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vivianna
The next episode comes out with an overwhelmingly positive response.
People are sad to see Saanvi and Dominic leave, and some even swear off watching the show, but most are buying into Imogen and Zander’s relationship with how thick they’ve been laying it on, and even Brody and Esme’s forced decency has allowed them to rise—albeit by a small margin—in the ratings. Everyone gets a small boost and Ramona and Marco stay strong as ever, Griff and I trailing behind them.
Our next challenge begins today. No one knows what it is and I bounce over the idea with Ramona and Fernanda in the downstairs bathroom. The three of us are standing in front of the wide mirror, makeup bags overflowing and practically spilling over.
It had been Ramona’s idea. She felt like we have to look pretty to take on the day. The Amadors were kind enough to inform us that no one is getting eliminated for this challenge, but the next. Which frankly, isn’t so assuring in the first place. But we do get a break for one round. That has to count for something.
Seeing Saanvi go was already difficult as is. I don’t even want to imagine how it’ll feel to lose one of the six girls left over. Except Imogen, frankly. With her and Zander creeping up on Griff and I, they’re both our biggest threat. Regardless, something tells me they won’t be eliminated for a while, if at all.
Still, doing my makeup with Ramona and Fernanda—crushed into a shiny bathroom— is somewhat assuring. We don’t talk about the next challenge, but about things like blush and bronzer. Fernanda and Ramona give me tips. I want to go all out today, totally embracing being on TV. Ramona, being a literal MUA and micro influencer—she showed me her following, it’s not Esme level, but still impressive— has no plans on having her makeup done for her or her friends. She’s giving us all the tips and hacks and Fernanda’s blasting her playlist.
I try not to think about Griff or beach volleyball last night, and I certainly don’t bring it up. Most people are downstairs and preparing for breakfast by the time the three of us are done. When we make our way to the table, most people are in robes, or loose t-shirts and shorts over swimming suits.
It’s so easy to get used to this lazy rhythm of life, to the lack of schedule and languid routine, to the in-person makeup tutorials from Ramona, and to the way Griff pats the seat next to him and raises both eyebrows when he catches my eye.
Like I belong there, right next to him. Even though we’re using each other to get toward a common goal, and this is barely allyship when there is a ticking time bomb. This is all over at some point, whether we get eliminated or win.
***
We meet the Amadors outside on the beach. However, the volleyball nets are gone and instead are huge white tarps stretched across the sand. There are a few colorful buckets situated onto each tarp and the Amadors are decked out into fashionably tie-dyed outfits.
They give us a little welcome and gesture about the transformed space before announcing our challenge. “In case you can’t tell, it has to do with paint,” Philip Amador grins.
Mila Amador announces—a little too excitedly—that we’re going to be painting our partners. The paint buckets in front of us are filled with body paint, and one partner will have to paint our landscape on the other.
Us competitors will have to vote for the couple whose design looks best— obviously, we’re unable to vote for our own— and each couple will be ranked from highest-to-lowest.
The fact that we competitors are voting is already a risky game. Everything’s going to be about politics. Who are you closer to? Who would you hate to see win? The power is all in our hands, and that’s going to be a ride for sure. Now I fully understand why there are no eliminations this round. Competitors voting brings a realm of bias to this challenge that’s different from when it’s the larger viewing population voting.
After the announcement is given, each couple rushes to a tarp. The landscape is a picture of this very beach. We have to paint it. On our partner. I can already tell Ramona’s going to absolutely obliterate this challenge. When the next episode is released, the editors are definitely going to have a confessional clip of her explaining how ready she is for this challenge because of the fact that she literally works part-time as a makeup artist.
The last time I’ve actually touched a canvas was in senior year art class. I didn’t hate it, and I was decent, but I’m no artist.
Griff must catch wind of my falling apart because he tugs at my fingers to pull me out of my head. We’re standing on our tarp, and I’m completely taken by thought.
“Who’s going to be the painter?” Griff asks, giving the back of my hand a brief stroke with his thumb. We crouch down to our knees, so we’re now seated while facing each other.
“I’m not an artist,” I bite my bottom lip. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“Hey,” Griff whispers, immediately commanding my attention. “In case you haven’t forgotten,” his gaze is unwavering, “we’re partners. I’m here too.”
