25
VICTORIA
“This is slightly awkward, don’t you think?” Joel asks.
He finds a tree stump to sit on and motions for me to share the space. We arrived at Shady Acres an hour ago, the campground in closest proximity to Gilroy, and have already set up camp. I’d used the reason that we needed to stock up on essentials at the campground market to get away for some space to think—alone. But Joel followed me anyway. We’d avoided talking about Tara’s announcement during the three-hour drive here, alternating small talk with silence and classical music, and I guess he was ready to discuss it.
I’m not, but with less than an hour before our next segment, I relent, perching myself on the stump at his side. He sets down his two bags of groceries, and I do the same. Conjuring shreds of my optimism, my default, I smile. “It won’t be if we don’t let it.”
But I’m lying. Talk about being sideswiped—Tara’s news, pitting Joel against me, is not something I could have predicted. My first thought was that I was going to get fired; the next I was so grateful that I’d have a chance at the next festival that it struck me speechless. But now?
I clear my throat, feigning sportsmanship. “Congratulations, though. Isn’t this what you wanted?” My gaze roots itself on the outline of our RV on the other side of the sparse line of trees. Tara’s red windbreaker is like a beacon; she’s seated at the picnic table. Adrian is taking off for the bathrooms with his toiletry bag in hand.
“It’s what I wanted from the very beginning.”
Ouch. Those are different words than what he told me at True North. He’d assured me it was a one-time deal and seemed apologetic that he had to host to begin with.
He’s clearly going to compete.
Then, hell, game on.
“So we should both do our best. Don’t hold back.” Even as I say the words, my stomach drops. This situation transcends awkwardness. It could mean hurt feelings. Mine most especially, because Joel is good. I saw his segment with my own eyes, and he is hands down a natural for this show.
“You’re in, too?”
“Well, yeah. I want the next job.” I grin despite myself, competitiveness clawing through my shock. I glance up at him and wonder if his question was sincere or if he’s gauging my level of commitment. “I love to write. But did you think I was going to hand you the opportunity? You did one good segment.” Shocked at my own words, I backtrack. “I didn’t mean . . .”
He barks out a laugh laced with something more, like he’s laughing at me. “Right. From someone who has yet to eat a full plate of barbecue.”
“Okay. I think we better head back to camp.” My head starts to pound at the whiplash of these last few hours. “This conversation isn’t going well.” I stand.
He pulls me back by my wrist. “Shit. Victoria, I’m sorry.”
Hearing sincere remorse in his voice, I sit back down. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean it. You’re talented, and you’re not a one-hit wonder, unlike some of those nineties singers we’ve talked about. Like Vanilla Ice.”
“Nice.” He smiles at my reference, the first one of the day. And per usual, it settles my nerves and gives me some comfort that things aren’t spinning out of control. Because this awkwardness is ultimately about us. What happens to us? Will this competition end the little we have?
“This doesn’t change what we have, and it doesn’t change how I feel about you. How do you feel?” He laces his fingers with mine, places our palms together.
I size them up. I allow the distraction to let me breathe. “I’m shocked. Still processing. I know I don’t want things to change between us.”
“We’ll have to keep talking to each other.”
I lean back and give an exaggerated grin. “Where is my Joel and what did you do to him? You’re asking me to keep in communication?”
His smile turns sheepish and shy. “Guess I’m starting to listen with you as my wingwoman.”
I catch the reference to Top Gun. “Um. You’re my wingman. But yes, I agree, we should keep each other abreast of everything. How we feel, especially.” The ring of a phone reaches me, and I look up to see Tara take a call. I heave a breath. “We should go before one of them sees us.”
We opt to not seal our conversation with a kiss, and with a final nod we grab our bags and walk back along the rest of the trail to the campsite. Tara and Adrian are hovering over the computer at the picnic table.
“What’s up?” I approach them from behind.
Adrian’s sporting a wide, mischievous grin. “Take a look at this.”
Tara presses play on the stilled video. Music begins as the camera pans over to a horde of people at the festival in what I recognize now as Desert Willow. It cuts to a shot of me and my first segment, laughing at something Bo from Benny’s BBQ said. The next scene is of Joel biting into a slider, eyes rolling back in delight. Then, the title flashes on the screen:
West Coast BBQ in red caps. Below it, He Said, She Said in black italic script.
It flashes to a picture of me, hands on my hips, giving someone a pointed look with my name in a calligraphy font scrolled below it. It cuts to Joel’s picture with his name in bold caps.
“Whoa. Is this a real commercial?” I’m glued to the stills being flashed on the screen, ending with a map where stars mark the festival locations.
“Yep,” Tara says. “Before, we simply had graphics on the website. Now, it’s a full-on video teaser, and we even have it uploaded to our partner websites and cable channel. It’s live now.”
“What does that mean?”
Adrian laughs. “It means you’re famous, sweetheart.”
“That’s fucking cool,” Joel says.
“No pressure,” I quip.
“What’s that? Is that fear I hear in your voice?” Joel asks with a playful tone.
He means it innocently, I know. His teasing should have spurned me to answer back in a funny but pointed way. But instead of a wave of excitement, I get a pit in my belly. I’d taken some comfort that West Coast BBQ would remain a smaller project with low exposure. That gaining widespread exposure was possible, but not guaranteed. That mistakes, though humiliating for me, would largely go unnoticed. But this is serious. Now that it’s going to be aired on their partner food channel on cable TV . . .
There’s absolutely no way anyone will believe I love barbecue.
I’ll have to make sure that I kick ass at the last three stops. I swallow my thoughts and clear my throat so I can muster an equally smart-alecky voice. “Yeah, it’s fear. But it’s fear for you; I don’t know how you’ll recover from being upstaged.”
Both Tara and Adrian cheer my comeback.
Tara claps her hands to get our attention. “Okay, silly kids, we have to leave in a couple of minutes. We’re just taking the Suburban. It’s only a few miles to the festival site, and I don’t know about you all, but I am hungry. Plus, we’re meeting our new cameraman.”
While I’m curious to see who’s going to be added to our well-oiled crew, the thought of putting more smoked meat in my body is making my stomach turn. I smile anyway, because no matter how I feel about the food, about Joel, and about what my future might bring, I’m on this road now. And I’ve got to fake it till I make it.