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vivianna
Several hours later, I’m back on land, and wonder why I ever left it.
I’m not as pissed as I am tired. When we land, Griffin rolls his sleeves back up, hand gripping his suitcase handle, back muscles rippling through his shirt. The airport’s bustling, people in shorts and tees. The only person I recognize is Griffin.
So, I zero in on him, following behind him. He seems to know where he’s going, and we’re following the larger mass of people who were on our flight. I hover behind everyone right through Customs, in some sort of haze, curls likely all messed up, before I finally arrive outside, and the warm LA air hits me.
And at the same time, it finally registers to me that I’m in Los Angeles. I’m about to be on some dating show that I signed up for way too impulsively, and I’m meant to fall in love too.
I’m so caught up in my head, that I have to bump into someone before I’m pulled back to the present. Of course, it’s Griffin, who whips around to see me, phone on the Uber app.
A single dark eyebrow rises. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, finicking with my curls. We didn’t talk a ton on the plane, outside of his teasing, and some meaningless, stranger-appropriate banter. Ultimately, Griffin spent most of the time watching his movies, which seemed to be part of a franchise. I spent half the time playing chess with a computer, or sneaking glances at the beginnings of his sleeve tattoo, after he rolled his sleeves back down.
Luckily for me, Griffin doesn’t point out that I was following him through the airport like a middle school kid latching onto their friend’s backpack through the halls. He also ignores the way my gaze very briefly flicks over his tattoos. I need to get a grip. Letting out a gust of air, I take a step back.
“Where you headed?” I ask instead, lowering my voice. The sun is beginning to set, everything brightened with warm oranges and pinks.
I meet Griffin’s eyes. I don’t know why I’m dragging whatever this is on. He’s a stranger I met on a plane. I have just about a 1% chance of seeing him again.
But it can’t hurt to talk until we have to split. I call an Uber. Fifteen minutes away. I return my attention to Griffin. He’s got these low eyes and this lazy grin that guys who are nothing but trouble have. Guys who’ve played the field and played hearts, easily.
“Hotel,” he grins. The dimple appears. I don’t know how he can make something so boyish and endearing so sly and cunning.
He’s also not giving me any details, not that I’d need to know. But his eyebrows are raised slightly, like he wants me to ask more, to lean in, to drink up everything he has to say. I take a step back. His half-smile is dizzying.
“Me too,” I say. Which isn’t necessarily a lie. The Lovebound set is spread out on a beach, and by the beach is a lavish hotel where the contestants will be spending our next few nights and of course, tonight’s Contestant’s Dinner, where I’ll meet my competition or who I’m “bound to falling in love with”, or whatever it is the producers say.
Griffin nods, lips twitching. He opens his mouth to say something, ask something, but over my shoulder, his eyes catch onto something else. He grabs his suitcase handle once more, bows his head so his eyes are more in line with mine, even though he’s got at least five inches on me. “My Uber’s here.” He’s running his hands through his dark hair. My eyes follow the motion.
“Guess I’ll see you around, Vivi,” he says, tipping his head, giving me an easy salute. Then he’s gone, the driver tossing his luggage in the trunk before Griffin makes his way to the passenger’s seat and they zoom off.
I stare after the guy. Can’t tell whether I’m more intrigued than I am disappointed or a secret third thing. He’s gone. LA’s a big city. Chances of seeing him again are slim to none, and given my history with boyfriends, it’s time for me to get a move on and grab my damn taxi.
***
The taxi driver’s a bald man who lets me play whatever music I want and bobs his head to anything I play.
Once we arrive, I’m out of the car, waving goodbye to him as he drives off, before turning and seeing the champagne gold expanse of hotel in front of me.
The color scheme is stunning, the palette of the place being a rich goldened wine. I take a deep breath and hold my suitcase close before marching in.
The lobby’s wide as well, and no sooner have I stepped into the space am I greeted by a sparkling, shiny-haired couple.
The woman’s got the LA look, with deeply tanned skin and bleached hair, and the guy’s got something of the LA look as well, looking like a brunet Ken doll. They’re a little older, which you can tell by some of the faint lines working up their faces, but they look good, put-together, and far-too-excited than anyone should ever be.
“Welcome to Lovebound!” The woman says, arms opening wide. I’m receiving air kisses and hugs from both before I can even blink.
“The show where you have the incredible opportunity to fall in love, and win a grand cash prize.” The man says.
“We’re your hosts, Mila and Philip Amador,” The woman grins, jostling her husband at his name. I’ve seen the duo in a few magazines and on multiple thumbnails for the show, but it’s a totally different experience to see them in the flesh. It’s actually mildly terrifying.
“Welcome to the show,” I can’t tell who says this, but they’re both beaming. “And make sure to come down by eight, for your first Contestant’s Dinner, where you’ll meet the rest of your competitors.”
