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griffin
The first episode is out.
Vivi’s a nervous wreck, opening the door to her room not even a second after my first knock. She peels down the room, and I follow her to see her back on her bed, knees brought up to her chest like an apprehensive student waiting for exam results.
The other day, Vivi and I had a brunch picnic on the beach, to really sell it. We were great at pretending we couldn’t see the on-set photographers taking candids of us. And we shared a bottle of sparkling apple juice, which was a welcome break from all the alcohol. That same afternoon, everyone got press photos taken on the beach, arms folded or hands on hips in our swimwear. Filming was also brought to a close, and for the past couple of days, the editors have been stitching the first episode all together.
As contestants, the Amadors said we don’t see the first episode when it’s released, but that doesn’t stop us from hovering over social media or the Lovebound website to see what our viewers think of us.
“I feel sick,” she says as I settle down next to her, shifting so that my arm is pressed against hers, thigh pressed against hers. All close and personal in a way that’s almost natural. She pulls up her laptop and centers it between us. Articles have already been published. She clicks on the first one she sees:
LOVEBOUND RETURNS FOR ITS 20TH SEASON. MEET THE NEW CAST.
She scrolls through everyone’s blurbs at the speed of light, skimming until she gets to hers.
And what a sight.
There’s a picture of her at the beach in a cerulean bikini and a wrap skirt that makes her look like Kida from Atlantis: The Lost Empire if she had black curls, that was taken about a week ago. She’s smiling at the camera, curls free, dark brown skin shining. She’s attractive in a way that has to be universal, her expression shy.
Most of the information provided in her profile is from her Lovebound application, she tells me. It talks about her job as a vet, chicken alfredo pasta being her favorite food, baking with her best friend, being one of my favorite hobbies and watching romcoms being one of her favorite pastimes, because of course it is.
“Let me get a better look,” I say, angling the laptop toward myself, more interested in seeing the picture face-on. I let out a whistle, and she rolls eyes, peering over my shoulder.
“Here, let’s go find yours.”
It only takes a few seconds of scrolling until we land on my profile. My hair’s messy, and I’m wearing my black swimming shorts and a navy blue compression shirt. I’ve got a soccer ball under one arm, because “of course you do”, Vivi says.
The California sun has been good to me. The rest of my profile talks about firefighting and soccer and life in Manhattan. “You work a twelve hour shift four days in a row?” Vivi suddenly asks, looking up at me.
“All in a day’s work,” I say. Of course, it’s hell. Feels like it too, when you’re literally running into a burning building. But of course, I’ll do it until I retire. Of course I will.
“What do you do, typically?” She asks, curious.
“You know,” I say, lips curving upward. “I’m saving cats from trees and all that shit. Zipping down poles. Spending time with the guys. Firefighter stuff.”
She rolls her eyes, letting out an amused gust of air as she continues scrolling down to Imogen’s profile, then Zander’s.
I tip her laptop screen down, and before she can protest, I dip my head and flash my dimples.
“How about you?”
“I diagnose and treat animals,” She says, moving to open her laptop again before I gracefully push it back closed.
“Save any cats from trees?” Yes, I’m insufferable. It’s one of my best traits.
“No, but I have vaccinated them.”
“Do you have one?” I ask, when I know fully well that I can just read her profile on the article. Besides, there are no cameras in my room. There’s no reason for me to be leaning in so close to her, no need for my sheepish smile.
But at the same time, there’s no reason for Vivi to be answering my questions, to be entertaining me, given we have no audience — and yet, here she is, doing exactly that.
“A vaccination?”
“No, goofy.” I grin. “A cat. Do you have a cat?”
“Don’t call me goofy, goofy. And no.”
My grin widens. “Have you ever had a cat?”
“No,” she says, “I did have a dog. But he got old and died when I was fifteen.”
“Oh.” I say.
There’s an awkward silence, where neither of us knows what to say.
We stare at each other for a beat. Then, I’m sorry, but I snort.
“Wow.” She says, and that’s all it takes for me to fall back against her bed, fighting laughter.
“That is not funny,” She says, half-appalled, half-amused. “You’re awful, you know that? Laughing at my dead dog. You diabolical individual.”
“It’s not even that,” I explain as I try to quell my laughter, “It’s the fact that you delivered it so casually. It was so out of pocket. I thought this would be a nice story and then you just bluntly say that he died.” She is unreal, in more ways than one.
“It’s been eleven years! How did you expect me to deliver it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, sitting up once my laughter finally subsides. “Not the way you did, I’ll tell you that.”
“You’re so unserious,” She says, shaking her head and pulling her laptop out of my reach. “Can we check the comments now? I need to see what people think of me.”
“Glad to see you’re very secure and don’t need external validation.”
“Shut up. You know you want to see the comments, too.”
I shake my head but scooch closer to her on the bed. “Check Twitter and Instagram too. I need to see what we’re dealing with.”
We first scroll through the article’s comment section. Most talk about Esme, recognizing her from her massive platform on almost every social media app. Everyone gets a few compliments, and overall, the article’s comment section is relatively tame.
“Bland. Let’s head to the other sites.”
We were each posted on Lovebound’s Instagram account, with our profiles. There’s a comment under Vivi’s photo by user reese.mccormack1: the baddest! She lets out a laugh. Reese. Is that a guy name or a girl name? The user doesn’t have a profile. My eyebrows rise. “That’s my best friend,” she explains.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” she’s holding back a laugh. “You can relax, hotshot.”
“In my defense,” I say, “I already had my hands full worrying about Mark and Zander. Or hell, even Dominic.”
She snorts. “It’s Marco. And be for real. None of them want anything to do with me.”
I’m still looking over her shoulder, scrolling. “Well looks like user87625309 does. Under my picture, user87625309 has commented: i need her so bad. That is not a best friend.
“I’m actually kind of flattered.” Vivi says.
I groan. “Don’t do this to me.” I scroll down to my own post, where the comments are filled with people commenting user87625309-adjacent things.
“Oh!” I go, Vivi side-eyeing me as though I'm the one who wrote the damn comments.
Twitter’s even worse.
“I think I should be the worried one,” Vivi finally says as we scroll through the Lovebound hashtag. “Griffin Andrews could run me over,” she reads aloud. “What the hell?”
I cannot tell whether to be amused or embarrassed.
“What fire department did Griffin say he worked for? Asking for a friend.” Vivi continues to read aloud from different Tweets.
To be fair, there’s a few Tweets about us. “Griffin and Viv are so cute. Rooting for them.” I smirk. “See, not all women on the internet want to steal me away from you.”
“Right,” Vivi says. “Only half.”
Thirsting aside, people on the Internet seem to like Vivianna and I. They definitely buy it, and I see posts upon posts of people reacting to clips of me refusing Esme and then choosing Vivi, clips of the two of us hanging out at the beach, and clips of our little picnic date.
That being said, every couple seems liked well enough. Esme and Brody are pretty popular in searches, and so are Ramona and Marco and even Imogen and Zander. We check our official Lovebound ratings, on the Lovebound site, and we’re tied with both “Bresme” and “Ramarco” in terms of our audience approval ratings.
We’ve already made it past the first hurdle. The challenge, now, is to be the best couple. Before I can offer us congratulations, a message from the Lovebound group chat pops up on my phone.
“Looks like everyone’s going to the bar,” I say, looking up from my phone meeting Vivi’s eyes. “Wanna be my date?”
Her lips twitch. “Only if you buy me a drink.”
“Deal.”