It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (16 page)

The next morning, I awoke to pouring rain, which eerily complemented the misery I was feeling. Leaving no room for debate, I informed the producers that I needed to see Number Twenty-Five immediately. They agreed, and I threw on some clothes and with cameras in tow (of course) drove over to the nearby villa where he was staying. I knocked on the door. His surprised expression meant I had caught him off guard, and it made the pit in my stomach sink even lower. I asked to come in and took a seat on the couch next to him. I swallowed hard. Choking back tears, I told him how great he had been to me for the past eight weeks, but knowing that he wasn’t the one for me, I couldn’t go through with letting him pick out a ring and, even worse, propose. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t even ask when I knew this. He just kept repeating “I did not see this coming.” His shock turned to tears, which welled up in his eyes and threatened to stream down his face. He was upset, and rightfully so. But despite the anger in his voice and the sadness in his eyes, I knew this was the right thing to do, and I hoped that one day in the future he would see that too. I cried as I said my final farewell to him and headed back to my house.

It took a solid hour for my tears to dry up and for me to regain my composure. It was the last breakup of the journey, and with that came a sense of relief and, best of all, excitement. Now it was down to just one man. It was all in his hands now and, surprisingly, I enjoyed this power shift. All that was left to do was get my hair and makeup done, get dressed, tell Twenty-Six that I loved him, and watch him get down on one knee (hopefully) and propose. Oh, and practice my speech. Come on, you didn’t expect me to chance flubbing the biggest moment of my entire life, did you?

Despite it being obvious to every single person on the show that I was madly in love with Number Twenty-Six, I hadn’t said those impactful three words to him yet. Thus, the first time I said it, it had to be perfect. I spent the entire three-plus hours I was getting my hair and makeup done frantically writing and memorizing what I wanted to say on this final day. In an effort to stay true to my ball-busting ways, I decided my speech needed to make him sweat a little, one last time. My plan was to start by thanking him for making this journey so special blah blah blah, but then allude to the idea that I was going to dump him, and then of course, at some point, I would transition into my proclamation of love for him—and the rest would be history!

Everything was in place for this colossal moment: hair curled and pinned half up, makeup airbrushed but natural (except for the fake eyelashes), and to top it off, the most perfect ivory-colored gown. My stylist, who in eight weeks had become not only my friend but also my therapist, lent me diamond earrings and a matching bracelet. All that was missing now was a diamond ring. I took a deep breath as I looked in the mirror and saw myself as a single woman for the last time. It was go time!

With cameras rolling, I hopped into a waiting car and took a short drive to yet another mansion. There I walked down a cobblestone path to an oceanfront backyard where a dock had been constructed over a pool and adorned with flowers. I waited anxiously for Number Twenty-Six to arrive. He walked down the same stone path in an alarmingly snug navy blue suit that looked one deep breath away from splitting open. I greeted him with a kiss on his cheek and held his hands as he began his speech. And then I blacked out . . .

Next thing I knew, I had a diamond ring on my finger and I was being driven, along with my new fiancé, from the spot of our proposal down the road to a sprawling mansion overlooking the Caribbean, equipped with a manicured lawn, pool, hot tub, and a full-time staff of no fewer than ten people there to serve our every need and desire. This would be our home for the next few days. In the mood to celebrate, we invited everyone from the show over for a cookout. Hours of laughing and reminiscing about the past eight weeks, along with polishing off dozens of bottles of wine, it was the picture-perfect celebration I had imagined as I sat on Number Twenty-Six’s lap, intermittently kissing him and professing my love with a whisper in his ear. I couldn’t get enough of my new fiancé. It was the first moment in my life where people were sickened by my display of love for a man. I’d never been one to openly gush about a beau or shower him with affection in front of others, but I was now. And I didn’t care who knew it. It was a love beyond anything I ever knew existed and I couldn’t hide it.

