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vivianna
The first episode will be finished filming by the end of the week, the Amadors tell us in the common area the next day.
So, each couple is expected to date for a week, as we’ve finally entered Lovebound’s courting phase.
One look at Griffin, who’s seated next to me as usual with his arm behind my seat on the sofa— reminds me that the two of us need to continue playing it up. It shouldn’t be difficult. If our day at the beach yesterday doesn’t have viewers fawning over us, I don’t know what will.
My eyes over to my competitors, assessing.
Zander meets my gaze, from where he sits with his hand resting on Imogen’s thigh.
I haven’t talked to either of them at all so far. Zander clearly has no desire to talk to me, and I’ve been too preoccupied selling Griffin and I’s relationship to be bothered.
My eyes drift to Imogen, with her array of freckles and strawberry blond ringlets. I also haven’t asked Griffin about her. We’ve been in tacit agreement that we have a We Don’t Talk About Exes rule.
As much as I want to confirm my suspicions that Griffin and Imogen had a thing, I’m not exactly ready for Griffin to pry into Zander and I’s relationship either, so I’m keeping my speculations to myself.
Griffin and I are going to have to talk to Imogen and Zander at some point, though. After the courting phase, contestants move into one big beach house together, a little ways away from the hotel. It’s a Lovebound tradition, and happens every season.
For most Lovebound couples, the courting phase is like a honeymoon of a sort, all dreamy and sweet. Based on all the Lovebound reruns I’ve watched, the communal living phase is when everything goes to shit. Not only because of the intense competition with tasks that take place regularly, but because, it turns out, a lot of people are easily tempted when tossed into a house with attractive peers who aren't their partner.
By that stage, it’ll be obvious that there’s tension if Griffin and I and Imogen and Zander keep up our silence toward each other. Even in the wake of my awkward date with Dominic, he’s managed to be friendly now that he’s all coupled up, and we’ve essentially been in tacit agreement to put the movie date behind us. At the end of the day, the only beef Griffin and I have is with Imogen and Zander. And at some point, one couple is going to have to cave and make the first move.
Griffin’s fingers tapping against my knee pull me out of my thoughts. He doesn’t look at me as he continues to tap on my skin absently.
“During this week, we want to see you players bond and get closer. You will be living together by the end of it. We don’t want any Lord of the Flies activity when we put you all together now, do we?” Mila’s grin is unsettlingly wide.
There’s laughter.
Mila basks in said laughter for a minute before continuing. “So, this week, there’ll be events—and yes, parties—to ensure that we’re creating a family here.”
“Because,” Philip adds, one hand in the pocket of his capris. “Let’s face it: for the next several weeks, you all will be a family of sorts.”
Mila grins, nodding. “Today’s event is a beach day event with games and cocktails. So, we hope to see everyone there!”
With that, they’re done, and we’re all dismissed.
Griffin grasps my arm after the meeting. He raises an eyebrow. “Meet me in fifteen?”
I find myself nodding, and then, we’re heading off in opposite directions.
***
I’m adjusting the straps of my blue bikini top for the millionth time when I spot Griffin waiting in front of the beach, a soccer ball he got from who knows where held underneath his arm. When he sees me, he waves me over with his free hand.
“Shall we?” he asks, extending an elbow. I slip my elbow into his as a response. We wade out onto the beach.
While I don’t have to deal with shirtless Griffin today, he’s wearing a swimming shirt so tight he may as well get rid of it.
The other couples are already scattered about the beach. There’s a bar with cocktails like the Amadors promised, and there’s a spikeball net set up. Ramona and Marco are flying a kite together. Fernanda and Aiden are chatting near the bar. Everyone else is playing a game of Ultimate Frisbee.
As Griffin and I walk further into the beach arm in arm, we get a few glances. Everleigh glances at us before reaching for a frisbee that Esme tossed to her, and Marco turns around, spool of the kite held in hand.
Griffin, ever-the-natural with attention-grabbing, shoots the other contestants a wide grin. He raises the soccer ball in the air like a victorious gladiator.
