I am going to rip up this contract. I’m going to hold it by two corners and tear it apart as Jason watches. Because I don’t want this to be fake anymore. I don’t want a contract holding us together.

And he doesn’t, either.

So I take my copy of the contract out of the top drawer of the dresser in my hotel room, where I’m getting ready for tonight - the night of the gala, the big night before we have the actual contest. It’s the night when all of the girls line up and smile brightly and the press is there and we have ourselves on display for everyone before the actual contest, where we basically do everything again.

I carefully fold the contract into quarters and slip it into my beaded handbag as I go over to my closet to pull out the dress I have ready for tonight: a floor-length, beaded silver gown that hugs my curves. It has a low back and a high halter neck and I can’t wear a normal bra with it, which makes me feel a little bit self-conscious, but I’m okay with that because I really do love how I feel in the dress.

And I think Jason is going to like it, too.

I slide it over my head, allowing it to conform to my body as I slip my hands over my waist and hips. Turning around to check out the back view, I feel a smile pull at my lips.

Yeah, this works.

I put the finishing touches on my makeup, gliding on some red lipstick before putting my compact and some gloss into my purse alongside the contract. Checking the time, I realize that I’m a little bit early, but I want this night to start so I make my way into the hall and let the door close softly behind me.

My parents and brother will be here tomorrow for the contest, even though they’ve seen me go through this countless times before. But they like to see me compete. They like to see me win even more, though.

My mom entered me in pageants from a young age. I liked it, but I didn’t really know any better.

I swallow thickly as I start down the hall, the wide corridor dotted with ornate gold light sconces and thick damask wallpaper. This is probably the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed at, though it’s hard to remember all of the places I’ve been and all the walls I’ve seen.

Reflecting on the past few years, I begin to question myself in a way I never really have. Did I continue the pageants into my adult years for their own sake? Did I long to be part of a community of people who were taking a stance on something and showing off the ways in which they are contributing to their own personal growth and the betterment of society? Or did I merely miss the attention and want to continue on the path of least resistance, want something to fill up my time because I didn’t want to push myself out of my comfort zone?

And how much of this was because I knew what I wanted all along, but couldn’t have it, and kept running and chasing some other elusive goal even though it was something that, honestly, I could have taken or left.

How much of this has been to impress Jason all along?

And I suddenly feel awfully silly about it, because I’ve managed to convince myself, over the last five years, that I do it for the thrill of the competition. For going up against a bunch of other talented girls and seeing how much I can push myself to be the best, and the thrill of being among the very best - that feeling that even if I don’t win, I was able to show up and be considered.

I don’t know what’s what anymore.

Jason doesn’t even like this stuff. That’s the ironic part. I mean, over the past few years we’ve kept in touch and he’s asked me questions about how I’m doing in the pageants, but I don’t think he actually appreciates them in the way I do.

Maybe he just pretends to be interested because I like them.

I’m still early, but as I get to Jason’s door, I turn to it and knock twice, exhaling deeply, letting the questions grinding through my mind roll off my shoulders like a wave.

I have that contract in my purse, and my hand instinctively goes there, where it’s hanging at my hip. I thought this would never work. I thought this was a crazy idea. I thought Jason Anderson would break my heart, because I believed everything I was told.

The door in front of me opens and Jason appears, sexy as ever.

“Hey baby,” he says, wrapping his arm low around my waist and pulling me toward him. His eyes find mine and my fingers go to his chest, my breath taken away by him.

He smells great, like fresh soap and newly-cut grass. It reminds me of something that hasn’t happened yet, if that makes any damn sense at all. It makes me excited for the future. It makes me fall against him, resting my cheek on his chest as his lips find the line where my hair starts.

“Be careful,” he says, “you don’t want to mess up your makeup.”

“Screw that,” I say, wrapping my arms around him.

“It’s nice to see you at my door,” he says, “too bad we have this party to go to, huh?”

“Why?” I ask, my gaze drifting upward to his.

He puts his hand on my ass and pulls me closer to him, squeezing my flesh through my gown and making me feel dizzy with desire.

“There’s more interesting things I wanna do with you,” he rumbles.

“Right,” I breathe, “too bad.”

“Remember when I told you to drop out of the pageant?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply.

His lips move closer to mine with every little second that passes. But it feels like a damn eternity here with him.

“What if you’d just dropped out when I’d asked you to?” he says, brushing his lips against mine. I still feel like I’m dreaming. I don’t know if the reality of this has fully sunken in yet.

“Then we wouldn’t have had to pretend to be together,” I say, smiling up at him as he pulls away slightly.

“I think we both know this isn’t pretend.”

There it is - like a bolt of lightning cracking through my chest, I feel energized, alive, and more than a little bit scared.

“We have to get to the party,” he says, pulling me with him into the hallway.

Slipping his arm around my waist, he holds onto me tight. And for the first time, even though I’ve felt his touch countless times before, I know that he won’t let me go again.