Page 161 of Say Yes to the Nemesis

My phone buzzes again. I flip it over to see Elena’s name on the screen. A work email. I almost don’t open it, but curiosity gets the better of me.

It’s just logistics stuff. Asking for my current address for finale-related arrangements. Wardrobe fittings, maybe, or some kind of PR thing. I don’t really care anymore, but I send her the address of the Airbnb anyway. Easier than dealing with follow-up emails.

I haven’t even asked if I still have my job. Part of me doesn’t want to know. If they fired me because of what happened on the show, fine. I’ll figure something else out. The last thing I want is to show up on set and have everyone look at me with pity in their eyes. Poor Wren, who thought she had a chance withthe bachelor. Poor Wren, who got her heart broken on national television.

No thank you.

I’d rather eat cereal in the dark and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.

The episode ends and another one starts. I’ve probably seen this one a dozen times, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just noise to keep my brain from going to places I don’t want it to go. Places where I replay every conversation with Ryan, every kiss, every moment when I thought maybe this was real.

It wasn’t real. It was never real.

I should have known better. Of course someone like Ryan Haart was too good to be true. Of course the hockey player with the perfect smile and the perfect life wouldn’t actually choose the awkward production assistant who trips over her own feet half the time.

I was just a distraction. Something to pass the time while he figured out who he really wanted.

And apparently, who he really wanted was JacqLyn.

The doorbell rings.

I freeze, a handful of cereal halfway to my mouth. Nobody knows I’m here except Elena, and I just sent her my address an hour ago. There’s no way she’d show up in person.

Wait. What if something happened to Jay?

The thought gets me off the couch faster than anything else could. I shuffle to the door in my socks, not bothering to fix my hair or change out of my disgusting hoodie. When I open it, Calla is standing there with a tight smile on her face. Next to her is Jennifer, the costume designer from the show, looking like a fabulous hurricane with several garment bags and a professional makeup kit.

I blink at them stupidly. “What the hell are you doing here? Is Jay okay?”

Calla pushes past me into the Airbnb like she owns the place. “Jay’s fine. But you’re not answering your phone. So we came.”

Jennifer follows her in, carrying what looks like an entire salon’s worth of equipment. She takes one look around the dark, cereal-strewn disaster that is my temporary living situation and shakes her head.

“Honey,” she says, setting her bags down. “This is worse than I thought.”

“Worse than what?” I ask, closing the door. “How did you even find me?”

“You’re not getting out of the finale,” Jennifer says matter-of-factly, unzipping one of the garment bags. “Ryan sent us.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face. “What?”

Calla turns to face me. Her expression is serious now. “Ryan reached out to Jay. Begged him to help find you. Said it was urgent. Said he needed a favor.”

My whole body goes rigid. “You can go. I don’t want help from a man who dumped me on national TV.”

“Wren,” Calla starts, but I cut her off.

“No. I’m serious. Whatever he told you, whatever sob story he gave Jay, I don’t want to hear it. He made his choice.”

Jennifer continues unpacking her makeup kit like I haven’t said anything. “You know, for someone who works in television, you sure don’t understand how television works.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Calla says, settling onto the couch next to my cereal box, “that maybe you don’t have the whole story.”

I cross my arms. “I have enough of the story. I was there, remember? I watched him hand that rose to someone else.”

“And then what happened?” Jennifer asks.