38
BRYN
“I’m sorry,” I say for the umpteenth time in one phone call. With the booking calendar in front of me, old-school-style, I cross out the last set of reservations, bringing our count to zero.
Sixteen weeks of reservations down to zero in forty-eight hours.
I set down my phone, the battery drained to 5 percent. I’m exhausted and emotionally spent. My throat’s dry from my apologies, and my brain hurts from trying to mitigate the fallout from the bomb I dropped on the live stream—Mitchell and I were fake.
Even if we aren’t.
In one fell swoop, I lost everything, and what’s left is pain. Pain from regret, pain from feeling like a failure, pain from disappointment. I’m surrounded by it, can’t walk outside of my house without encountering it. Can’t look out the window without seeing the parking lot, occasionally used by a car or two.
I can’t even get online without being hurt.
Viewers from our live stream demand an explanation of the truth. Every single one of my social media outlets is bombarded with questions and the occasional hate response. Some praise me for standing up for myself, others question why I mentioned the word love—did that mean there could be a chance for Mitchell and me to get back together? Hashtags have formed for #TeamMitchell or #TeamBryn, memes have been created, our “fake relationship” used for all kinds of comedic satire. The Internet exploded with headlines on every lifestyle and entertainment blog and news feed:
Fake Relationship on Food Right Now Exposed
Is Live TV Real?
Live Stream, Scripted
But I’m not allowed to respond. I can’t defend myself. As contractually demanded by Laurel, who treated my breach with such disdain, I agreed to disengage with the Dunfords until their live stream coverage is over. I have to lie low, when all I want to do is get out there and save what I can of Paraiso’s good name.
All you had to do was break up. Now we have to field a media storm, she said.
She was right. I toed an inch over the line, and something inside me said fuck it, and I jumped. I’ll never apologize for telling the truth, but the aftermath has been disastrous.
“Don’t worry. It will all get better, I promise.” My father’s ladling tinola, a chicken-ginger soup chock-full of spinach, bok choy, and chayote. Comfort food to the max—he usually only makes this for me when I’m sick.
Golden was flooded with news reporters, wannabe journalists, selfie-obsessed social media celebrities. Many made their way to my front door. Enter my muscle: my father, unfailing and unafraid. He called the cops, reminded people of our right to privacy. He took every scathing question, include those about my “love life” and whether he thought Mitchell and I had consummated our relationship.
That was easily one of the lowest points.
He also took up a new role as a substitute big sister. While I tried to console Victoria, who had her own broken heart, I knew I was failing miserably, and my dad relieved me of some of those duties. He answered her texts, blocked incoming calls like a bouncer, and was the extra ear when she wanted to talk.
I stir the vegetables in my soup. Steam rises and dissipates in front of my eyes, taking with it some of my optimism. “We have no customers, which already puts Paraiso in the negative in the books. Every dollar from Food Right Now has been spent. If your lawyer hadn’t negotiated with Laurel . . . I’m just grateful the live stream still has viewers because of the drama; otherwise, I would have been sued for breach of contract.”
“This is a bump in the road. Your real customers will come through. The worst thing for you to do right now is to give up. Keep marketing, keep at your current pace, and don’t panic. You were going to do it without the show in the first place; you’re just back to your original plan.” He pats my shoulder. “And worst-case scenario, I’m always here to help you.”
“I know, Dad. Thanks, but—”
“Right. I know,” he says. The man hasn’t stopped offering me financial help, but as much as I’ve needed him here emotionally and physically, this problem is mine to endure and fix. There’s only one name on that business license, and it’s mine. “Anyway, it’s not the business I’m worried about, it’s you.”
I glance up at my whiteboard, at my to-do list that is now messy and unorganized, words crammed into every available space. I could spend the entire day crossing off any three items on that board, if that was what I wanted to do. But none hold any kind of joy or promise; none sound remotely helpful. “I’ll be okay.”
Dad grabs the coffee cup behind me, refills it. “When was the last time you spoke to him?”