“Who wants to play soccer?” He yells out. Grins are exchanged, tension slides away, and the contestants gravitate toward Griffin in an instant.
***
Griffin picks the teams ever-strategically. Everyone wants to play, even Imogen and Zander who stand side-by-side, warily.
No one wants to be a spoilsport. Even Fernanda and Aiden left the bar to join the rest of us. There are fourteen of us in total, with only about half being athletic.
“Vivi, you’re with me,” Griffin says, without hesitation. I stand by him, knowing damn well I haven’t played soccer since I was thirteen.
Griffin chooses Marco as head captain against him, because as it turns out, Marco has played club soccer since he was a kid.
Once Marco and Griffin have finished setting up the teams, we’re evenly matched. Wyatt and Everleigh opt to take opposite goal posts, and by “goal posts” I mean two opposite lines that our captains have drawn into the sand at our respective sides.
Ramona ends up on Griffin and I’s team, to my relief. She gives me a sock in the arm and claims midfield. The last person picked to join our team is Imogen. She’s positioned in defense next to me, which is beyond awkward, given that we’ve essentially ignored each other this entire trip.
Once teams are set up, Marco’s team starts the game over a lucky coin toss, and we’re in motion.
Marco sprints down the pitch, passing the ball to Fernanda, who’s even faster than him and scores the first goal past me and Imogen without a second thought. Which is definitely humiliating.
Imogen and I, pathetically embarrassed, share a look as Griffin groans and Marco’s team whoops. It’s the most interaction we’ve had this entire trip, and she lets out a friendly laugh. “We’ll get ‘em next time.”
“Sure hope so,” I say, offering her a small smile before getting back into position. Imogen laughs again. Whatever opinions I may have about Zander, Imogen doesn’t seem awful. I observe her from the corner of my eye, wondering how much she knows about Zander and I.
I don’t get time to dwell on it, because Griffin’s returning to his starting position and resuming the game in seconds.
With the way Griffin’s zipping down the field, it looks as though he let Marco’s team score a few minutes ago. Griffin plays soccer like it’s some sort of dance, his toned legs pumping as he runs, his torso twisting and turning and evading the other team’s defense, scoring on Wyatt with no hesitation.
Ramona jogs down to me from midfield as we celebrate. Her eyes sparkle. “That’s your man!”
My grin is wide, I entertain it as though Griffin really is my man, because the way he jogs toward me and squeezes my body with his sweaty arms makes it feel true.
“We can’t let Griff carry the whole team,” I say to Ramona, who agrees, and Imogen who nods. “We’ve gotta back him up.”
I’ve seen Aiden’s kick this entire game. The dude is playing midfield, but treats it like defense. I jog up to Aiden and ask if we can switch. We haven’t talked much so far since the speed-dating round but he pats my back and tells me to go ahead, jogging behind me.
Our team is back in position. We’ve decided to take it to three. At the moment, we’re tied. I can’t lie, I’m not a big soccer fan, but I do happen to be a big fan of winning, so I channel those middle-school-me memories and get my head in the game.
When Griffin looks back from his attacking position to see me right behind him, he blinks. I wink, and he averts his gaze to the front with a small grin.
Marco’s team gets the ball this time, and Marco wastes no time bringing it down the beach before passing it to Fernanda who takes it down to the goal. Now is the time I’ll know if my little unofficial team captain moment made any difference.
Fernanda curves past Imogen’s defense to take a shot from Aiden’s side. She does her fancy footwork from college soccer, but Aiden manages to get his foot in there and kick the ball to the other side of the beach. Griffin surges forward with Dominic, Ramona and I not too far behind him in our midfield positions.
The ball lands in front of Brody who’s on Marco’s team, and Ramona struggles to steal it away from him as his teammate, Esme, remains open. I block her, and pass it to Dominic. Any feuds stay off the pitch. Dominic scores.
