Page 31 of How Jenna Became My Dilemma

“No.” She inclines her head, assessing me. “Have you?”

“I’m not built for love and relationships, a consequence of my bachelor teenage years. I’m pre-wired for a life of singlehood.”

“That’s stupid. Everyone is built for love. It’s a basic human emotion.”

“Okay, fine. Love maybe. But marriage isn’t happening. I’ll be an eternal bachelor.”

“Why? Because of how your parents’ marriage ended up?”

“I’ve just seen too much of the dark side. Maybe things would’ve been different if my parents had been different, but those were the cards I was dealt, and this is how I’m playing them.”

“You don’t have to repeat your parents’ relationship. You can stop the cycle, you know?”

“Staying single is me stopping the cycle.”

“If that’s really the life you want, you’re doing a good job living it.”

Jenna’s words feel like a put-down, mainly because I’d just opened up to her and thought she understood. But I guess it’s too much to ask for somebody like her to understand. She’s got the perfect all-American family behind her, shaping her ideals about love and relationships.

“I’m guessing you want to get married.”

Her shoulders drop in a daydream sort of way. “More than anything.”

“Why?” I try to keep the judgment out of my voice, but I don’t think I’m successful.

“Life is about experiences, and I want to share those experiences with someone I love.”

“Why not just share them with a friend?”

Her nose scrunches as she shakes her head. “It’s not the same. Marriage provides a bond stronger than anything else. When two people are mentally, physically, and emotionally on the same page, no other relationship can beat it.”

“But what happens when they’re no longer on the same page?”

“You keep working at it until your marriage gets back to where it needs to be.”

“Or you drag your only son through a seven-year custody battle.”

“Not every marriage has to be like that. If you want something different, you can make it what you want or need.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I rub my eyes, tired of how emotionally draining this conversation is. I decide to switch to a question that’s not about me or love or marriage. “Why did you decide to change from modeling to acting?”

She flicks an imagined speck of dust off her thigh. “I’m twenty-six years old. I maybe have five to eight good years left modeling before younger up-and-coming women will replace me, and that’s if I don’t completely blow up my career by becoming a mom, which I want to become. But if I transition from modeling to acting, I can work and stay relevant longer.”

Her response is a little rehearsed, and her smile lacks genuineness, making me think there’s more behind her decision than she’s letting on, but I don’t press for the rest of the story because her rehearsed answer sounds a lot like my reasons for trying to restore my image. We’re both setting ourselves up for our future.

We just might have more in common than either of us thinks.

“Sounds like you have your career all figured out,” I say.

“Not if The Promised Prince doesn’t do well.” Jenna’s eyes drop to her lap. “There’s a lot on the line for me.”

I hadn’t thought about how a failed series would affect her. I’d only thought about it from my standpoint—it would be embarrassing, but I’d be able to bounce back from the negativity and find work again as long as I prove to fans that I’m growing up and maturing. But if The Promised Prince flops, it could mean the end of Jenna’s acting career before it even begins.

“So we’ll turn the narrative around,” I offer, and surprisingly, my voice is upbeat and hopeful. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard this kind of tone from myself.

Her green eyes lift. “How are we going to turn it around?”

“Let’s go over a few scenes tomorrow, choreograph some movement and physicality into them.”

---