Meet Your Match

3

The room was big for two people, but it was still awkward to wake up to a stranger in the bed next to yours. Not that Megan was a complete stranger anymore. At one point, I dreamed that I had my face buried in long, sweet-smelling hair. Thankfully, Megan had a pixie cut.

As I'd expected, the photo shoots were early the next night during the preparations for the formal evening. I wasn't given a say in anything, and I kept my mouth shut. The stylists didn't care about my opinions—they cared about making me look pretty. Or not, if the show wanted me gone. My hair was better up, away from my face, yet they left it down and made it stick-straight down my back. When it was my turn, they put me in a sundress, sat me down, and told me to smile. The photographer ended the session with a few full-length shots of me while I "walked" toward the camera. Other than that, despite all the people revolving around me, it was as if I wasn't there.

I enjoyed it.

Then, in my (temporary?) room, they had me change out of the sundress into a ball gown. It was a fun but stressful experience, requiring more unknown staff members to crowd me. They added to my makeup, but didn't touch my hair. They also added a borrowed bracelet and necklace—I caught a glint of crimson. I couldn't get a good look at myself because they kept blocking my view of the mirror and asking me to turn my head or close my eyes.

Overflowing in red and concerned only with not crashing to new viral glory, I made my slow way down. My heels were the prettiest and least comfortable I'd ever worn.

Furniture had been added to the foyer, where all of the eliminations (and other events, including the matching) would take place.

I was too busy looking at what everyone else was wearing—hey, someone got her hair up and a little crown?—to take in their reactions. Two men appeared on either side of me, offering their arms. Rather than choose between them, I took both. They guided me to the new seating, with others nearby, some standing with glasses in their hands, most glancing frequently toward the staircase. All of the men were here—they must have come down first—but there were a few women still missing.

Every time another woman came down, a different man would greet her. I half expected Wyatt or Thomas—or both—to head back themselves, because all they'd done with me was approach someone who might be unsteady on her feet.

I was surprised to see the new headshots—mine among them—on the TV, which now read FORMAL INTRODUCTIONS. No doubt these would replace the old ones, which the viewers would never see—the first episode was set to air in a week. The couples chosen by the audience would be announced live at the matching.

When there were fifteen of us, that left one woman.

None of us were ready for her.

The purple tint of her black dress was reflected exquisitely by her pure-black hair—sides pulled back and parted down the middle—the thick waves extending past her breasts. Sheer gloves that I would've (wrongly) assumed to be too old-fashioned reached her elbows. Part wicked witch, part princess. It couldn't have suited her better.

The visuals alone told me she was the projected winner; the show was betting on her for sure.

My throat grew dry, and my chest ached. There really was beauty on this planet. I'd stopped noticing for so long that I'd forgotten.

I'd heard such a silence only once before, when a classmate had called a teacher a bitch in sixth grade. Of course, that silence had been broken almost immediately by the boy's friend asking him to check his pulse (because he was soon to be pronounced dead).

Then I realized—whether because she'd made a bad first impression the previous night or because everyone was frozen—nobody was going to greet her at the bottom. Look at her, she doesn't care. But I'd already stood up.