It's Not Okay: Turning Heartbreak into Happily Never After (8 page)

As I press play on the second scandalous episode, I realize that I am watching it all wrong—the popcorn is missing! How could I forget such a necessity? Somewhere, Olivia Pope is rolling her eyes at me over this mishap. I quickly pop a bag in the microwave while I continue eating my sesame chicken during the minute and forty-five seconds before the popcorn is ready. The fact that I am scarfing down Chinese food as I simultaneously wait for my popcorn to finish popping is not lost upon me, but, screw it, the brokenhearted deserve hall passes too, right? Sorry we can’t all have a home-cooked meal with our significant other. I mean, don’t get me wrong, once upon a time I totally got to be that hot girlfriend who dressed up in nothing but heels and an apron and had dinner (and my body) ready when my boyfriend got home. But clearly that’s not a recipe for happiness. Maybe the single girls have had it right all along. They don’t have to have dinner hot and ready for their man the second he walks in the door, they certainly don’t have to shave their legs, let alone worry about a man seeing them naked. Basically, being single gets you a free certificate to avoid slaving away over a hot stove and instead indulge in however many carbs you want and nobody can say shit to you about it.

Feeling a flicker of self-righteousness, I pour the popcorn into a bowl and assume my position in front of the television. As I watch Olivia Pope take names and kick ass, I realize that what once was my all-time favorite hour-long pleasure now leaves me on the verge of tears and feeling even more depressed than I was moments ago. My eyes well up as I watch the relationship between the main characters, Olivia and Fitz. It’s the most fucked-up relationship in the world. I mean, good Lord, Fitz is the freaking president of the United States who is married to crazy First Lady Mellie (aka “Smellie Mellie”), and Olivia is the badass lawyer/head bitch in charge/wearer of all white hats/power player of Washington, D.C. They can’t be together, it’s political suicide, and yet they can’t be apart. I can’t help but look at the two of them and, despite how insanely complicated their relationship is, think,
That is love right there.
God, I wish I had that kind of love. I mean, when Fitz looks at Olivia with those sexy presidential eyes as she tells him, “I am not a prize,” and when her voice cracks when she whispers, “I want to make jam, I want Vermont,” I lose it. Their love puts the Hope in hopeless and the Rome in romance (despite being nowhere close to Italy). And every tumultuous conversation between them includes Olivia berating the most powerful man in the world, but in a loving way, leaving him speechless before she storms off with her Prada bag and infamous Olivia Pope grin.

While I’ve never had a Prada bag, I have, once upon a time, had that grin . . .

I had it the first time I ever saw Number Twenty-Six. There I was, on yet another chilly California night, this time in March, standing in front of the same infamous mansion where I had met Number One. But it felt different this time. For starters, I had spent the weeks leading up to this first night in a sprawling mansion of my own, with access to my phone and the Internet instead of sequestered in a secret hotel. This time, instead of haphazardly stuffing clothes into TWO suitcases, I was supplied with a glamorous wardrobe by my very own stylist. And though it was the same mansion as last season, it seemed bigger than I remembered. It felt glitzier and, most of all, this time it felt filled with hope rather than fear. Now I was the woman calling the shots, and twenty-five men were going to compete for
me.

I was dressed in a hand-beaded floor-length gown that my stylist and I had selected. Custom-tailored to enhance some assets God forgot to give me, the nude-color dress was worth more than any car I will ever own, or even have a high enough credit score to lease. Rivaling the valuable gown were real diamonds dripping from my ears and wrists. I had never felt more expensive in my life as I stood with lights fixed on me and cameras in place as the handpicked men waited down the driveway in shiny black limos. All of them vetted just for me. All of them—well, most of them—ready, willing, and able to fall in love, just like me. My heart was pounding hard enough to make me worry that the sequins on my chest would give way at any moment, and the sky-high stilettos were already making my calves ache, but all of my feelings were drowned by an overwhelming sense of excitement as I wondered,
Is this really my life? Am I really about to meet my future husband mere moments from now?

I took a deep breath as the first limo arrived. One by one the men stepped out, walked toward me, and introduced themselves. Each was hotter than the next. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the adrenaline, but I had never seen a group of such hot-ass men in my life. Some of them made cheesy entrances, some brought gifts, others were fairly normal, and all were nervous as hell. I greeted them and made small talk in an attempt to ease their nerves before guiding them inside. Having done this before, I knew there would be anywhere from twenty to thirty men, so I tried to keep a tally in my head to see how many were left. I lost count somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four. And that’s when
he
stepped out.

