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vivianna
We have the next day off.
I’m assuming the Amadors gave us this day to get used to being two people shorter. By the time we got home that afternoon, Saanvi and Dominic were packing their bags, and by the time we woke up this morning, both were gone.
We’ve got another beach day planned ahead, and Griff and I have been settled down near the ocean, building sand castles. Griffin had insisted on it, because it’s “heartwarming” and “viewers will eat this up”.
A master manipulator, that man is.
Still, we get to work. I’m digging a moat because every sandcastle needs a moat, and Griff is molding our towers. We’re sandy and waves keep tickling our feet, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.
Griffin doesn’t screw anything I make up, and we work in relative silence, save for my occasional hums. Everyone else is scattered about the beach, playing volleyball or eating burgers at the bar or swimming in the ocean.
And everyone feels so far away as we continue building. There’s a cameraman several feet away who is failing at being inconspicuous, but ignoring him isn’t the chore that it felt like a few days ago.
When Griff’s hand brushes mine as he reaches for wet sand, I forget the camera is even there.
I wonder if Griff ever forgets, when it seems like everything he does is perfectly crafted for viewers. I wonder if his gears are always revolving around the fact that he’s performing, if he thinks about our 100K every time he hangs out with me.
My stomach squeezes like that’s an affront, like that’s not literally what I’d agreed to. And a smaller, more delusional part of my brain argues that he snuck off to my hotel room that day after Dom and I’s awful date.
Logic reasons that he came to my room to discuss our scheme, but Delusion is still stuck on the fact that he came to my room with pizza. He could have shot a quick text, he could’ve called. But no, he hauled his ass over to my room — where there were no cameras, nothing that would’ve made it into the final cut.
“What’re you smiling about?”
He’s looking at me, semi-amused, eyebrow raised. He looks ridiculous, granules of sand stuck to his hands, shirt soiled and hair a mess.
“I’m not smiling,” I say, but then I’m really smiling, because my delusional side is definitely winning and charmed that all Griff’s focus is on me, charmed that he’s so committed to our silly sandcastle.
“You’re so...” I quote him back, and then he’s smiling too.
“So what?” He plays into it.
“So.”
Griffin laughs.
I laugh too. Because when I laugh, it’s easier to feel as though I’m not completely screwed.
***
Our sandcastle ends up great.
And no sooner have we finished admiring our work are we being dragged for a game of beach volleyball.
Everyone assembles around one net and offers to just switch in and out in teams. I don’t pay much attention to who wins what as I do to the way everyone interacts. Somewhere along the line, we’ve all been forced into camaraderie, and it only seems amplified now that there are less people.
With all the drama surrounding the recent episode, it’s clear both affected couples try to play up the romantic bit. They’re all smiley as though they’re being held at gunpoint to be. Imogen and Zander exchange flirts that are so clearly practiced, but probably won’t look off to our viewers. Esme even slips a few smiles at Brody’s try-hard jokes.
Griffin and I exchange our own glances from the sidelines as we watch both couples play, both our arms crossed. I don’t know when our habits started intermingling like that. When Esme and Brody lose, it’s Griffin and I’s turn on the court.
Imogen and Zander are putting up a show; it’s even clearer up close. The unnecessary side-hugs whenever one drops the ball, the perfectly curated doe-eyed eye contact. It’s like that first Contestant’s Dinner when I saw them interact. They’re trying to recreate that scene, reminding the audience of who they are.
It doesn’t matter who wins this volleyball game if one couple wins the audience. When the cheating scandal first happened, it seemed like any efforts made on their end to charm the audience once more would be an uphill battle, but would it be? With Imogen and Zander’s claim of an initially non-exclusive relationship and their flirty banter, they’re bound to ascend in the ratings by the time the next episode is out.
Screw the game, I finally think. I want to win the war, not the battle. And I’m guessing Griff is thinking something similar, because he finds my gaze as Imogen places a hand on Zander’s shoulder for far too long, Zander pointlessly fiddling with the volleyball.
I can’t tell what Griff’s plan is. We usually talk this all out beforehand, usually with some pizza or over coffee at the villa, nowadays. But today, it’s all spontaneity. Griffin’s hazel eyes fix onto me. A dark eyebrow curves upward. Am I willing to trust him?
I think the real question is: Do I have a better plan?
So, I relax my shoulders and bide my time, playing the game. All is typical at first. Griff and I pass back, serve when necessary, and deliver some spikes at the “lovebirds”. Five minutes into this routine, and I’m beginning to think that Griffin’s forgotten whatever it is his plan was supposed to be.
But when Imogen delivers a startlingly powerful spike over the net, Griff and I both find ourselves diving. Except this time, Griff is sloppy. Where he would just let me hit the ball back, he’s getting in my way. Like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, even though I know damn well that Griffin was definitely one of those boys in high school who treated every PE game like the Olympics.
And so, he leans in too close, and in my shock, I stumble. Griffin begins to fall, slipping on the sand. His arms reach out, but it doesn’t seem like I’ve got much of a choice in the matter, because his hands find my waist and tug me down to earth with him.
I let out a startled little scream, staring down at him like we’re in some cliche high school movie. He’s got one hand resting on the small of my back, and the other cushioning the back of his head due to his fall.
To be so close to him is overwhelming. Our torsos are all but smushed against each other, and when I adjust my positioning, Griffin inhales a sharp breath. Griff, as usual, is quick to recover and take charge of the situation with an award-winning grin and bright eyes.
“You okay?” he asks me. He could be speaking another language for all I care.
I’m sure I can hear our fellow contestants snorting or whispering or laughing, but they are drowned out by the ocean, and by this moment. However many seconds it took Griff to come up with this plan, it’s working already. Attention is on us, I can sense it. Griffin’s so close to me, I swear we could kiss if either party shifted just a smidge.
And it seems as though that’s what Griff’s about to do. He tilts his chin upward, a hand caressing my cheek. I hold my breath. Griff is about a breath away from me, his pink mouth slightly parted, ready.
I’m not a PDA girl, but shit, at this moment, I could be.
Then Griff shifts, his lips grazing the space beneath my ear, causing a shiver to travel all the way down my spine. He speaks, voice below a whisper. “Viewers are gonna eat this up.”
“Get a room!” One of the guys yells goodnaturedly.
“I’m making sure Vivianna’s all good!” Griff shouts back.
“Sure, bud!”
We rise to our feet, a flustered disaster. All for the cameras, an increasingly faint voice in my head reminds me.