Page 65 of Knot Just for Show

Since she was planning to tell her prospective pack members that she would not be continuing with the ‘experience,’ Roxy volunteered to help me style my hair and get me into my dress before she got to the bittersweet business of packing her thingsfor the next stage of production for the non-continuing cast members.

Together we set my hair into bouncy raven curls, painted my short, almond-shaped nails the same shade of hot vermilion as our tear stained pedicure the night before—Roxy helped to zip me into the preposterous reveal gown Julian made for me before my departure.

“Holy shit, Ur-zilla,” she marvels as she steps back from our handiwork. “You look like a million bucks!” She beams, her pink and blonde messy bun bouncing gently as she hops up and down.

“If I had to pay for this bespoke Julian St. James piece —it would have probably set me back about a million bucks, but it is putting in WORK—goddamn!” I exclaim appreciatively as I look myself over in the mirrored closet doors; the gold glittering fabric of the dress slung low across my bare shoulders—my snowy white decolletage nearly overflowing from the ultra-flattering plunging sweetheart neckline—the beautiful drapery of the full a-line skirt wrapped in a sultry surplice—revealing nearly the entirety of my left leg; the slit of open draped material overlapping high up on my thigh.

The dress is tight and flowy in all the right places—the beautiful shimmering material almost glowing in the light.

Roxy actually gasps when she sees me dip a hand into one of the two pockets hidden amidst the drapery pooled around my waist.

“And it has pockets!?” she shrieks gleefully.

“I insisted, much to Mr. St. James’ chagrin,” I laugh, stepping into a pair of sandy gold, round toed, platform heels—pulling a tube of trusty old ‘russian red’ lipstick from one of my glorious pockets.

“Well, if they weren’t smitten with you before—they’re going to be head over heels once they actually see you!” Roxy drifts in behind me, making eye contact through our shared reflection.

“Thanks Rox—I wouldn’t have gotten myself to look half this good without your help.” I smack my newly painted lips together as Roxy passes a tissue over my shoulder for me to blot with.

“Hardly,” she scoffs, giving my upper arms a squeeze. “Maybe this pack of idiots can help you realize how great you are.” She sniffles back a happy tear.

“Maybe,” I sigh, nuzzling one of her hands affectionately.

“Alright! Now that we’ve gotten the pre-reveal interview shots done, we’re going to get just a little more b-roll of you in front of the vanity—putting the final touches on; the last lipstick and hairspray etcetera,” Kimmy explains to me as the camera crew bustles around the small space of my waiting area.

“And then what? It’s time?” I’m swaying from foot to foot, the designer stiletto sandals making the balls of my feet sting and my shins scream—even if my legs and my ass do look incredible as a result.

Kimmy smiles, “Yeah, then it’s time! You’ll just stand right there,” she points to a small strip of electrical tape that production has put down to spike the shot location. “We get our anticipatory shots of you behind the doors—then, when the guys are ready on the other side, we’ll count down from three and swing open the doors. All the guys will be in the other doorway—you’ll meet in the middle where the available seating is. Once you’re there, take your time,” Kimmy explains calmy, soberly as I practically hop from one foot to the other, my head bobbing as if on a string. “Oh, and Ursula?” She reaches out and touches my shoulder gently.

“Yeah?” I still, as if her touch suddenly reminds me that my whole body should not be whirring with nervous motion.

“Good Luck!”

“Thanks.” I swallow, watching Kimmy skitter out of the line of the lens and out of my view.

Silently, I fluff my hair in the big vanity window and touch up the curves of my cupid’s bow with blue-hued-red-lipstick. Just like the production team coached me, I’ve waited until now to put on my dangling earrings; teardrops of beautifully faceted garnet that once belonged to my maternal grandmother.

Even though Roxy had begged me to wear contacts, I had refused, opting to wear a pair of oversized octagonal gold wire frames that complimented my muted pinup style makeup.

I felt like my face without glasses Is somehow a lie. The dress, the shoes, the nails, the makeup—they were bits of theater, but they all served to highlight and enhance the real me. No corsets to make me look skinnier, no choking elastic shapewear—just beautifully draped and tailored fabric, some overpriced makeup, and a metric fuckload of shimmery lotion lovingly smoothed on to every visible inch of me.

It’s hard to ignore the cameras as I look at my reflection in the tall mirror against the wall made explicitly for this purpose. I worry that it’s too much, that I’m too much.

Ever since I was a pre-teen, I’ve felt like I take up too much space. Not just because I’m short, heavy-breasted, too soft and dimpled to be the sleek curved hourglass—lost in a cloud of thick, snarling curls; gaze obscured behind the full-moon reflection of spectacle lenses.

Even though I’m still me, I can hardly recognize the woman in the reflection—glowing, soft, inviting; a palpable thrumming of hope shimmering just below the surface. Yes, it’s still possible that the men I’ve begun to create bonds with will see me, will see the very best version of myself that I have ever been, and still reject me.

But for the first time, I think things are going to work out. Maybe I’m a fool, but something deep in my heart tells me, this time, I’ll win.

As I take my place on the electrical tape marker, my adrenals have spiked so high that I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes and there’s a low ringing in my ears that almost makes me worried I’ll faint.

“Ok, you ready?” One of the setworkers asks as they prepare to open the frosted doors and reveal my potential pack.

I can scarcely manage breathing, let alone speaking—so I just nod, trying to figure out what the fuck to do with my hands, since keeping them balled in petrified fists doesn’t seem like the right move.

“Alright, we’re going to count down from three. Ok?” He confirms, and I bobble another nod.

“3, 2, 1—”

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