Tall, dark haired, with an athletic build, perfectly structured face, and a megawatt smile, it was as if God had made him with a ruler. He took a step toward me as my heart leapt. The closer he got, the more the chills ran down from my beach-waved, now frizzy hair to my blistered aching toes. Suddenly, the California air wasn’t as cold anymore. He greeted me with a hug that felt different from the previous twenty-four; it was warmer, it was tighter, it was . . . euphoric.

He introduced himself and told me he lived in Atlanta. It seemed too good to be true, but I couldn’t deny the indescribable magic I was experiencing. I guided him to the mansion just as I had done with the others, and as he walked inside, I checked out his ass (just as I had done twenty-four times before).

That was it, I had met them all. Twenty-five men awaited me inside as I stood alone in the cobblestone driveway soaking it all in. Before I walked into the house, I paused and made a pact with myself: No matter what it was that I’d just felt for
him
, it was under absolutely no circumstances love at first sight—just lust, that’s all. This wasn’t the time to get ahead of myself. I was supposed to be open and get to know each of the men and take my time, well, what little time there was. I mean, come on, there’s no love at first sight on reality television, right? I took a deep breath and walked inside.

Despite there being twenty-five insanely hot, successful guys under one sprawling California roof, I couldn’t seem to keep my eyes off Number Twenty-Six as I made my first toast to “finding love.” I also couldn’t keep my eyes
on
him, because I feared I’d find myself paralyzed and completely blow my cover, which would have been disastrous given that it was the very first night. And though I had known him for only about forty-five seconds, I already felt the desire to impress him, which was the antithesis of how I was supposed to feel as the empowered female.

We’d barely spoken a word to each other after our nervous introduction, but once the party had begun, he pulled me away and walked me outside to a bench where we’d sit and finally have a conversation. He offered me his jacket and I happily accepted. Truth is, it could have been a thousand degrees outside, but I was taking that damn jacket so I could get one layer closer to seeing what kind of bod he was working with.

He began the conversation with a compliment, telling me I was his mother’s favorite from last season. Smooth move. Always nice to have Mommy’s approval before we play tonsil hockey. The guy was hot, and not just reality television hot but regular life hot! As he talked about God knows what, I prayed for X-ray vision so I could see the pecs and abs that were sure to be hiding beneath his shirt. But no matter how hot he was, I had to make sure he knew that there was only one boss here: me. I overcompensated by playing up the tough-girl act and challenging him with rapid-fire questions and teasing. The game was on, but we both knew I was failing miserably, and regardless of how well I was able to control the words that came out of my mouth, the cheek-hurting grin that made its way across my face was a dead giveaway. The undeniable chemistry and banter back and forth made me feel like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl crushing hard on the star quarterback. In that moment, it was as if I wasn’t in the mansion with twenty-five men but simply sitting on a bench, eyes locked with his, swooning over every word he uttered.

Our chat ended, and I sent him off to join the pool of waiting men in suits, making sure to give him a hug tight enough to cop a feel. Abs . . . check. Pecs . . . check. And, as he walked away, I took the opportunity to check out his backside again. Ass . . . check. Butterflies . . . check. Damn, I was screwed.

Get it together
, I told myself. It was only the first night and the options were plentiful inside. For all I knew he could have a girlfriend, be a total douche bag, be the token drunk of the group who gets wasted and jumps in the pool, or even be a serial killer. The possibilities were endless, but one thing was sure, I was into him. So into him, in fact, that I actually contemplated sending him packing that very first night. Call it insecurity or fear, but he seemed too good to be true. Our romance had the makings of a Nicholas Sparks novel. Here I was in California surrounded by cameras and a crop of handsome men from all over the country, and he was a guy from my very own city. Had I really traveled all the way to Los Angeles, moved into a mansion, gotten dolled up, and agreed to be taped by a massive camera crew all to fall in love with a man living in my backyard the whole time?