“What do you suggest then?” The timer will start in a few minutes, after each couple has delegated each role.
“I suggest not counting me out, Viv,” Griff says, eyes following my hand as I tuck a lock of curls behind my ear. “I dabble in art.”
It’s difficult for me to prevent my eyes from narrowing. “Dabble” is a tricky word and definitely an intentional one on Griff’s part.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve done tattoos.”
“How many times?”
“Once or twice.”
I pinch my nose before exhaling a gust of air. “We’re doomed.”
Griff shakes his head. He’s smirking again, that smirk that turns your stomach upside down. “Oh ye of little faith.”
I purse my lips. “Wait, did you do those tattoos yourself?” I point at his arms, biceps toned and tanned and tattooed, then at his shirt, where his rose tattoo is hiding behind the black material. Because if so, maybe there’s hope after all.
“Nope,” Griff says, and plows on despite my widening eyes. “It’s hard to tattoo yourself. It’s easier to tattoo someone else. Which is good, because I’ll be painting on you anyway.”
I’m still sort of hung up on the fact that the guy has only tattooed one person, maybe two. But the truth of the matter is that we don’t exactly have a better option, so I steel myself, laying back down against the tarp as Griff’s lips twitch.
Once each partner’s role is decided, everyone who’s been allocated the role of canvas is made to wriggle into these white tanks and matching biker shorts in the changing room. When everyone’s back at their respective tarps, the Amadors start the timer for an hour.
“When did you tattoo someone?” I watch as he assembles the paint buckets and takes in the skyline.
“When I was eighteen, I took a gap year before college and worked as an apprentice at a tattoo shop a few blocks away from home.”
I follow his movements, watching him squint at the skyline and dip his paintbrush in a pale blue color. “Why’d you do it?”
Griff shrugs. “Honestly? I needed something to do. I had no idea what my plan was going to be after high school, but my parents made it very clear that they weren’t just going to let me sit around. I worked as a waiter for a bit, then took an apprenticeship at that tattoo parlor, then worked in construction, then firefighting.”
“Okay, Barbie,” I tease, Griff snorting. He re-dips his paintbrush in the paint bucket, leaning forward and starting his painting with a large drag across my forehead.
I curse at the coolness of the paint.
“Sorry,” Griffin says, very un-sorry. He’s still painting on my forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “your face is going to be all blue, which doesn’t seem very promising.” His dimple appears, however, so I ignore the doubt-filled alarm bells and let him do his thing.
“Did you like it?” I ask after a few moments of silence. “Tattooing?”
Griffin smiles. “Yeah. Not enough to do it for the rest of my life, though. I completed my apprenticeship, and did like a couple of real tattoos before dipping.”
The feeling of Griffin’s brush strokes over my body has me holding my breath. I’m half-listening, half hyper aware of my body and the paint. Griff is so gentle, careful. But he’s also firm, making deliberate strokes like he knows what he’s doing. When he gets down to my white tank, just begging for paint, he continues with those movements, eyes darting between the skyline and my body.
I feel so examined by him, in my small tank and shorts. All his focus is on me, and I know it’s analytical and deliberate, but the fact doesn’t stop heat from spreading everywhere in my body like wildfire.
Griffin is consuming me with his anecdotes from home, his stories about his strict but loving parents, about the euphoria he felt the day he got his sleeve tattoo, about the nausea he felt when taking the Firefighter exam, about his first day at the job, about him.
He lulls me out of my head in a way I’ve never witnessed a guy do, like he knows that sometimes I can get trapped in there but he’s willing to find me and lead me out.
And his touch is so soft with me, like I really am a canvas, and I need all the sensitivity and care and attention in the world.
All his strokes are deliberate. He’s not screwing around. I can’t see myself, but I can see the makings of sand painted onto my legs and biker shorts. He doesn’t shy away from color or the sheer amount of how much paint is necessary for each component of the drawing.
When the Amadors announce that there are only five minutes left, Griff’s just about done, pulling me to my feet with a dimpled grin. He takes my hand gracefully, making sure not to smudge any paint and spins me around.
“Oh, you look perfect.”
