RHETT
Before we go for whatever our public service event is today, we have to eat breakfast. Thankfully, the producers have had it catered in for some reason. We have a whole variety of foods sitting in the middle of the long communal table by the time Savannah and I come down the stairs. There are hash browns with cheese and onions in them. There are cheese grits with bacon crumbled up in them. There are pancakes and waffles and French toast. Way too much food even for the group of us.
We sit down across the table from Connor because they’re the only empty seats. I'm sure that's not an accident since probably no one else wants to sit across from Connor. Beside him is Lainey, who has become his twin. She acts just like him. That's not a compliment.
"Well, good morning, lovebirds,” he says as we sit down. Several people around the table glance at us, but we decide not to give in to him goading us.
"Good morning, Connor," Savannah says with just about as much loathing in her voice as can fit. It makes me smile.
We start filling our plates with food. Savannah seems awfully hungry this morning for such a small person, but I'm not saying a word. I've learned never to speak about how and what a woman eats. It's not worth getting smacked in the face or something. I also pile my plate high with food because I don't know when we will eat again. Sometimes, these little field trips out of the house take a long time, and we don't get fed a real meal until the evening.
"So, Rhett, I have some questions for you," Connor suddenly says.
"Oh, goody. I was hoping you would," I say, looking down at my plate, trying my best to ignore him. He's impossible to ignore. He's like a fly buzzing around your face.
"I know you work on yachts with celebrities. Tell us who some of those celebrities are."
"He can't tell you, Connor. He signed nondisclosure agreements," Savannah says, obviously trying to save me. It's never going to be enough for Connor, though.
"Nondisclosure agreements. That seems a little silly, given that you're just cooking for them."
"Well, that's how business works," I say, biting into a piece of bacon.
"What kinds of yachts have you worked on?"
"What do you mean, what kinds? Like brands?"
"Yeah," Connor says, taking a bite of a biscuit that he has loaded with egg, cheese, and bacon.
"I don't know. I don't pay any attention to what the brands are."
Connor stares at me for a long moment. "Really? The brands are pretty important."
"If you say so," I say, sipping my coffee. I don't know what he's up to, but it's nothing good.
"So what do you do, exactly?"
"I cook desserts for celebrities. I thought that was pretty obvious.”
"And that's it?"
"What else would it be?"
"I don't know. I just figured you'd have some other stories to regale us with. After all, riding out on the ocean in a yacht with a celebrity seems like it would give you plenty of stories to tell."
"Maybe I just don't want to tell them to you, Connor," I say, standing and leaning over the table. I'm way bigger than this guy. I could snap him like a twig. If this came to a physical confrontation, I would have no question about that. But unfortunately, Connor likes to spar with words. He likes to get under your skin, and I'm not letting him do it.
"Connor, what is your problem?" Savannah asks, looking at him.
"This doesn't involve you, Savannah. I'm talking to your boyfriend here."
"He's not my boyfriend." The way she says it actually makes my heart hurt a little bit. I'm not her boyfriend, but maybe I would like to be. I don't know. I try not to think about it too hard.
"You know, one of my bosses in college had a yacht. Well, his uncle did. He was quite wealthy. He took me out on it a few times."
"That's a riveting story,” I say dryly, still looking down at my plate because I really don't want to engage with this guy.
"So, what kind of water toys did it have?"
"Water toys?"
"Yeah, jet skis, things like that."
"Oh, I don't know. I don't really get to play around with water toys while I'm working." I make air quotes around the phrase “water toys.”
"What kind of safety drills do you have to do? I'm sure since you're out on them a lot, it must be pretty intense, especially with a celebrity on board."
"I'm not sure what you mean by safety drills."
Connor stares at me for a long moment like he's gotten me. He's somehow cornered me where he wants me.
"Really? You don't do fire drills, abandon ship drills, man overboard drills, medical emergency drills?" His voice trails off, and I can hear my heart beating in my ears. He's trying to pin me down. He's trying to prove that I don't work on yachts, and unfortunately, he seems to be doing a pretty good job of it.
"Connor, is this some sort of inquisition?" Savannah asks. She can tell that I'm uncomfortable.