The next morning, I woke up next to my fiancé wearing nothing but a shit-eating grin, also known as the-woman-in-love look. For an entire weekend it would be just the two of us celebrating our engagement together. No microphones, no cameras, no worries, just pure bliss. It was the best weekend of my life. We spent the next few days basking in the Dominican sun while telling each other jokes and dreaming aloud about our future together. In between sips of champagne, we exchanged kisses and “I love you”s. Looking back, it’s actually revolting how in love we were. We cuddled in the same lawn chair parked on our rolling green lawn overlooking the sea. Our biggest task each day was to decide (a) what we wanted the chef to cook for dinner that evening, (b) what cocktails we were sipping for the day, and (c) whether to dip in the pool, hot tub, or ocean. Real first-world problems right there. We were living in paradise, and every second reaffirmed that he was the man I was going to marry, the man my children would call Dad, and the man who was my soul mate. We reminisced about our love story in between conversations about our future and the wedding we couldn’t wait to have.

As the weekend drew to a close, the realization of leaving him to head back to Los Angeles was unbearable. It was Sunday night and we were packing our bags when I lost it and began bawling uncontrollably. The fact that not only the weekend but also this entire journey was over dawned on me for the first time. Eight weeks of my life had been spent finding the man of my dreams, eight weeks of traveling, dating, kissing, and crying. And all of it was coming to an end, leaving me with a strange combination of relief and fear. Life as I knew it was changed forever, but in the best way possible. This is what I had come for, what I hoped and longed for. I had found it. I had found him.

And now, as a new chapter of our life approached, a chapter devoid of camera crews, microphones, and rigorously planned lavish dates, I began sobbing while packing my suitcases. I was terrified about our future. Would it be the same? Would everything be this great when we got home, or was this weekend the best weekend I’d ever have with him? Change was coming, and though I had every reason to believe it was a good change, still I feared the worst. Just like I had questioned his motives before the overnight date, I wondered if he’d be different when we got home. What if, when all of this went away and it was just the two of us, we had nothing to talk about? What if his family hated me, or mine hated him?

My fiancé was finally getting a glimpse of what he was getting himself into: He was engaged to an emotional, terrified, insanely in love woman. While I found my tantrum alarming, he found it endearing and reassured me that everything was going to work out. He told me how much he loved me, that I was his soul mate, and that nothing but happiness was in our future.

The following morning, the time had come for us to be separated. I was flying back to Los Angeles to embark on a week-long “press tour,” whatever that meant, and he was flying back to Atlanta to embark on a week of getting his life back in order before I returned home. Before we left, several producers sat us down to tell us that
under no circumstances
were we allowed to be together, except on designated trips, which they would plan for us. Considering we were now engaged and living less than five miles apart, the odds of staying away from each other were less than slim to none—more like not a shot in hell. They also warned us that these upcoming months would be the most difficult ones yet. The secrecy, the rumors, the events that would play out on the show had taken a toll on relationships in the past, and they’d likely take that same toll on us. So much for bliss, huh?

I kissed my fiancé goodbye and headed off to the airport. Before even boarding the plane, I missed him. My producer and I landed in Los Angeles and began a rigorous week of promoting the upcoming season, which was days away from premiering. As if our hectic schedule wasn’t daunting enough, the fact that I had to keep my engagement a secret was going to be painfully difficult given the joy which was plastered all over my face.

First up,
Jimmy Kimmel Live!
where I, yes I, would be a guest on the show. Can we just take a second to scream and say “holy shit!”? I mean, not only did I never in my wildest dreams imagine being on a reality television show, but now I was going on a late-night show with Jimmy fucking Kimmel! In a tight black dress that was one laugh away from busting, thanks to the three days of overindulgence I had just partaken in, I walked onstage and met Jimmy fucking Kimmel! As I plopped down on the infamous interview couch, I heard the worst sound a bloated woman on live television could ever hear . . . a pop. My zipper was DUNZO. I can hardly remember a single word I said during that interview because I was too damn worried that on my first live television show, I was going to have my first live nip slip.
Please don’t let my boob come out. Please God, do not let my boob slip out. I’ll do anything
, I silently prayed as I felt the zipper slide farther and farther down my back. What felt like hours later, the cameras finally stopped rolling and Jimmy motioned for me to stand up and take a photo with him.

