Page 48 of Winging It with You

Theo

Mahagiri Resort Nusa Lembongan

Bali, Indonesia

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

One, for being subjected to that disgusting, demeaning public reunion.

And two, for allowing myself to actually believe there was a chance Asher had feelings for me. Real, genuine feelings.

But seeing Clint show up like that and get down on one knee, and watching Asher contemplate his proposal, was all too much.

The lack of an immediate and hard no from Asher very abruptly reminded me that Asher probably hadn’t fully moved on.

And now that Clint wanted him back, whatever we had been building toward didn’t mean much in comparison.

No one tried to stop me when I ran offstage.

They all just let me go, either in solidarity or secondhand embarrassment.

Now I’m running as fast as I can, faster than I’ve run in my entire life, to put as much distance between myself and them as possible—past all the excess camera equipment and lighting boxes.

When I finally make it to the row of parked vehicles, Arthur, who’s leaning against our van, making no effort to hide the lit cigarette between his lips like he normally does, says nothing when I rip open the passenger-side door.

He rounds the van and silently gets in the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

“The airport.”

“You sure about that, son?”

Arthur isn’t a man of many words—it’s something I’ve come to appreciate about him, because far too often, people feel the need to fill every single second with the sound of their own voice. Not Arthur. He speaks when he has something important to say…no more, no less.

“Please just drive.”

And he does. We sit in silence as he pulls away from the set. Away from Asher and everything we have worked toward the last several weeks. Away from the prize money and the interviews and everything that comes with being on a reality competition show.

Away from the heartbreak.

Because that’s what this ache in my chest is, right? Total and utter heartbreak? Not to be confused with the debilitating humiliation I feel or the embarrassment washing over me when I think about Asher with Clint.

No, this is most certainly heartbreak—something I’ve strived to avoid feeling for a long time, and despite every intention of not falling for Asher, I did, and I’ll never forgive myself.

It frightens me to think about how quickly I allowed myself to get wrapped up in Asher.

This competition, despite the thrills and the grueling obstacles, showed me that I could open up to someone.

That I was capable of letting them in and sharing parts of me that I’d convinced myself were better off hidden away.

I allowed myself to believe I was worthy of love.

But none of that matters now because I’m sure Asher and Clint have already rekindled whatever was left of their toxic relationship, and everyone is swooning over this made-for-TV fairy-tale moment. Dalton must be loving this.

Arthur glances away from the road in my direction.

I hold his gaze a beat longer than usual before looking away, turning to the window and the city passing by. I hear a light sigh escape him before he clears his throat.

“I know I don’t say much or give my two cents to you boys too often,” he says, his voice steady. “But listen to me for a moment, Theo. No rash decisions made in the heat of moment, out of anger or fear or whatever it is you’re feeling right now, ever tend to be the right ones.”

“I can’t…” I start, but he removes a hand from the wheel, and interrupts me.

“Take it from someone who’s on the move more often than not, son,” he says, a sad honesty in his tone. “If you’re going to run, make sure you know what you’re actually running from.”

He doesn’t say another word.

We continue driving, and the lights of the airport in the distance eventually make their appearance, a beacon of impending freedom from what’s now turned into an instant nightmare. Arthur pulls off the highway, following the Departure signs, which loop us toward yet another terminal.

We’ve spent the better part of the last three weeks in airports, but this time, I don’t have to worry about Asher getting lost or complaining that he doesn’t have enough snacks.

This time, I’m alone.

/////////////

After sixteen hours of intercontinental travel, middle seats, and back-to-back delayed flights, I take an Uber from the small regional airport down familiar tree-lined roads before being dropped off at my childhood home.

Grabbing my duffel from the trunk—which was thankfully prepacked ahead of elimination—I take in the lake house before me.

The rustic shingles are exactly how I remember them, and the natural stone gleams in the last remnants of moonlight.

The ivy on the side of our two-story home is overgrown in some areas, and I can see the subtle glimpses of fireflies dancing down by the dock.