"We do all kinds of drills, of course," I say, trying to make this whole thing disappear. "As every sailing vessel would do. Now, can we get back to eating our breakfast?"
"Sure," Connor says, "except I think everybody should know that you could not work on yachts and know so little about them.”
My face is starting to burn. I want to stand up, grab him by his scrawny neck, and throw him down to the other end of the table where Maggie sits. But I can't. I don't want to get kicked out of this competition, and I’d hate to hit Maggie with Connor’s body.
"Think whatever you want to think, Connor."
"Boys, boys. Let's just get back to eating. There's no sense in arguing about anything," Maggie says, being ever the motherly figure to all of us.
Connor shrugs his shoulders. "That's fine. I got what I wanted. I think we all know that Rhett is one big phony."
* * *
SAVANNAH
An hour later, after the awkward breakfast and changing our clothes, we’re on the shuttle bus heading to a local food bank. Rhett has been very quiet since his confrontation with Connor. I can tell it got to him, but I don't know exactly why.
"You okay?" I ask as we go down the bumpy dirt road leading into town.
"I'm fine," he says, staring out the window.
"If you want to talk..."
He looks at me. "Talk? Yes, because it's so private to talk."
"Oh, yeah, right," I say, forgetting that we’re miked up.
It's amazing how you can forget that microphones record everything you say and cameras record everything you do twenty-four hours a day. I guess Dan was right about that. You get used to it really quickly.
"Well, at least we get to go out and about today."
"To a food bank," he says.
His whole personality has changed even since last night. Since this morning. Connor really did a number on him. I understand how he feels.
"Listen, don't pay any attention to Connor. He's an idiot. He's annoying. I don't know how I ever dated him."
That gets a smile out of Rhett. "I don't know how you did either. I mean, you're all sunshine and rainbows, Sunny. Why in the world would you date somebody like that?"
"Like I told you, he was very different in the beginning. It was short-lived. I'm just glad it's over, and I hate to see him affecting you. Don't let him get to you like that. That's all he wants."
"Yeah, but..." he starts to say something, then stops himself.
"What?"
"Never mind. It's not important."
We continue down the road until we arrive at a small brick building that is seemingly out in the middle of nowhere. It has a little drive-through area, and several cars are waiting. People inside are leaning out the window with bags and giving people in the cars food.
I remember what that felt like. Going to the food bank was a regular part of my childhood. Sometimes, my mother would go with us, but often, it was just me, standing in line waiting for food to last us a week. I had to make sure Sadie was fed. She loved the juice boxes we got there. She also adored the boxed macaroni and cheese. The memory brings a smile to my face.
We get out of the van and head toward the building. A woman is standing in front with a big smile on her face. She's very petite, has bleached-blonde hair, and looks to probably be in her sixties.
"Hey, everybody,” she says in her thick Southern accent. "My name is Lisa, and I run the Sweet Haven Food Bank. I'm so glad to have all of you here to help us today. Follow me."
She waves her hand, and we follow her like little baby ducklings into the building. It's pretty hot in here. I don't know if the air conditioning isn't working, but I immediately wish I hadn't worn long pants today.
When we get inside, she tells us that there are several tasks, and we will be split up to do them. Obviously, Rhett and I can't be split up, so we will be doing the same task. Some people will be sorting donations, while others will pack food boxes that are delivered to people who can't leave their homes. Some of us will be stocking shelves, and some of us will be helping hand out donations through the window.
Rhett and I have been assigned to stock the shelves. Maggie and Nate will sort donations, and then we will take those donations and put them on the proper shelves. We are the only two doing it, so at least we get some time alone. Well, except for the fact that the entire country could be watching us right now on the internet and later tonight on television.
When we finally get set up, Rhett is quiet. He's just picking things out of boxes and putting them onto the shelf without saying a word.
“Are you looking forward to getting unchained?" I ask, trying to fill the silence between us.
He shrugs.
I'm worried about him. I can't believe it. I'm worried about Rhett Jennings. I never thought those words would cross my mind.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk about what Connor said...”
He cuts me off, holding up his free hand. "No. Now stop asking me about it, please. Let's just do our job and get on with it."
"Okay.”