I look down at the intricate patterns, at the warm beach and the swirling ocean that has taken over my skin. My gaze returns to him. “You did good.”
The question rests on whether good is enough for our fellow competitors.
The timer goes off for good, and everyone’s forced to drop any paintbrushes and face the Amadors. We all clap, high-five our partners. Griff gives me a pinch in the side, face so straight I’d have thought he was innocent if I didn’t know any better.
Each painted person stands in one line, a couple of feet between each of us. We can step forward and give each other a good once-over. Ramona’s work on Marco looks good, obviously, like the picture perfect beach.
No one’s painting looks especially bad, but most are a little rough. Most people here aren’t artists, or haven’t touched a paintbrush since they were teenagers, like me. The winning couple will be a close one, and the losing couple won’t exactly be predictable.
Even though the winners aren’t getting any reward out of this, from what the Amadors have told us, any challenge is an opportunity to prove to our audience that each couple works, that we know what we’re doing, that we’d make a great team, that they should vote for us.
The rankings begin shortly thereafter. Each couple votes via one tablet that is passed around, and we don’t get the end results until a good fifteen minutes has passed. The Amadors read them out. We won’t know who voted for who, but I know for one that Griff and I voted for Ramona and Marco who blew the assignment out of the entire park.
So, said couple ultimately ranking first in the challenge isn’t surprising at all. The two kiss, beaming at the result. Next, Griffin and I slide into second place, and there’s a second of hesitation as we wonder how to celebrate. Griffin quickly moves toward me, and I think, for one startling, euphoric second, he might kiss me. His face comes close. A kiss would solidify our image to the audience, I tell myself. I don’t really need to kiss him, I tell myself. But I wait, eyes on him as though there’s no one else on the beach. It’ll probably be a sweet peck, I imagine, something like Ramona and Marco’s kiss.
And then Griffin holds back. Not so much physically as he does emotionally. He shakes his head, then barely brushes his lips over my right cheek. And I try not to deflate, try to play it off with a laugh. Once Griff pulls back, he doesn’t look at me.
The next names breeze by quickly. Fernanda and Aiden pull in last due to some subpar artwork on Fernanda by Aiden. Neither have hobbies or jobs that align with painting, from what I know, so logically, it makes sense that they struggled. Still, they always seemed to be in sync as a couple. While they might not be the strongest couple, they’ve been relatively consistent.
Fernanda pats Aiden’s shoulder, and he crosses his arms, shaking his head. This is the most embarrassed I’ve seen Aiden, and Brody comes up to give him somewhat of an affectionate arm-punch to clear the mood.
It’s a successful mission on Griff and I’s part, but the not-kiss has created some sort of strange gap between us. Griff doesn’t slow down as he walks back to the Villa. According to the Amadors, this evening, the hotel is hosting some karaoke night at its bar for the couples to let loose. Griffin doesn’t even leave room for me to go over our plan for said karaoke night, or opt out of going altogether.
It’s strange, you’d think a successful challenge like this would bring us closer together. We’ve been close. These past few weeks, we’ve told each other just about everything and plotted and connived and now he’s walking out ahead of me, not caring about how that might look to the cameras—more importantly, not caring about how that might make me feel, when we’re supposed to be a team, dammit.
I’m familiar with feeling invisible. That was all Zander made me feel. One thing about Griff, fake relationship or not, is that he always made me feel seen, from that very first day we met on the plane. He saw me. And he’s made that clear too, with all the teases and the pizzas and the texts.
But now, all that buzz between us has dissipated. Instantaneously. Griffin’s not flat-out ignoring me or shooting me cold looks like Zander did when he was upset, but his smiles toward me are polite, chaste. He’s walking at a pace so fast he knows that it’ll be difficult for me to keep up.
It’s all I can do to quash down that familiar sting of rejection as I trail behind him.
***
No sooner have we gotten to our room is Griff out. He says he’s going for a walk. He doesn’t ask me to come with him. And he smiles, trying to act like everything is okay, but it so clearly isn’t, that I feel as though he’s taking me for an idiot.
In his absence, I flop back against my bed, glaring at the ceiling until I’m hungry enough to head down to the kitchen.