And then there was that first kiss. Oh that kiss. It was hands-down the best first kiss of my life, though it wasn’t the first kiss of the season. No, that one went to Number Twenty-Four. I
wanted
this coveted first kiss to belong to Number Twenty-Six, but he totally bombed the chance when he had it. I had decided that for the first week of dates, Number Twenty-Six would be on a group date, rather than one of the two solo dates. This was largely due to the fact that I was afraid of falling even more in love with him, but also because I wanted to make him sweat it out a little bit. I mean, he was undoubtedly the type of guy that didn’t have to do so much as buy a chick more than a drink before they were naked in his bed, but with all the power that came from twenty-five men vying for me (and an open bar), I wasn’t going to be conquered that easily.

After the first date (a solo one), which included no chemistry and therefore no kiss, it was time for a group date. Without a clue as to what they’d be doing on the date, a slew of men, including Twenty-Six, met me at a dimly lit nightclub in downtown Los Angeles. After greeting each of them, I showed them inside and led them toward the stage. The music began blaring through the speakers as the strobe lights lit up the room before the curtains drew back to reveal five male exotic dancers in midroutine. As terrified laughter filled the room, I announced that today’s date would involve each man getting dressed in cheesy costumes and performing an exotic dance in front of a live audience, all in the name of charity.

That one magical word, “charity,” made the most inappropriate activities seem irresistibly right and thus I was selflessly giving back to the community one firefighter, soldier, and oiled-up cowboy at a time. After a few hours of practice, the men had nailed down their routines and it was time to see what they were made of. Joined by my friends from the previous season, Kelly and Sharleen, we watched from the front row as shirts were ripped off, booties were shaking, and sweat was dripping. As we sat in what could only be described as single-lady heaven, the men’s performances left me certain that a) this wasn’t their first time stripping, b) it wasn’t the first time lathering up in baby oil, and c) it most certainly wasn’t going to be their last time doing either of the above.

The date ended, much to my dismay, and it was time for the men to wash off the baby oil and meet me for a cocktail party. With the first group date in full swing, the testosterone and Fireball were flowing, causing one man in particular to become utterly shit faced. While it was amusing at first, after he jumped in the pool and tried to fight some of the others (bless his sweet heart) the vibe of the evening took a turn for the worse. I found myself exhausted and annoyed and certainly in no mood to flirt. I took a break from the chaos and went upstairs to a private terrace to catch some fresh air.

Enter Number Twenty-Six, who had come upstairs and conveniently found me there alone (not planned or anything wink, wink, cough, cough). He asked me how I was doing before moving behind me and placing his hands upon my shoulders as he gently massaged the knots that had made their home there. His massage turned into a full embrace. With the warmth of his arms wrapped around my bare shoulders and the spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles, I thought to myself, “Kiss me dammit, kiss me!” Though my back was turned toward him and I was bitching about how pissed I was, hardly an invitation, I wasn’t exactly telling him to get off me either. But he didn’t make a move. Silent moments ticked away until his time was up. The night was over and he had bombed, majorly. The next day I would have another solo date with Number Twenty-Four and as a reward for not bombing, he would score the coveted first kiss.

A few nights later, I arrived at the mansion in a sequined black dress with quite the revealing neckline, which I was instructed to not spill on because Selena Gomez would be wearing the dress the following week (no big deal). It was elimination night and thus I had to converse with each of the men to determine who wasn’t there for “the right reasons” or who was just not right for me. Conversation after conversation, I found myself becoming more and more anxious to have time with Number Twenty-Six, in anticipation of whether or not he’d kiss me or bomb again. With about eight conversations down, I took a break to freshen up in the upstairs bathroom (aka brush my teeth and pop in a Listerine strip) before making my way to the spiral staircase where Twenty-Six stood at the bottom with two glasses of champagne. He asked if I wanted to go outside “to talk privately” and guided me out to the front of the house. We took a seat on the stoop and began flirting and bantering back and forth, just as we’d been doing for days. And then, he nervously asked me to dance. Totally cheesy, totally predictable, but whatever it took for him to kiss me was fine by me. No less than ten seconds into our musicless dance, it happened. There in front of the mansion where I had met him just days ago, where he didn’t know it but he’d made me believe in love at first sight, we had our very first kiss. It was nothing short of magical. A fire had been ignited and nothing or nobody was going to be strong enough to put us out. Ahhh, those were the days . . .