The hotel’s been rented out by Sunrise TV, meaning it’s going to be packed with Lovebound contestants. I wonder how many are already here. I have to be one of the latest, given my flight fiasco. Luckily, there’s about three hours until the Contestant’s Dinner.
As soon as Philip and Mila finally let me go and I get my keys and information from the reception desk, I’m rushing up the elevator to my room.
The room’s huge and excessive with a king size bed, a bathroom that’s immaculate and larger than my entire apartment back home in the city, and large windows that overlook the beach.
I immediately peel my Manhattan-weather hoodie and sweatpants off, and slip into the shower. I probably shower for a good hour, washing my hair with the miniature shampoo and conditioner I brought over. I turn the heat all the way up and dry myself out with a plush towel once I’m done.
Lovebound wasn’t lying when they said this place was paradise in their advertisements. Hell, I could stay here for the rest of my life, and be totally content without ever falling in love. Unfortunately, falling in love is apparently my task. Especially if I want in on that prize money.
I feel sick to my stomach as I think about meeting all the other contestants in a couple of hours. I don’t even know what dress to pick as I empty my suitcase. I could wear the lavender dress that I wore to my very last date with That Guy, but there’s something embarrassing about that. I’m not ready to deal with the stupid dress yet, unfortunately.
Instead, I settle on a short cerulean dress with a plunging neckline. It’s what Reese would call a “flirty dress”, whatever that means. It’s cute, and it’s California, I suppose. If I want a shot with anyone here, I have to make a good first impression.
I don’t need that cold New Yorker girl energy. I need to channel my inner repressed giggly, sunkissed California girl.
So, I settle down on the massive bed and pull my hair back, watching a YouTube makeup tutorial, trying to do my makeup like West Coast girls do, before giving up and settling on my usual routine for the club: eyeliner, blush, and highlighter to make me glow. I use some foundation, but totally give up on contour.
Finally, I wear the flirty little dress and examine myself in the mirror. I hum at the way the material flatters my waist and hips.
I’m hoping I catch an eye, or two. Technically, the game hasn’t officially started yet, but it’s pretty obvious that the Contestant’s Dinner is its unofficial commencement.
People are going to be working their asses off to leave an impression. I’m not gonna be any different. I’m not trying to lose this game, even if I doubt that I’ll be able to entertain more than a brief fling in the long term.
With that, I waste the last hour or so watching old seasons of Lovebound and tugging at my simple silver earrings and necklace before the time rolls around.
Five minutes until the Contestant’s Dinner, I’m darting down the hotel in black heels and into the restaurant at the front of the lobby that I noticed on my way in.
The restaurant is as grand and glamorous as everything else in the hotel is, and when I walk into the restaurant, there’s a large carpeted space in front of the dining area devoid of chairs and tables.
There, I see twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings all milling about in dresses and suits. No one’s seated yet.
I swallow, squaring myself before I walk into the space. Conversation dies down a little bit, and I see people’s eyes turn toward me. Some girls smile, some don’t. A few guys nod. I hear some whispers as I’m assessed, and it takes my all to slow down my breathing as I walk into the crowd. These people are grilling the hell out of me.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” someone says from behind me.
I turn around to see a girl with a head of black ringlets and a big smile. I let out a little laugh. “Real.”
“Hey,” she says, offering me a grin. “I’m Ramona.”
“I’m Vivianna.”
“Beautiful name,” she says. She’s next to me, drink in hand. “Between you and me, I almost pissed myself when I saw everyone assessing me when I walked in. I was lost. Like is there something on my face?” The girl laughs easily. “And then I realized that they were just judging the competition.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “It’s a little nerve racking, though.” It’s a lot nerve racking.
“Tell me about it,” Ramona says. She leans in closer and whispers. “Some of these guys are fine though.”
I didn’t get a chance to check out all the guys because I was too busy trying to avoid embarrassing myself in front of my other competitors. Now, I have the time to give a few of them a good old look-over.
There’s a messy-haired, buff brunet laughing with a tall freckled blond fellow. There’s a pack of them toward the center with drinks in hand, some fidgeting more than others. Some guys are lean, some stocky. The suits most guys wear flatter them, all sharp edges and cuts.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve got my eye on him,” Ramona whispers, red lips moving slowly. I follow her gaze, and my eyes finally land on a stocky tallish guy with a dirty blond buzzcut and brown skin. I don’t see his face all that clearly, because he’s charming at least three gorgeous female contestants, who are all over him.
When the man in question’s face finally comes into full view, I nearly drop the drink a server passed to me while I was busy listening to Ramona.
No way.
No goddamn way.
Right in the midst of flirty women is a handsome devil that hails from Manhattan, a man that I know all too well, a man that I’d swore I’d never talk to again.
Reese would lose her shit if I told her what I was seeing.
Seeing my ex in person after months of nothing doesn’t just feel like a slap on the face, it feels unreal.
My breath catches.
Zander Howard, the only guy I’ve ever really loved, and the guy that discarded me like old scraps is in the same dating competition as me.
My kind of luck.