Esme’s in the kitchen and if she sees my worry, she doesn’t point it out. And I’m somewhat grateful. If she were to call it out, then she’s drawing audience attention to any possible conflict in Griff and I’s relationship. It seems pretty screwed to be considering that right now, but there’s no way I’m letting Griff’s shitty attitude get in the way of our win.
So, we talk about the unimportant things, expressing surprise over Fernanda and Aiden’s performance, discussing excitement about karaoke night, coming up with theories regarding what future challenges are going to look like.
Brody makes his way downstairs just as I’m leaving Esme, and she gives me a small smile, reassuring, as I leave her to finish whipping up chai in the kitchen, making my way up to my room with a bag of chips.
Griff doesn’t get home by the time the taxis are pulling up to take everyone to the bar. In lieu of apology, he sends a quick text: running late, will meet you there.
I leave him on read, because I’m pissed and nothing if not petty, brushing off my little black dress, grabbing my clutch and slipping into one of the taxis.
We arrive at the bar not too long afterward, everyone piling out and into the space. There’s a whole karaoke set up toward the back with mics, a projector screen and an endless amount of wires.
Everleigh claps her hands together, not wasting a second before dragging Wyatt to the front and coercing him into singing a Green Day song with her. Wyatt’s singing is great, surprising no one, given his guitar-playing and singing at the bonfire a while back. Everleigh’s good too, and their voices meld together well enough. Everyone claps when they’re done, and the two go to grab drinks.
Friends, couples and individuals go onstage one after the other. The singing progressively gets worse as people progressively get drunker and drunker. I sit off to the side for the most part, watching everyone having fun, and feeling Griff’s absence.
It’s all well and good until Imogen plops down on a stool next to me, even though our last interaction was just about forever ago, since we’ve basically ignored each other since the Great Cheating Debacle.
Imogen is tipsy and smug, given her and Zander’s recovery from said Great Cheating Debacle. Her “open relationship” excuse to the viewers was smart, I’ll give her that. It’s going to be difficult to outsmart someone as cunning as Imogen Morgan. But Griff and I have to, otherwise we can kiss our prize pot goodbye.
“Where’s your Griff?” Imogen asks with a honey smile. Of course she’d capitalize off his absence. Of course, she would. Even in our off time, Imogen’s playing the game. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to throttle someone more.
“He’s on his way,” I reply, with an even sweeter smile. I want to raise my middle finger, but I don’t need the internet to be calling me aggressive and belligerent by next week, so I don’t.
“You guys seemed kind of awkward after today’s challenge,” Imogen continues, taking another sip out of her drink. “Funny, I thought you’d be happy after just making runner up.”
“We are.” Bitch.
Imogen’s eyebrows knit together almost theatrically. “Really? Is that why Griff just ran out?”
I laugh, eyes knives. “He didn’t run out. He just needed a breather. It was a long, hot morning.”
“Right,” Imogen coos. She leans forward as though to reach behind me. Then she whispers, too low for any mic to pick up: “Acting could use some work.” She smiles after she pulls back, giving me a firm shoulder-pat.
I’m still glaring as she gets up to leave, but I can’t even generate a good comeback in my head because she’s right. Griff’s behavior is jeopardizing everything. If he doesn’t get his ass here tonight like he told me he would, we might be on the hot seat again. I watch as Imogen settles into Zander’s arms.
Zander doesn’t even need a condescending monologue or shoulder-pat to be arrogant. He just laughs at whatever Imogen whispers into his ear as he looks at me. One thing you’ve got to respect about Imogen is as obnoxious as she is, she does all the dirty work for the two. She comes up with rumors and the messaging and the arrogant remarks. Zander has this more removed stance. But they’re together, they plan all this shit out together. They’re a unit, in a way Zander and I never were. He doesn’t have to come up to me himself and shit-talk passive aggressively when he can just send Imogen to. And even if he isn’t involved with her catty behavior, he’s not exactly trying to put a stop to it.
My glass is held in a vice-like grip, and I’m suddenly very isolated. My dress feels constricting and I keep on trying to tug down the skirt of it. I’m the only one here without my partner, and it’s as humiliating as it is stressful.
Griffin, where are you?