Page 14 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
And God, we’re going to spend a lot of time together. He’s going to be in my hotel room, filming me. I put my weights down, even though I haven’t finished the set.
I scramble for my AirPods and find the angriest song on my phone, even though that’s so not my normal style, then run on the treadmill until I struggle to breathe, and I can pretend it’s because of my training and not anything else.
Not Sebastian.
Not the way he avoids eye contact with me. Not the way he smirks when he sees me, even though maybe in my deepest imaginations I imagined us becoming friends if we ever met in person.
Maybe I imagined we could talk about how we both got out of Ashcove. Maybe I thought we could compare and contrast Hollywood life and pro-athlete life.
But it’s ridiculous.
Sebastian and I never had anything in common, even back in high school, even back in middle school, even back in elementary school.
I wish I’d never seen his face. I wish I’d never recognized him. And I certainly wish I’d never seen all his shows.
I’m going to be the laughingstock of my favorite show.
Every night if I walk into a bar, I have puck bunnies approach me, armed with their statistical knowledge of hockey, their bright smiles, and their floral-doused scents, as if they think my reaction to a wildflower meadow is to roll around in it and vow to worship it for eternity.
But at least then I don’t have millions of viewers watching me, judging each awkward interaction, and finding me lacking. There are forums devoted toSeeking Mr. Right. Not to speak of the water coolers on every office floor.
What if I’m the most watched Mr. Right ever? Will I be the Mr. Right who is surprisingly uncharming in real life? The one with the strained expression and the bad small talk? It’s not like I can even discussSeeking Mr. Rightwith whatever women Sebastian and his team have scrounged up.
My heart races, and I lower the treadmill speed.
But there’s no button I can push that will make this feel better. Only future embarrassment lies before me. And every time I watchSeeking Mr. Rightin the future, every time I see a poster, every time I see an ad, I won’t be thinking about how far that boy in high school came...but I’ll be thinking about my own inadequacies and deficiencies.
I’ll be the Mr. Not-So-Right, like I’ve been to my past girlfriends. The guy they’re thrilled to date initially, until they gradually pull away from me, until I find them in the arms of other friends, pantiless, and I’m wondering why the only thing I’m wondering is why my only emotion is relief.
Finn enters the room, probably coming back from a massage, and I see the way Noah beams at him, as if he’s a Neanderthal viewing the sun again after a chilly, wet night. Will I ever feel that way?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sebastian
The Back Bay townhouse the women will live in looms before me, all Gilded Age grandeur.
I’m not nervous. No way. Not me.
I’ve done this show before. I’m the longest lasting host ofSeeking Mr. Right.I’m not a novice. I’m supposed to be here.
The decorators have transformed the building into a winter paradise, ready for Luke’s—and the women’s—arrival this evening. Garlands drape the marble fireplace and crimson velvet pillows rest on every seat, their golden tassels glimmering. Paper angels spread their paper wings, and glossy nutcrackers beam. White lights glow in their customary sophisticated manner, and the whole place smells like oranges and cloves.
“I feel like I’ve stepped back into time,” I say.
“I know!” Ella twirls around with all the joy of someone who loves her job and isn’t burdened by her bully’s brother descending upon her workplace. But then, Ella probably wasn’t bullied by whatever mean girls roam Orange County high schools. Ella is charming and bubbly and perfect.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ella continues, her green eyes sparkling with the force of some of the same-colored ornaments.
I nod, but the only thing I can think about is that if I didn’t fit in Massachusetts in the 2010s, there’s no way I would have fit into Massachusetts in the 1810s.
I would have been held with the same derision, the same scorn. Only then, I wouldn’t have had anywhere to escape.
I want to be back in California. I want to be gazing at a shimmering blue ocean and dusty hills, where no one knows who I used to be.
A large Christmas tree sits in the drawing room, adorned with ornaments my grandparents, if I’d ever met them, would have deemed old-fashioned. Red and gold bulbs sit beside straw hand-crafted reindeer and felt Santas with fluffy cotton beards.
“Just like a traditional Christmas,” Ella says, and I nod, even though it’s nothing like the Christmases I used to have as a child.