“Umm . . . I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“My zipper popped and there is absolutely no way I can move, let alone stand up without a nip slip.”

He laughed. “When did it pop?”

“The second I sat down.”

Mortified, yet relieved that I hadn’t exposed myself on national television (which would definitely have broken at least two of Daddy’s Golden Rules), I made my way back to my dressing room. It was over—I had popped my late-night-show cherry . . . and my dress.

Hours later, my producer and I hopped on a plane bound for Las Vegas for the next stop on our press tour, the Billboard Music Awards, where I would be introducing a musical act. Though I was still wondering who the hell I was and why I was even remotely worthy of being a presenter, I decided to just go with it. The plane landed and like every impatient passenger, I immediately stood up. Although unlike every passenger, when I looked behind me, my jaw hit the floor. That’s because Lucy Hale, from
Pretty Little Liars
, was legitimately five inches away from me. My producer and I made eye contact and mentally communicated to one another the fact that holy effing shit Lucy Hale was sitting
behind
us. We giddily exited the plane and were greeted by a driver at the baggage claim who drove us to the hotel, where I took a hot bath and ordered room service. The following morning, I began the arduous task of getting ready for the award show, something I had grown to despise after having suffered through two months of being “camera ready” at all times. We arrived at the auditorium at the beginning of an actual red carpet. As I stepped onto the carpet, a wall of photographers began yelling “over here” and “this way” and “turn to the side,” as the flashes of their cameras blinded me. I didn’t know who to look at, how to turn, how to pose, or what the fuck I was even doing there. I just knew I didn’t want to trip and fall on my very first red carpet.

After I successfully managed my introduction without falling or splitting my dress, the award show ended, and my producer and I were whisked away to a red-eye flight to New York in time for a live interview on
Good Morning America.
I arrived at 6:00 a.m. fresh off the plane and looking like a hot (Vegas) mess, much to the dissatisfaction of the hair and makeup team, who weren’t exactly thrilled when I told them I desperately needed to wash my greasy hair. Annoyed, they handed me a towel and pointed me toward the bathroom. I looked around . . . no showers, certainly no bathtubs. Sink it is. There I was, washing my hair in a sink of
Good Morning America
as I imagine how many fabulous stars had washed—well, maybe not their hair, but at least their hands—in this very sink. After hair and makeup were complete, I made my way to the hallway before my segment was set to go live. And that’s when I heard a shrieking, “YOOOOUUU!” I turned to see a bombshell brunette pointing at me. Lea fucking Michele! She gave me a huge hug and told me how insanely obsessed she was with the show. I, on the other hand, tried not to faint.

After
Good Morning America
, we were off to
Live! with Kelly and Michael.
This was one time that being really bad at drinking water was quite helpful, because had I been hydrated, I would have literally peed at the sight of Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan. I had no business being on that stage, sitting in the same chairs that
actual
celebrities with
actual
talent had sat on before. But there I was.

While I was having out-of-body experiences left and right, I couldn’t help feel an immense amount of guilt that my fiancé wasn’t able to join in on the fun. The period of secrecy had officially begun, and I was already feeling the side effects. Finally, I was on my way back to Atlanta, alone for the first time in months, and I could not wait to be back in the arms of my new fiancé. The last time I was in Atlanta, I’d been single. But not anymore. Despite the warnings from producers that we were not allowed to see each other, I texted my fiancé as soon as I boarded the plane.

ME:
I’m on my way home, baby!

26:
Can’t wait my love! Txt me when you land. I’ll be waiting for u in the car at curbside.

ME:
Sounds good, love you.

26:
Love you too!

So much for keeping us apart, right? A few hours and a few screwdrivers later, I was stealthily slipping into my fiancé’s sleek Audi. We kissed, and off he drove.