We continue stocking the items in silence. Finally, he seems to shake it off enough to start chatting here and there. When we're finally done with our job a couple of hours later and reboarding the bus, Rhett seems like his old self again. I don't know what it was that had him so upset, but hopefully, it's gone now.
We have one more night of sleeping in the same room before we're unchained in the morning. Three days ago, I would have told you I would be excited for that moment, but I dread it. It was nice to have a built-in person to talk to, even if it’s Rhett Jennings. He was nice. Most of the time, anyway.
"Oh, and to answer your question, no," he says as the bus pulls up in front of the house.
“What question? No, what?”
The bus comes to a stop, and we all stand up. He leans over, I guess hoping that I'm the only one who can hear him.
"No, I'm not looking forward to getting unchained."
* * *
RHETT
The rest of the day was spent in a workshop where we listened to Chef Alain talk about making the perfect crepes. I've never been a fan of crepes. It's not something I plan to make after this challenge is over, but I still had to sit there and act like I was interested in what he was saying. After all, irritating one of the main judges does me no good.
Savannah seemed to enjoy it but Savannah seems to enjoy everything. She's always smiling and happy, even when she's sad. Or at least that's what I assume.
After that, we had dinner, and we all sat out in the common area, talking and drinking bottles of wine that we found in the pantry. I'm not sure if we were supposed to be drinking them, but we did anyway.
I'm not much of a drinker. I don't like to feel out of control, so I only had a glass or two, but I noticed that Savannah was chatting and enjoying herself so much that she might've had way more than she was supposed to.
When it was time to go to bed for our last night of sleeping chained together, I was a little worried about her getting up the stairs. I helped her as best I could until we got to the room, and the producers agreed to unchain us so that we could change into our pajamas.
I'm pretty sure that tonight, we will not have the issue of being unable to sleep. Savannah is way too tipsy to stay awake, which makes me feel protective of her. While talking to everyone downstairs, she told me that she doesn’t drink very much and that she’s a lightweight. I can definitely see that. She’s petite and is not holding her wine very well.
When she returns, the producer chains us back together, and I ask to speak to her around the corner where Savannah can't hear me. We stretch the chain so that she's in the room, and I'm a couple of feet outside of it. I don't think she's paying a bit of attention because she's so tipsy.
"Listen, I'm going to ask you to do something, and I hope you’ll agree to it,” I say, turning off my microphone before I start speaking.
"You can't turn off your microphone.”
This is the producer that I see most often in the house, and she's not overly nice. She's all business, all about the rules, but right now, the rules don't matter to me.
"I'm turning it off because I don't want this recorded, and if this goes on television, I'm going to be pretty upset."
"I can't guarantee anything. There are cameras everywhere," she says, pointing around.
"I think you have some control over that. This is a conversation that needs to be private."
She sighs and talks into her little walkie-talkie, telling them to turn off the cameras where we're standing so that it doesn't pick up the conversation.
"You're not supposed to be talking to us about anything during the competition. Everything has to be fair."
"Yes, I understand that," I say, keeping my voice down. "But I need you to turn off the cameras and the microphones in this bedroom for the night."
"Excuse me?" she says, acting like I'm up to something nefarious.
"Savannah is in no position to be on national television when she's this tipsy."
"Well, I guess she shouldn't have drank so much, should she?"
"Look, I know you think this makes for good television,” I say to her a little too pointedly, "but you could get in all kinds of legal trouble for showcasing this young woman on television when she is in a vulnerable state."
"Yes, and I could get in all kinds of trouble for leaving her alone in a room with a man she barely knows when she's in a vulnerable state."
"Okay, fine. Then turn the camera on but turn the microphone off."
"And how is that supposed to be something that the at-home viewers can watch?"
"Exactly. If this is about Savannah’s safety and you just want to check in and ensure she's okay, then looking at her on the camera will be plenty. She doesn’t need the audio to be aired nationwide.”
"With all due respect, Rhett, you're really not in control of this."
I peek around the corner to make sure that Savannah is still standing there, and she is. She's playing with some wallpaper that is peeling off the old wall in the historic home.
"Again, she is in no position to be showcased on TV when she's tipsy."
"You mean drunk."
"She's not drunk. She's just on the edge of drunk. She's like in the suburbs of drunk."
