park, I was in the seventh grade and still wore a hot-pink mouth guard to bed every night. “That’s all I could hope for, coming on the show. To meet someone who matches me, inside and out. Common interests. Shared dreams.”

Any hope I have that my answer might satisfy Matilda goes out the window when she nods, then plants a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated when I start to rise. My ass, swathed in Spanx and sequins and skin-clinging fabric, collapses with enough force that the wooden seat protests with a squeal.

Nonplussed, Matilda retreats to the cameraman’s side. “If your dream man could step out of that limo tonight, what would he look like?”

It feels like a trick question.

But for the first time all night, my heart gives an erraticthump-thump-thump. I despise the excitement currently singing in my veins. Despise it as much as I crave it. Because the truth is: I never wanted to bePut A Ring On It’sbachelorette. No, the honor was meant to belong to my younger sister, Amelie.She’dsubmitted the first audition tape.She’dbeen on the hunt to live it up on reality TV and date twenty-seven men after breaking up with . . .him.

Ruthlessly, I shove the excitement away, sticking it in the Bad Thoughts box that I refuse to dwell on. Because thinking of him—and every tiny tattoo he’s inked on my skin in the dead of night over the last year—does nothing but make me wish for something that can never, ever be.

End of the day, it doesn’t matterwhomy dream man is.

I’m on this show because the host and creator, Joe Devonsson, came across Amelie’s audition, only to stumble across a separate application my mother submitted online for me. A submission, I’d like to add, that she never once told me about until Devonsson’s voice was in my ear, hollering through the phone, as he boasted about all the merits of having the Rose sisters battle it out for a suitor on TV. He thought it would make for excellent audience ratings, a way to edge out the longstandingThe Bachelorfranchise. And then there are my parents—both high society New Orleanians—who thoughtPut A Ring On Itwould be an “utter delight.” A way to harken back to the glittering world of debutante balls, various men vying for the affections of a woman, and, as always, a way to get more eyes on the family business.

Except that I didn’t come here for any of that. I came here for Amelie.

Because everything I’ve done in life, I’ve done for my little sister. I’ve subjected myself to the special brand of tough love that my parents dole out in spades, all so she could take off to California and then Hawaii and then, finally, to Florida. I’ve glued myself to the trajectory laid out for me since birth, so that my parents’ attention would be otherwise preoccupied when Amelie shaved her dark hair down to her skull and pierced her nose and strutted around wearing clothes that left her bronze skin nearly bare because she’s always been one to express her moods through her wardrobe.

I gave my parents all of me so my sister could keep all of her.

Which was great and all—until she backed out of the show two weeks ago, citing a business opportunity in Europe that she couldnotpass up, and now I’m here.

Alone.

Sticky with sweat and nerves.

And dreaming of a man who once belonged to my sister while I’m being courted by twenty-seven other guys.

Not even free champagne can fix this mess.

Clearing my throat, I finally answer: “He’d look like a man who could put up with my family’s special brand of crazy.”

It’s a witty response, a deflective one, too, considering all the heartache that’s gone on behind the scenes in the last few weeks, but Matilda and the camera guy must be ready to hit the cocktails themselves because after a few more surface-level questions, I’m being shuffled back down the winding staircase and out through one of the side doors. The crisp air teases my skin with goose bumps.

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