Ultimately, Griffin and I’s team is the first to get to three goals. Saanvi, one of our forwards, scores, and Dominic spins her around. Even though our team technically “wins”, Marco’s team demands a rematch. We get sloppier as the sun falls lower in the sky. We lose track of goals, we lose track on who’s on whose team. Griffin and Marco start arguing over what constitutes “out”, and Fernanda starts teaching Esme and Brody dance moves, far away from her forward position.
Everleigh and Wyatt disappear somewhere, and Zander and Imogen head over to the bar. Seeing no point in playing a soccer game with both goalies gone and half the team distracted — Griffin calls it off. Ramona pulls Marco away and Griffin returns to where I’m seated on the sand, allowing the granules to pour through my fingers.
He pulls me up, right hand settling on my waist. “That was fun, and we won. Even if Marco’s too pissy to admit it.”
“Yeah,” I say as we head toward the bar absently. “You weren’t kidding about your soccer prowess.” I whistle.
Griffin smirks. “I got into my high school’s Varsity team when I was fourteen.”
“Alright now,” I reply as he pulls out a seat for me at the bar and settles down into the one next to me. “Arrogant ass.”
Griffin’s about to reply when his eyes fix onto something behind me. On the other side of the bar is Imogen and Zander, doing a considerably poor job at ignoring us. “Good game, man,” Griffin says to Zander. Zander played defense on Marco’s team, and seemed to want to be anywhere else the entire game.
Zander nods at him, but doesn’t say anything, his eyes flicking over to me.
“You were pretty good,” Imogen says to Griffin.
He gives her a tight grin. “Thanks, Immy.” A pause, long and painful. “Imogen.”
If I had any doubt about them having history before, it’s gone now. Zander must sense it too, because both of his eyebrows rise.
Imogen, sensing the awkwardness of the situation, rises to her feet and says she’s going to get ready for tonight’s dinner. Zander stays behind, still eyeing Griffin and I.
“Can I talk to you?” Zander suddenly asks. I almost look around to confirm whether or not he’s asking me. Those five words were all I wanted to hear for months after he broke up with me. I’d tried to call him the next day multiple times, but he wouldn’t pick up.
And now, all of a sudden, he wants to chat?
“Sure,” Griffin says, leaning back in his seat and glancing toward me. “Let’s talk.”
“Wanted to chat one-on-one.”
Griffin’s got a martini in hand and takes a slow sip. An easy smile slides onto his lips. “You trying to sweep Viv away, Howard?” Everything in his voice is light, save for the icy undertone.
“Don’t worry,” Zander says. He doesn’t bother to smile or butter up his tone. “I won’t call her any cute nicknames, or anything of the sort.” He says coolly. “I’m just as excited about having this conversation as you are, trust me.”
Griffin looks at me.
I pat his thigh. Once, twice. “I’ll be fine. I can put up a fight.” I earn a half-smile from Griffin at that. He shakes his head and stands up. “I’ll meet with you later.” I watch him as he disappears into the night-blanketed beach.
“How are you?” Zander asks once Griff’s gone. Which I find hilarious, because he rarely ever asked me that question when we were together. Why would he care now?
“Fine,” I say. Zander sighs, irritated. Now that’s familiar.
“Why’re you being so difficult?”
That gets me pissed. “We’re not dating anymore,” I say, then lower my voice, so that I’m certain I can’t be heard. “I don’t see why you have to pretend you like me. You said it yourself.”
During the last supper, Zander had told me he felt like he was forcing himself to like me. That he wasn’t “feeling” me anymore. He fell out of love with me. Like everything we were was a joke. Like I had created this fictional dream couple in my head that didn’t exist. Like I was delusional the entire time, even though he had been the one to ask me out first.
“I’m trying to be civil,” Zander says slowly, like he’s talking to a petulant child. He adopts the patronizing tone he used whenever I was upset about anything ever. I want to throw my cocktail at his face.
I can’t cry, can’t yell. If I do, all my mistakes are going to be aired on TV and I’m going to be dogged by random assholes on the internet who don’t even know me.
In the back of my head, I know this.
