Page 33 of Fan Favorite
B ennett Charles was done with love.
Unfortunately, the weight of this decision—plus his status as a reality TV hostage—made the slow trek up the stairs to this Beverly Hills high school even more harrowing than his final ascent of Kilimanjaro, and on that day, the northeast anti–trade winds had gone berserk and there had been a palpable fear that what had started as a simple climb had somehow turned into a slick tightrope between life and death.
Tonight, however, the air was a perfect LA seventy-two with a pleasant breeze and almost no humidity.
Still, his feet were like lead, and he was just destroying the pits of his Hugo Boss tuxedo.
The toe of Bennett’s patent leather loafer nicked the top step and he stumbled onto the summit.
Fuck these stupid shoes and their slick soles!
Bennett sighed and smoothed his jacket, looking down at the spot where Edie’s limo was set to arrive.
It’s not like there was anything wrong with Edie.
She was a good person. But he just couldn’t see how he could date Edie, love Edie, and continue living his life as Bennett.
For a second, he thought he could try. When he’d kissed her at the key ceremony, he’d felt something, a door opening, maybe, a path to merging his identities, possibly, and he’d felt centered in a way he hadn’t for years.
But then the volleyball date. The volleyball date solidified there was no way Edie fit into the future Bennett envisioned for himself.
How was that his fault? Sure, he’d been distracted by the other girls, but why’d she have to go and break his nose? Again?
Unfortunately, he knew it wasn’t that simple.
It pained him to admit it, but he knew he’d been showing off.
Performing for the cameras. Strutting around and letting all the attention fill up the emptiness inside.
Somehow walking, talking, and existing miles away from both Charlie Bennett and Bennett Charles in this weird hubristic space where he was almost an entirely new person.
A meathead douche high on adoration, gawking at some girl’s tits until a volleyball smashed him in the head.
Pain shot through his sinuses and Bennett pressed the pads of his fingers to either side of his nose, pressing the edges of the white butterfly strip that just this morning had replaced his silver splint.
Last night, after a long day of production when he’d valiantly gone horseback riding and line dancing and licked salt off McKayla’s neck before tossing back three shots of tequila in an American Southwest–themed date, Jessa’d hopped in the production van.
He was still pulling the straw out of his hair from the literal roll in the hay when she smiled with something like friendship and said, Trust me, don’t worry.
Tomorrow you go out with Edie. She got a makeover.
You’re going to die, she looks so good .
He’d lain in bed that night, rolling his options over in his mind.
If there was one thing the past decade of adventure had taught him, it was that the only way to survive an expedition was with a firm grip on your emotions, decisiveness in times of peril, and a plan.
Finally, he arrived at a three-point strategy for getting out of The Key alive.
(1) Forget every mushy vision of the future.
(2) Refuse to be manipulated. (3) Focus on survival.
All he had to do was survive the next four weeks.
And then, if there was truly no other option, he’d spend the next six months engaged to Edie Pepper until his contract ran out and they no longer owned where he could go, who he could talk to, and what future deals he could make. He’d disappear into the Himalayas until it all blew over.
A production assistant swept his shoulders with a lint brush and Bennett startled.
Then a guy from sound appeared, said something about his mic.
Bennett held his arms out and the dude shoved his hands into Bennett’s jacket and probed around for the cord.
His head brushed against Bennett’s chest, and it exacerbated the feeling of hopeless isolation in Bennett’s heart.
For a moment Bennett considered pulling him in for a hug, resting his chin on the guy’s head and breathing in his shampoo, just to feel something that wasn’t this.
But then the mic issue was resolved, and the guy jogged back to the production van, a lighting engineer flicked on a spotlight, and there he was, Bennett Charles, at the top of the steps, alone.
The limousine pulled up to the curb. Bennett took a deep breath, put a smile on his face, and waved like a good boyfriend.
All he had to do was lead her into the high school for the re-creation of the senior prom they’d never attended because Edie’d had the flu, deliver a romantic speech, and then kiss her, visualizing the big moment that would usher in the next commercial break.
And then he could go home. At least for the night.
A PA who’d once brought Bennett an Imodium after an ice cream in the park date popped out of the driver’s seat, dressed like a chauffeur.
The cameras swirled into place as he trotted to the passenger door.
He took hold of the handle and waited for the signal from Lou, who was grinding a piece of Nicorette and watching the monitor with one arm in the air like wait for it…
wait for it… until finally Lou pointed at the PA— go!
go! go! —and the limo door swung open for the big reveal.
Out Edie Pepper tumbled onto the parkway.
Oh, shit!
Instinctively, Bennett made a move to fly down the stairs, but the AD shooed him back with a clipboard. “Are you okay?” Bennett yelled, craning his neck as the PA and a newly materialized Peter Kennedy hauled her up from the ground.
“I’m fantastic!” she called, snapping her sexy black gown back into place.
She floofed her blond waves around her shoulders.
Then, as if remembering something, she struck a pose.
Shoulders back, hands at the hips, one bronzed leg cutting through the slit in her dress. Blood dribbled from her exposed knee.
“Medical!” Peter yelled, waving to the producers on the sidelines.
A dude with a first aid box ran over and knelt in front of Edie.
As he dabbed her knee with gauze, she held her pose and smiled.
Bennett smiled back, unsure. It was strange looking at this new Edie Pepper.
It was like he was seeing her for the very first time, this beautiful woman, except he did know her, didn’t he?
He’d always known her. If he thought about it, he could visualize the spatter of freckles on the back of her neck that he’d stared at when he sat behind her in middle school art.
Or the scar in the shape of a triangle on her shoulder from that time when they were six and she rode her bicycle straight into the chain link fence at the edge of the blacktop because she’d forgotten how to brake.
Bennett watched as Peter whispered something in her ear.
A dark look crossed her face, and she wrenched her leg away from an incoming Band-Aid.
She said something Bennett couldn’t hear and then shoved her elbow straight into Peter’s gut.
What the—Peter stumbled back a couple of feet until his ass hit the limo’s trunk.
Bennett strained to see what was happening, but now Jessa, Medical, Lou, and a bunch of other production people were in the way.
Why the hell was Edie assaulting the showrunner right before their big one-on-one date?
Suddenly a great rush of hope filled Bennett’s heart as a possibility he’d never considered filled his mind.
Maybe he wasn’t alone after all. Maybe, just maybe, Edie was a victim, too.
Peter had insisted that she’d come to them, that she’d been the one to force her way onto the show.
But Peter was a known liar. And from the looks of it, Edie knew that, too.
Maybe what really happened was they’d dug through Bennett’s past and found the yearbook with Bennett and Edie in matching band uniforms on the cover of the Clubs page.
He could picture the photo in his mind, right down to the dorky epaulets at their shoulders and the tall red plumes on top of their caps.
All at once it made sense that they’d gone looking for her.
Lured her here. Made her promises, just like they’d made him promises.
Then another idea crossed Bennett’s mind.
What if, just like him, Edie wasn’t the same person she’d been seventeen years ago?
What if the whole volleyball thing was just some weird coincidence and in real life, Edie was totally successful and loving and kind, a great dresser and a good cook—all the things that were on his wife list after all?
Had he even talked to her, really talked to her, since she’d been here?
The Key was this pressure cooker of women and five-minute conversations meant to hang a lifetime on.
It left him dizzy and confused and relying on snap judgments and base instincts.
But here was someone he knew was a good person.
Why was he so willing to remember her as a loser anyway?
Hadn’t she always been like the coolest girl to him?