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Zandrel

Mate Match Transcript: S24 E12 INTERVIEW 11

Contestant: Zandrel|Producer: Sella

S: Alright, Zan. Tell me how you’re feeling.

Z: You still haven’t come up with a better opening question?

S: No, I haven’t. And you still haven’t cut me any slack and given me an answer I can use.

Z: Fair enough. I’m feeling fine.

S: Just fine? You and Roslyn seemed like you were having a great time swimming earlier.

Z: We… yes, we were.

S: Going to need a little more than that, Zan.

Z: I’m not—

S: Zan. Do me just one favor. One soundbite. As a parting gift.

Z: Fine.

Z: …

Z: It was… nice. Getting to cut loose. Relax. I don’t… Roslyn and I… neither one of us has had much opportunity in life for that kind of freedom.

“Any bets on how many breakups we’re going to see tonight?”

Roslyn asks the question from where she stands at the bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup for the evening.

“I’d guess at least six, if not more,” I say from the bedroom, contemplating the selection of shorts and brightly colored, short-sleeved tops.

Thank fates this is the last time I’ll have to wear such things.

Only… perhaps not. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a sacrifice if it meant stretching out our time here a little longer. For a few more days, I could certainly stomach it.

“I’d bet it’s less than that,” Ros calls back. “I think you underestimate the power of love.”

I chuckle and walk across the room. “I’ll take that wager.”

Tonight will surely be a night of relationship reckoning as those who won’t face the Choosing tomorrow make their escape early. Casual connections and those who’ve already earned enough camera time, an easier let-down than the pressure of Geeno demanding to know whether they’ve found their perfect match.

“Great. Then it’s a bet.”

“And for the winner?” I ask, propping a shoulder on the bathroom doorframe.

Roslyn meets my eye in the mirror, and the center of my chest twists painfully.

She looks stunning tonight.

Wearing a dress bolder than any she’s chosen so far—cut low in both the back and the front, held together by two thin straps that leave acres of soft skin on display.

Acres of soft skin… and her scars, her tattoos.

I don’t know where the change came from, but after she shed her cover-up and joined me in the water this afternoon, she doesn’t seem to hold the same hesitation over showing them.

And I’m glad of it.

They’re magnificent, those warrior’s marks. A tale of her bravery and her survival. Hope inked into her skin.

“Let’s keep that a surprise,” she says, a glimmer of teasing in her emerald eyes. “Winner declares the prize after?”

I hum thoughtfully. “Could be dangerous, making such an open-ended bargain.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Her eyes sparkle again, and I’m lost.

This is magnificent, too, having the privilege of seeing this side of her.

I didn’t know if I’d be fortunate enough to see it again before our time here is up. It’s no surprise, given what she went through just a handful of days ago, and I take each moment of levity as a blessing. I count them up and store them in memory, where I know I’ll reach for them frequently in the months and years ahead.

It’s not just those moments, though, that I hoard.

It’s everything, all of it, and though I’ve never thought myself a sentimental creature, I find myself now desperately trying to remember every little detail. Even the details of these last few days, as difficult as they’ve been.

Roslyn has been doing an admirable job of pretending.

For the cameras, she performs. For Sella, she’s ready to take instruction and hit her marks. For the rest of the contestants on the beach—save Juni, perhaps—she’s flawless in her portrayal of a woman in love, caught up in a whirlwind romance.

For me, she doesn’t have to keep up the act.

It’s unspoken, this agreement between us, this understanding that as soon as the door to the bungalow closes, whatever she needs to be, she can be.

Whether that means retreating to bed for some silence and solitude, or lounging with me in the hammock on the front porch. Whether she’s putting on a brave face or trusting me with the tears that fall freely when she talks more about Savannah, about their life on Earth and their days on Severin, I’m here to give her what she needs.

And despite the hollow, broken ache in my chest knowing I’m powerless to change how she’s feeling, I’m also honored.

I’m honored to be the one she trusts to hold her sadness, to sit with her in each quiet moment when she can’t perform, can’t pretend, can’t escape the truths she learned.

But tonight there’s something different in the air.

I can’t put my finger on it, can’t quite understand it, but something between us shifted today on the beach. A heavy pall lifting, a bit of levity and life for our last night in paradise.

Playing with her in the ocean, seeing her shed her defenses, hearing her laugh and basking in the warmth of her smile was a glimpse of an entirely different Roslyn. One more layer to the woman I’ve come to know and admire, a layer I suspect I’d never cease to enjoy exploring.

She’s turned on some music over the sound system in the bungalow—some up-tempo human tunes that make her sway her hips and sing along—and I commit that to memory, too. A small window into the woman she might always be in a different life. The woman I hope she’ll be when she gets where she’s going, when she leaves here and starts her life anew.

My chest twists again. I don’t know where that life will be. She’s mentioned going back to Severin to wrap up her affairs there, and though I hate the idea of it, I can’t exactly express that to her.

I’ll be off on my own next mission, after all, and we’ve been clear from the beginning about when we’d be parting ways.

So this is what we have. One last night here, together.

Time is ticking down, the Choosing waiting for us tomorrow, and fates help me, I can’t say a word to spoil it.

I can’t find it in myself to ask any of the questions that need asking, can’t make myself do anything to rob us of these few final happy hours.

If it’s denial, then I’ll live in this pretty lie for as long as I can.

At least one more night.

“There,” Roslyn says, setting down her makeup brush and meeting my eye in the mirror. “Perfect.”

I’m sure she means the smoky, shimmery cosmetic she’s applied to her eyes, the black coating that makes her lashes even thicker and lusher than usual, the berry-ripe stain on her lips, but that’s not what I’m thinking of at all as I take a step closer to lean down and kiss my reply into the warm, fragrant skin of her neck.

“Yes. Absolutely perfect.”