Page 77 of The Final Rose

I drink wine witha straw and it’s not even the most pathetic thing that happened this week.

Three days ago, I told myself I was smart, strong, and independent. I put on my big girl pants and was set to use my time off wisely. Doing arts and crafts or something like that.

Knitting for orphan kittens.

Painting my crappy apartment.

Anything and everything. I put jeans on even though I wasn’t planning to leave the house, but it was one text that crushed it all. One small, five-letter text that took the floor off my feet.

Anya:I tried my best, kid.

I know what she means the second I read it. The air leaves my lungs in a hurry and a cold goes down my spine as I sit on my couch and turn on the TV.

I never turned my nose to the gossip channels, I can’t, given my line of work. Gossip and reality TV work hand in hand. But I never thought I was going to see the day when I fear it. When I turn it on and see my biggest fear live and in color right in front of me.

“Trouble in Paradise?”Alison Mack, the host, says with a sadistic smile.“The twelfth season of The Final Rose is days from airing its first episode, but rumor has it that wasn’t just the twelve hopeful hearts the new Eligible stole.”

I hold my breath as an old footage of Sebastian came to the screen. The beautiful man in one of his suits talking in front of a children’s hospital ribbon-cutting event, and the small shot of him from the teaser. The clips play in a loop, repeatedly, as Alison’s voice tells the sordid tale.

“The Final Rose’s new Eligible is no one but Sebastian Riggs, Britain’s most eligible bachelor. The production of The Final Rose is left scratching their heads trying to find a way to solve this unprecedented problem. An informant says that The Final Rose is in crisis after Riggs allegedly was found having an affair with one of the crew.”

“… No one can blame a girl for falling in love with Sebastian’s charm, but the question needs to be asked: Is The Final Rose done? Are the contestants going to let this betrayal slide?”

Alison Mack has a little more to say. None of it is flattering. From there, it all comes down in flames. The internet explodes. The magazines wouldn’t dare printing anything else for the days to come.

They don't have my name, but it doesn’t really matter. I know it’s me. I understand the joke more than the rest of Los Angeles.

So now I watchFriendsreruns and drink wine from a straw. I refuse to pretend I can do anything to stop this. It’s out there. The world is on fire, so why not sit back and enjoy it?

And that’s what I’ve been doing. Accepting things. One can even think I am growing from it. I’ll come out of it better or whatever. But for now, I drink from my straw and avoid the first three episodes released to the streaming service.

Anytime I feel like I should have a look on the magazines, I just drink more wine and watch one more episode ofFriends.

And right when I’m floating in self-pity (since I refuse to drown) my doorbell rings.

I don’t care. One, because I’m half dressed. My old T-shirt has a stain I’m not sure from what, and there’s definitely Doritos dust on my hair. But also, it’s raining.

“It’s raining, go away,” I murmur to myself.

It’s a storm out there and whoever had the indecency to knock at my door needs to move on. I wouldn’t open the door anyway, but the fact it’s in the middle of a storm should be reason enough for people not to come visit.

I flick through the channels tired ofFriendsand unfortunately findThe Big Bang Theory. I watch it because laugh tracks are my new best friends. Whoever is downstairs rings the doorbell twice. I ignore it. I don’t have a working intercom, anyway. When they suddenly go quiet, I celebrate the small victory and I sink further into my stained riddled life.

That’s when the knocks on my door start. Startled, eyes wide, I just stare at the door while it jumps from its hinges.

They knock again, and this time, accompanied by a familiar voice. The last voice I wanted to hear right now.

“Open up, Callie!”

I close my eyes in a prayer.

Dear God, if you make this a bad dream, I promise to be extra good. I’ll light candles with Mami and Abuelita for Abuelo’s soul. And I’ll do other things good Colombian girls ought to do.

But the door jumps again with the force of his fist and with a groan, I go over, opening in one painless move.

He brushes the wet hair off his face, looking me up and down with the sort of mockery I hate so much.

“You look like shit, Callie.”

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