Page 63 of The Final Rose

Callie

After a week inSebastian’s country house, Grace is eliminated in a long ceremony that no doubt will translate into a double episode to announce the top three.

Vera, Abby, and Maya.

The girls hug each other and Sebastian. The crew applauds what was our last night in England. Tomorrow the three girls and Sebastian are scheduled for a photoshoot in the gardens and then we are all heading to the airport, back to Los Angeles.

I breathe in and out, reminding myself it’s all under control. Sebastian asked me to trust him, and I want to honor that promise. But I also want to bolt.

Run far away. Run from my work, from Sebastian and all these cameras.

I remain still, though. I show little to no emotion as we finish up the shooting. I feign a headache to avoid another night of drinking with the crew. This time around people are going to a bar just in the village, but the idea turns my stomach.

I stay behind and I toss and turn for hours and hours in my bed. For a delirious minute, I contemplate coming after Sebastian to share my worries with him. When I decide it might be too risky, I get anxious, thinking he might be the one coming to me.

He never comes.

I barely have an hour of sleep and it’s time for the damned photoshoot.

I hate everything in the morning. The coffee tastes like tea, just like everything else in England. The mornings are impossibly cold, and the heaters make a weird noise when they heat completely and it always startles me.

I bury my nose in the scarf around my neck and pull my beanie down. I won’t be convinced this is not the worst of winter. But then I look and see some people are actually walking with just long-sleeved shirts and even a couple in regular t-shirts.

That annoys me as well.

I’m aware my awful mood isn’t anyone’s fault, so I keep out of everyone’s way, offering to do jobs that require the least interactions.

I organize our transport to the airport and call the cleaning crew, confirming their arrival later this afternoon.

I direct the assistants. I check the packed equipment and assemble a crew to film the photoshoot in case we need extra footage.

But during my third gross cup of coffee, as I yell to the assistants not to make a mess out of the luggage, I hear a throat clearing behind me and I know it’s time to face the music.

I’d expect to see Anya telling me off, reminding me this isn’t my job, and demanding an explanation. But isn’t Anya.

It’s Nessa.

She tilts her head, watching me with an expression I am not sure what to think of. She works in the industry too, so she’s literally my only friend left that won’t be upset when I miss another baby shower. Or rehearsal dinner or wedding.

It's hard to keep friends with this job and Nessa gets it. We are the lowest maintenance friends and that is already too much.

“Can we talk?” she asks, and I can’t stop myself from shifting on my feet.

I don’t want to talk. I usually jump at any chance to hang out with her, but I'm scared of what she’llsee.

I need work to occupy my mind away from the fact that the person who was inside me not that long ago is taking romantic pictures with other women.

But when I open my mouth to refuse, I end up closing back up and just nodding, leading the way from the luggage and my other random tasks.

We walk and put distance between the photo shoot and me. At each step, my heart feels lighter, and my head clearer.

“What’s happening, Callie?” She asks after five full minutes of silence.

I contemplate lying. Denying. Laughing it off. But the crisp, icy wind I was cursing just a minute ago now is actually clearing my head. The distance we put ourselves from the crew makes me braver.

And I turn to my friend and tell the truth. “I think I fucked up.”

Nessa doesn’t say a word as I tell her. Like a den, now that it is open, I can’t stop myself from confessing it all. I tell her how Anya told me to get closer to him, and how close I got so quickly.

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