As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something special about Madison in the summertime.

There’s a sweetness in the air, one you don’t get anywhere else.

I walk up the moss-covered pavers toward the soft-yellow front door of the home that raised me.

I can see a warm light coming from the kitchen.

Someone’s awake.

Someone who I haven’t seen in person for many years.

Someone I pray is happy for this unannounced early-morning visit.

I can’t tell you the last time I stood outside this door, the one that was always decorated with a larger-than-life wreath for each and every season.

I look to the far end of the long porch and see that the American flag is still hung in the same spot between the two white rocking chairs.

I smile at the memory of my father raising it when I went off to boot camp all those years ago.

Honestly, I don’t think I’d ever seen him that proud—when I decided to serve the country his family came to in search of a better life.

But that was before everything changed.

When I was discharged from the Navy, being loved by them suddenly felt like walking on eggshells. It killed me to be away from them when I needed them the most. But at the time, it felt like the best thing to do for everyone. It felt easier.

But being back here again, surrounded by the stillness of what once was, I’m not so sure that was the right decision.

“ Theo? ” My mamá’s voice breaks behind me, a sound that ricochets in my chest with an immediate sadness and overwhelming love.

I hadn’t heard the door open, but the second I turn to face her, she runs across the porch toward me, her soft flannel robe trailing behind, and wraps me in the tightest mom hug.

She smells like coffee and floral perfume, and I can tell that even though it’s summer, she’s been sitting by the lit stovetop fireplace on our back patio.

She smells like home.

“Hi, Mamá,” I say, resting my cheek on the top of her head. She squeezes me tightly and sobs against my chest. I know my mother—I’m sure she’s convincing herself that if she just holds on to me tight enough, I won’t leave again. The thought makes my eyes water. “Oh, Mamá…don’t cry.”

We stand holding each other in the quiet morning light as the sun starts to peek over Lake Mendota. Just as quickly as summers spent on the water with family come crashing to the forefront of my mind, guilt comes rushing after it—at all this time spent apart.

“What…what are you doing here, Theo?” my mother asks after a moment, her eyes bright despite the redness.

She wipes them with the sleeve of her robe while still holding on to me.

Looking at her round face, I can see she’s aged gracefully.

I’ve spent my entire life being asked if I was Carla Fernandez’s younger brother, a comment that she sure reminded my sister and I of whenever it came up. Which was often.

“Can’t a guy come home to surprise his mother?”

But really, there’s no point in even trying.

She’s looking at me with the same knowing eyes she’s had my entire life.

The ones that have always been able to sift through whatever nonsense her children, or anyone for that matter, were trying to convince her of.

Like the time in my freshman year of high school when she knew with a single look that Bobby Hale and I weren’t really going with his family on an overnight camping trip but instead trying to sneak into a senior party to drink for the first time.

“Come on, mijo,” she says, patting me on the side of the face before taking my hand and leading me through the front door. “Let’s go inside. I’ll put on some more coffee, and you can tell me all about it.”

My mother busies herself with the coffeepot, the same one my family has had for years, as I take a seat at the wooden kitchen island.

I run my index finger beneath the counter, looking for the initials my sister, Elise, and I carved into it with the small pocketknife my abuelo gave me before he passed away.

TF & EF. If our parents knew about it, they never said anything.

It was our little secret. Elise has been, and always will be, my secret keeper—just like I was hers.

“Are you in trouble again?” My mother’s back is still turned to me, but I can tell she’s nervous to ask.

“No, Mamá…It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it, son?” she asks, turning around to face me. Her brown eyes are filled with tears again, and I can see the confusion and hurt in them.

So I tell her everything.

Mostly about Asher. How we met in the airport for the first time, how he looked like he needed someone to be in his corner, and how for reasons I still cannot explain, I couldn’t imagine not being that person.

I tell her about pretending to be his boyfriend and the hoops we had to jump through to get Jo on our side and all the initial drama the change-up caused.