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vivianna
Our first day after making finals, Griffin and I sleep in.
For the first time in ages, there’s no rush to whatever the next challenge may be. We have one week to relax, but as I lay awake, I can’t help but think that Imogen and Zander are likely plotting.
Are they sleeping in? I doubt it. At the moment, they’re probably re-watching old Lovebound finales to figure out how previous winning couples did it. This is supposed to be a short hiatus before the finale begins, but it just feels like a long waiting period, like the clock is ticking down and we’re doing nothing.
I sit up in bed, attempting (to no avail) to clear my head by scrolling through comments under the Lovebound official Instagram account, when I get a simple message from my parents. It’s a text, probably written by my mother, saying that they saw me on TV (double exclamation mark), and they’re going to vote for me and my boyfriend in the final round, no matter what happens, and asking when they’re meeting him.
And I’m smiling, big and wide. My parents have always been like this; supportive, regardless of whether they fully understand my endeavors. I never gave them details regarding me being on Lovebound, but I did call them the day before my flight, telling them that I was going to be on a show, but couldn’t share the specifics. Naturally, they found the show and have probably been calling over all their neighbors to watch each episode and probably regularly shouting out: “Oh, that’s our daughter!” Which is completely embarrassing but infinitely more heartwarming.
And I reply to their message, about to send a second text asking when they want to meet Griffin when it hits me with the cold reality that Griffin isn’t actually my boyfriend. He never officially asked me out, and it’s not like we’ve had a sit-down to discuss what’s real and what’s for show, because somewhere the lines blurred. And sure, Griffin might like to kiss me and talk sweet, but does he want to be my boyfriend in the real world? When we’ve both got our money and have to walk back into our lives? Do we pretend that nothing happened?
“You good?”
I glance over to see Griffin who’s looking up at me through half-lidded eyes and stretching, a yawn erupting at the end of the question.
“I’m...” I set my phone aside. “I’m fine.” I try to force a chipperness into my tone. “So, what’s the plan for today?”
Griffin, although half-asleep, purses his lips in thought, but he lets it slide. “I’m thinking we should drive down to Santa Monica and visit the pier. Rides, food — all of that good stuff. What do you think?”
I need a distraction, probably now more than ever, and I don’t know if I’m ready to have the serious “what’s next?” conversation with Griffin. “Sounds good.”
“Alright,” he dramatically pulls himself off the bed, the blanket falling down to reveal his torso before he disappears into the bathroom. “Sounds like a plan.”
***
Griff rents a car and drives us down to the pier a half hour away. It’s a roofless red car, and the wind tousles my curls as I stretch toward the sky. When we get to the pier, we dart down the place, stopping by every carnival game and trying to win prizes, before giving up and heading down to concession stands to grab cotton candy and corndogs. We ride the ferris wheel, on top of the world for a few sweet seconds before coming down. My hand fits into Griffin’s perfectly as he drags me from place to place.
We grab a pizza for dinner and sit down on an outdoor table, looking out at the water to conclude the day.
Our day.
***
The next day is spent at the Villa. Imogen and Zander seem intent on staying out while we’re in, which also benefits them if they’re hoping of getting “accidental” press sightings. I never truly appreciated how big the Villa was until almost everyone was gone.
In fact, when all fourteen of us competitors moved in, it had actually felt pretty crowded. We spent so much time outside because you couldn’t even really move around in the Villa without bumping into somebody in the kitchen, couldn’t play ping pong without waiting for the two people already playing to leave. Now, it’s just room and space, which is only amplified given how we both avoid our exes and they avoid us.
But having so much space also means we get to take advantage of the kitchen whenever we want to. It’s 2 PM when Griffin and I are trying out this chicken alfredo pasta recipe I found online. It turns out the Villa has some aprons in the pantry, so we both wear one to feel like Real Chefs.
When the pasta’s done, we sit next to each other at the wide table, even though we could ultimately sit anywhere. But old habits die hard, and everyone in the Villa had their own informally assigned seats, so we don’t go trying out the others.
During most nights of our hiatus week, we head out to the club. Tonight, we’re matching in all black, me in my fitted dress and Griffin in his ever-unbuttoned oxford shirt. Dancing with him is easy, because we adjust to each other without much effort. My eyes are focused on my heels at first, but when we get into the rhythm, all I can look at is him.
We pull apart once the song finishes, out of breath but jubilant, and Griffin squeezes my hip once before he goes off to get our drinks.
I settle down, watching other people dance and tip their heads back and laugh. The lights are flashing, music deafening, and the whole ambiance overwhelming. I hope Griffin gets back soon.
But he doesn’t. Fifteen minutes go by, and I start to worry, wonder if he’s already too drunk and he forgot our drinks, or if he got sidetracked. Either way, I feel more sweaty and lonely than ever with his absence, and get up to find him.
I’m walking down to the front counter when I see him. He’s talking to someone. A girl with auburn curls from what I can see. When I get closer, settling down on the bar stool adjacent to them, I catch a brief glance of her side profile.
Imogen.
My shoulders sag as I keep my eyes on them.
Not once since this entire competition has begun have I seen the two actually interact on more than a relatively distant surface level. Suddenly, the two are clearly deep in conversation. And from where I’m standing, a little toward the back where they are, everything is quieter, and I can hear them.
“I know I screwed up,” Imogen is saying. She’s got her arms crossed, Zander nowhere in sight. Griffin’s standing straight, his hands slid deep into his pockets.
I don’t hear what Griffin says in response, but I do hear Imogen add. “This was supposed to be us, you know?” She laughs then, like it’s a joke, but it clearly isn’t. She’s drunk, I can tell by the way her words are lazily slurring into each other. My heart starts pounding. “In the whole Lovebound thing.”
This was supposed to be us.
They were supposed to enter Lovebound together. Of course. Imogen and Griffin were going to power-couple their way through the competition, like Imogen and Zander are doing now.
Griffin never told me that.
We both agreed our exes being here was an unfortunate coincidence, but we decided that we wanted to win, and it’d only be a plus that we’d get to spite them. Winning our exes, I thought, was a way to prove we’d long past moved on from them. But for Griffin, doing this competition with me was clearly about so much more than trying to spite Imogen.
Because at some point, he was in love; so in love that he was willing to enter the competition with her. In fact, that was apparently the original plan. So he settled for the next best thing; me. Once again, I’ve been naive. I’m the placeholder, until Imogen asks to have Griffin back. I was a distraction; that’s why he hasn’t asked me out yet. It’s stupid, thinking he was in love with me because he kissed me a few times. He was always going to let go of me like Zander did. I’m the temporary replacement. Here for a good time, not a long time.
I know I’m spiraling as I walk out of the bar and search for the Uber app on my phone. I need to process it by myself. And I know it’s a shitty move, but as soon as my Uber arrives I slip into the car, silencing my phone.