The producer, whose name I think is Ellen, rolls her eyes. "I'll talk to my boss, but I can't promise anything."
"Listen, I come from a very wealthy family, and I don't like to bring that up often, but there is no amount of money that I will spare for an attorney to sue the pants off of this production company if they showcase Savannah on TV like this."
I don't even know what I'm saying. I don't have that kind of money. My parents certainly wouldn't give me that kind of money, but I hope these people don't know that.
"Again, I'll talk to my boss. I'll come find you in a few minutes."
"Okay, fine," I say, returning to the room.
I don't know why I feel so protective of her, but I do. I just don't think it's right that she had one night of enjoying herself and having some wine, and just because she's a lightweight, she's in this vulnerable position.
"Can we go to bed now?" she asks as I walk into the room.
"Yes, of course. Come on."
“Woo…” she says as she walks toward the bed. I’m afraid she’s going to pass out, so I pick her up like a baby and carry her to the bed. I gently put her down, wishing I could lie down right beside her.
She crawls under the covers, and I pull them up to just under her neck, and then I crawl into the bed beside hers. There's a lamp on between us. Maggie hasn't come upstairs yet. I think she's still enjoying time down in the courtyard. Maggie can hold her own when it comes to wine. I have a feeling she drinks it often.
"Why don't you tell me a story?" Savannah says, her words slurring.
“I don't think so," I say, propping myself up onto my elbow and facing her.
"I like stories," she whines.
I swear it's like she's regressed to childhood.
"Okay, how about this one? Once upon a time, a beautiful red-haired woman drank too much wine with a bunch of strangers."
"Well, that's not a very good story," she says, sticking out her bottom lip.
"Savannah, you need to go to sleep. You'll feel a lot better in the morning."
"I don't know about that. I feel pretty good now," she says, laughing.
"I'm sure you do."
Without thinking, I reach over and brush a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. She catches my hand in midair and presses it to her cheek. Then, she wiggles down into her pillow, holding it there as she sighs and seemingly drifts off to sleep.
I don't know what to do. Do I pull my hand back and risk waking her up? I don't want to pull my hand back. I'm touching Savannah's skin. I can feel her breath coming in and out, in and out.
As I start to pull my hand back, thinking it's the right thing to do, she grips onto it harder, pulls it towards the top of her chest, and holds it there like a teddy bear. Even though I'm stretching for her to be able to do this, I don't want to pull it back. I want to just stay like this. I could stay like this all night, just holding my hand to the top of her chest and feeling her breathe.
As we lay there, suddenly, the producer walks into the room. She gives me the evil eye because I have my hand on Savannah’s chest, and so I pull it back.
She walks over and leans down. "Microphones are off. Turn off your microphone packs."
I nod my head, and she walks out of the room. I turn mine off and then reach over to turn off Savannah's. At least we have some privacy where she won't be embarrassed at being basically out of her head on national TV. I don't want Savannah's future to be ruined because people are making her into memes on the internet.
I decide to go to sleep and try to get the fact that she's lying here next to me out of my head. Just one more night, and then we'll be unchained. I don't like it, but it is what it is.
I roll back onto my shoulder and face her, closing my eyes, and then I feel her reach out for my hand. When I open my eyes, her eyes are closed. She still seems to be asleep. She pulls my hand close to her and then puts it underneath her cheek, holding her hands in a prayer position around it.
"Rhett," she says in a low whisper.
I can't tell if she's awake. "Yeah?"
"Do you like me?" Her words still sound slurred and fuzzy, and her eyes never open.
"Of course I do, Savannah. You're my friend."
"Nooo…” she says, dragging out the word. "I mean, do you like me like me?"
Still, her eyes aren't open. She's barely talking above a whisper.
"I do," I say, hoping she doesn't remember any of this in the morning.
"But, I mean really like me or hippopotamus like me."
It makes me laugh that she can remember the code word at this moment.
"I really like you," I say, admitting it to her and myself for the first time.
She never opens her eyes, but she smiles and sighs, and then I can hear her barely snoring. I decide to stay this way even though it's uncomfortable with my arm stretched out. There’s no place I’d rather be in the world right now than taking care of Savannah, even if my arm cramps up and falls off.