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“That’s me. Now, tomorrow, half the women will be with you and half will go out for dinner,” she says as we pull up to a stunning stone villa nestled among vineyards. The interior is a beautiful blend of traditional Spanish elements and modern luxury—exposed wooden beams overhead, terracotta tiles underfoot, with plush furnishings and state-of-the-art amenities. Production assistants scurry about, setting up lighting and camera positions for tomorrow’s festivities.
After talking to Skye, I renew my vow.
I’ll be present. I’ll be open. I’ll give each woman the chance to show me who she really is and how she might fit into my life—my real life, not this bizarre television approximation. I owe them that honesty. I owe myself that exploration.
15
Spanish Authenticity
BRIELLE
I’ve never seen anything quite like a Spanish restaurant at ten p.m.—the hour when locals are just beginning their dinner while tourists are three sangrias deep. While Annabelle, Kavita, and Chloe are currently getting their group date with Hayes after a crash course in Spanish-style cooking, the other remaining contestants—me, Serena, Gabby, and Luna—have been granted a “night off” with Skye that feels a little like being benched. But I’m going to enjoy it.
Visiting Spain is a dream come true, and I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve taken a trip abroad. I need to enjoy the experience, regardless of what happens.
Once we’re seated outside, a server approaches our table, looking every bit of the caricature in paintings of European cafes, minus the handlebar mustache. When I order our wine in Spanish, he rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he says in accented English.
When our prized bottle of Rioja is poured, Skye whips a Splenda packet out of her purse, rips it open and dumps it into her glass.
The server audibly gasps before covering his mouth. Clearly, it takes every ounce of his self-control not to jerk Skye’s wineglass away.
She scowls. “What’s his problem? He doesn’t have to drink it. And this dark red concoction’s gonna taste like charcoal.” She takes a tiny sip.
“It’s smoky,” I say, glancing up to see him stomp away.
Her face puckers. “Woah! This one’s a two-packeter,” she announces, slamming her glass down. Staring at me, Skye rips open the next Splenda and pours, lifting her hand to add artistic flare.
Serena chuckles. “Okay, Skye, tell us what we should order.”
“We’re in Spain. Tapas and paella.”
When the server delivers a paella the size of a wagon wheel to our table, the scent of saffron and seafood momentarily distracts us from our primary occupation: dissecting every millisecond of our collective experience competing for Hayes’s heart.
As we eat, we switch from wine to sangria, Luna filling her second glass when she says, “Ladies’ night is the best ever. No cameras, no competition, just carbs and alcohol.”
Gabby plucks a shrimp from her plate and pops it into her mouth. “I miss normal life.”
“Normal? What’s that again?” Serena’s laugh has more snark than sparkle.
“Right?” I lean forward. “I forgot how to use a bathroom without wondering if America is judging my technique.”
After we all laugh, Luna says, “Or sleep. You know, without dreaming of camera lenses for eyeballs.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Serena shudders. “It’s like we’re on display at a zoo.” Serena raises her glass. “To a night without someone asking us to emote on command.”
“Or perform onstage to prove our readiness for marriage,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.
Gabby tosses her hair over one shoulder, managing to look camera-ready even in this dimly lit corner of Pamplona. “Speak for yourselves. I’m having the time of my life. The cooking challenge today would’ve been amazing.”
“Ah, but you’re here with us instead of there with Hayes,” Serena points out, immediately softening it with a smile. “Cheers.”
We all laugh, acknowledging the truth of our situation.
“The producers probably thought the scientist, the screenwriter, the former pageant queen, and the dance instructor had enough basic rhythm not to require extra lessons,” Luna says, scooping a heaping portion of paella onto her plate.
“Or they’re saving us for something worse.” I sigh.
“Oh, they are.” Skye winks.