Ellie

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Of course you can. You can do anything.”

I’d roll my eyes at the quintessential mom comment, but my stomach’s too busy doing the rolling.

“No, like for real…I don’t think I can make myself go out there.” I take a sip of flavored seltzer, hoping it’ll settle my stomach.

“Ellie. Sweetie,” my mom coos into the phone. “He’ll love you. Everyone does.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Did you get some self-help book on mother/daughter relationships or something? You’re sounding very Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul.”

“Marjorie told me you were freaking out. I wanted to be prepared.”

I hear a rustle of paper and imagine a whole slew of motivational quotes in her messy handwriting.

“Marjorie should be the one freaking out,” I mutter. “She got me into this situation.”

“This situation,” of course, being the fact that any minute now the hammer will slam down on the final nail in my dignity’s coffin.

I, Ellie Wright, resourceful, no-nonsense business owner, am about to become a contestant on Jilted, a ridiculous TV show in which I and twenty-four other women compete to be the bride of Gage Barrett.

Gage Barrett, people.

When I agreed to go to the audition it was with the assumption that it’d be some balding loser whose last chance of finding a future bride and baby mama was having a bunch of women literally delivered to him. In my wildest dream, I’d never imagined that the Runaway Groom to be “won” was the hottest name—and body—in Hollywood.

Sorry, did I say wildest dream?

I meant worst nightmare.

I have about as much use for a diva actor as I do for a third tit.

My only reason for doing this show in the first place is to rummage up some free publicity for my company, High Tee.

And even that came only after a prosecco-fueled “brainstorming” session. I don’t think Marjorie (BFF and co-founder) or I ever thought I’d actually make it through the initial selection process.

Yet here I am, expected to woo Gage Barrett in two minutes if I want to get to the Maui round.

Which I’m not sure I do.

“Did you decide on the black dress or the red?” Mom asks, as though that’s the pivotal question here.

I glance down at my jeans and T-shirt. “Umm…”

“Oh, honey, no. You’re wearing one of your T-shirts?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s the whole reason I’m here,” I point out.

High Tee is a luxury T-shirt company. I know, you’re thinking, Is there such a thing as a luxury T-shirt?

Yes, there is. Don’t tell me you’ve never longed to rock chic jeans and a basic white tee, with the ensemble coming across as classic and not frumpy. It’s a timeless look that’s harder to achieve than people realize. The cut of most women’s T-shirts is either too tight or way too baggy.

Marjorie and I found that the closest we used to be able to get to the “effortless cool” look was actually a men’s T-shirt, which tends to be longer and less fussy. But for women above an A-cup, men’s shirts run into a whole other problem, you get me?

Enter High Tee—the perfect white tee.

The company’s doing well—really well. But I want to do better than well. I want us to go from SoCal boutique to household name.

The thing is, you can’t describe the perfect tee. You have to see it. And the reality-TV-obsessed Marjorie had the half-brilliant, half-crazy insight that there’s no better way to get our T-shirts in front of the almost entirely female demographic of the reality TV show Jilted than by having one of the contestants wear them. Factor in that I live in San Diego, which is just a couple of hours’ drive from the Los Angeles auditions for the show…and somehow I got talked into auditioning, since Marjorie herself is a happily married mother.

Even more incredibly, I was selected.

Marjorie thinks it was my “laid-back SoCal cool” that did it.

I think it was the fact that I was one of the few noncrazies in the early stages. One woman carried her pet turtle strapped to her chest. Another woman was stressing about whether the producers would want to count her dual personalities as one contestant or two. Yet another woman rode a Segway everywhere because she had a fear of her feet touching the ground that “science had yet to cure.”

Let’s just say my boring ponytail and T-shirt probably didn’t look irresistible so much as sane.

But anyway, here I am. Currently in a side room of a Beverly Hills lobby, sweating through my T-shirt, trying not to puke, and talking to my mother, who, while lovable, is perhaps the least qualified person to offer advice on anything other than shades of coral nail polish.

“What about shoes?” Mom asks. “Did you see that picture of the one with the plaid bows I sent you from Pinterest?”

Case in point. The woman’s known me my entire twenty-nine years, and she still thinks I like plaid. Or bows.

Or that my shoes are anything other than flip-flops.

“My shoes match my outfit perfectly,” I evade.

She reads between the lines and sighs in disappointment—maybe she knows me better than I think.

I hear the rustle of papers. “Well, none of that matters,” she says, obviously reciting from her notes, “because you have a…” Rustle rustle rustle. “Beguiling smile.”

Clearly she has a new thesaurus app on the phone I got her for Christmas.

“Okay, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mom.” I hear a knock at the door—doom is officially around the corner. “I gotta run. Time to go beguile a man.”

“Not just a man,” my mom says reverently. “Gage Barrett.”

“Yes, my dream man. Unpredictable paychecks, more girlfriends in a week than I’ve had boyfriends in my life, two of which he’s left at the altar.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Oh, I’m sure he did too.

Reason number one: he’s an asshole.

Reason number two: he’s a playboy.

Reason number three—

The knock at the door is louder this time. “Twenty-one, you ready?”

Twenty-one. My life has come to this—being known as a number. I’m surprised they don’t tag my ear.

I take a deep breath. “I’ve gotta go, Mom.”

“Okay, call me after!”

“I can’t,” I remind her. “Per the contract, we’re not allowed outside phone calls once we meet Barrett and the show kicks off.”

My mom squeals. “My little girl is meeting Gage Barrett!”

I roll my eyes. “Did you hear the part where I won’t be able to call you until I get eliminated?”

“Oh, honey, then I’m certain I won’t hear from you for months. You’re sure to…enthrall him.”

“Goodbye, Mom,” I say with a smile.

I hang up the phone. Enthrall him, my ass. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back in San Diego by tonight.