I rise to my feet. “Look, I appreciate the effort, but I’m not ready to talk to you right now, and I want you to respect that.”
I make a move to leave, but Zander grabs my wrist. It’s not the reassuring pressure of Griffin, but a tense grip that might leave a bruise. Looking back, Zander wasn’t an A+ boyfriend when we were together, but he never laid a hand on me.
So, I don’t know why my heart begins to race. I was certain I knew everything about Zander. I was certain that no matter how cold or insensitive he could be to me while we were dating — we would make it. I was certain that he loved me like I loved him. But now I know that certainty is clearly bullshit.
I’m not ready to talk to him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be. I’ve never gone to therapy, but something tells me that having the person that broke your heart trying to chat when the bruise is still fresh doesn’t help the healing process.
“Of course I respect that,” Zander says, “But I mean, this is crazy. Did you join the show because of me? Did you know I was joining?” It’s accusatory, like I’m some sick puppy that follows him around everywhere, even after we broke up. Like I’m pathetic.
My indignance gives me the strength to pull my hand out of his grip. “What the hell?” My face burns with embarrassment and something like disappointment. “I did this show for me,” I snap. I did this show to get him out of my head.
The shock that crosses his face almost gives me a sense of satisfaction. “I need to head to dinner,” I say, huffing down the beach.
I’m swarmed by producers in seconds, cameras all up in my face like they’re goddamn paparazzi. They’re drawn to drama like a moth to the flame. It’s good for content. They’re probably gonna ask me to give a little monologue on Zander and I’s history. Then they’ll ask me for pictures of us together that they can broadcast for the whole world to see. I can’t do this.
A sick feeling settles in my stomach when I realize that I’ll have to beg them to exclude it from the final cut. They want me to do a confessional right now, the confession cam all up in my face. I know that this is what I signed up for. I know that. I agreed to my life being part of a story for viewers’ entertainment. But exhaustion threatens to pull me under at the mere sight of the producers.
They’re already speaking, and I wipe angry tears before they fall.
“Can you explain what happened back there?”
“Can you provide your audience some context for the conversation you and Zander just had?”
During camera confessionals in Lovebound—and all of reality TV— us contestants are supposed to reveal what we’re thinking. But how can you properly explain what you’re thinking when you’re in a disastrous emotionally-charged state?
I shake my head. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about that.” My arms hug my torso. I feel naked and cold in my bikini and towel.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you’d like to say?”
“She said she doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it.” Griffin appears like an apparition, and makes steady eye contact with the producers, which finally has them backing off. I try to quell a spark of irritation at the fact.
“Thanks,” I say as they finally back off, a few patting me on the shoulder all friendly. There’s an apology or two that reminds me that they’re not the paparazzi. I hope I never have to deal with the paparazzi, given how poorly I shooed away producers.
“You good?” Griffin asks. His eyes find mine. His head angles lower so he can hear my response better.
“I think I’m going to head back to my room.”
“Skipping dinner?”
“Lost my appetite.”
Griffin nods, lets me go. I make my way down the beach, hugging my towel to my torso all the way up the stairs and to my room. I unlock my room and throw on a massive t-shirt, spandex shorts and fuzzy socks before flinging myself onto my bed.
Despite not having seen Griffin following me, I wait for his knock.
If he’d wanted to follow me, he would’ve waited a few beats, so it wasn’t so obvious. We might be together for the cameras, but we have to make it look subtle, gradual in some ways.
When I hear three raps on the door, a grin slides onto my face as I push myself up from the bed.
Griffin stands in the doorway. He must’ve headed to his own room first, because he stands in front of me in black sweats and a frame-hugging Real Madrid jersey. I let him in, returning to the bed.
“You wanna talk about it?” Griffin asks, plopping down next to me.
“Not right now.”
“Want me to order pizza?” He asks.
I look up at him from where I’m laying down on the bed. “All-meats, please.”
“Is that your Bad Mood Order?” Amusement paints his tone.
“Guess so,” I reply. Our eyes lock. I smooth down my gargantua t-shirt.
“Coming right up.”