Him, as in Mitchell.
“A couple of days ago—when we got back from San Francisco.”
“He doesn’t look well.”
“Good.” I crank out a smile, but I’m sure it comes out as a grimace. “Why are you still watching them anyway?”
“Sorry, I can’t help it. I’m hooked . . .”
“You mean nosy.”
“Curious.” The corners of his lips lift into a smile as he puts the pot back into the coffeemaker. He stands by the kitchen sink and looks out onto Dunford. “The guy has been wearing the same expression you have.”
“And what’s that?”
“A very sad one.”
“That’s just too bad for him, I guess.”
“So you’re admitting you’re sad?”
“Of course I am.” My voice is tight, and it comes out like a wheeze. “He was—is—special. He’s kind and sweet, straightforward. With him, I could be my best self. Like I could have it all—I could be vulnerable and strong. He didn’t force me into a box. I know you didn’t like him, and maybe you were right all along.”
He raises a hand up, halting me. “I had to give him a hard time. It’s a father’s duty to test his daughter’s suitors. We took our turn at their age. Your lolo, your mother’s father? That man didn’t test me with food. He took me out to the cane fields, to see if I could wield a machete and provide for your mom. Scariest time of my life, because I was a city boy and didn’t have a clue. But I showed up. Your Mitchell, not only did he show up, but he was ready to take whatever I was going to dish out.”
“Maybe you should have taken him out to the shooting range instead of feeding him. He would have known you were serious.”
“Believe me, Mary Bryn. Mitchell Dunford was serious about you, even if it was all supposed to be a sham.”
Shaking my head, I do my best to minimize the recent past, the time we spent in front of the camera. What happened beyond the camera’s lens—those intimate moments alone are the ones that haunt me. What did I miss? What were the signs that should have told me I had no power in our relationship? “It’s not about the parking lot.” My voice cracks. “He warned me in his own way. He told me once Levi took over, he would have a hard time saying no. It’s my fault I didn’t believe him.”
“Sounds like they have a pretty traditional relationship, like we do in our family.”
“I respect it, you know. But it’s all the more reason why it’s just no use. Even if we tried to make it work, there would have been another incident. And again he would’ve chosen Levi over me. I love him, Dad. I will for a long time. But I can’t compete. I won’t. The best thing I can do now is move on.”
Victoria slams the door open, making me jump. Her cheeks are ruddy from the wind. “Guess what?” She kisses our father on the cheek, then slams her phone down in front of me, to an open email.
My dad’s openmouthed stare says everything I’m thinking. Victoria left this morning for a Pilates class in town still upset, and this 180 is slightly disconcerting.
“Forget it, I’m too excited. I’ll read it.” She picks up the phone. “Dear Victoria Aquino. We have reviewed the sample video you submitted to our open call for a new television food show host. West Coast Eats would like to invite you to audition in person. Attached is our call-back schedule, and I look forward to chatting with you to confirm your appointment. Sincerely, Olivia Russell.”
Her words sink in, and slowly a veil lifts and excitement shoots me off the chair. “What? When did you send in a video?”
“A million years ago. I completely forgot about it.”
“Does this mean you’re being considered?” Dad yells above our noise.
“Yes! It means a shot at being on television!”
“I want to read this email for myself.” I snatch her phone and check all of the credentials in the email. I park myself in front of my laptop and start a search. I double-check the editor’s name against the email, and sure enough, it doesn’t look like a phishing scam. “Shit, Vic. It’s really real.”
“Oh, it’s real.” She threads her hand in her hair. “Man. I’m having whiplash right now. All the emotions.”
I hug her again, feeling her joy. “This is a step toward your dream, Vic. You did this.”
“Yeah.” She sniffs, and her eyes glaze over. I can tell she’s thinking of Luke, the man she fell for online, but who she realized after a surprise trip to see him was not who he said he was. “Fuck him, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. And you know what we say about risk, right?”
“That’s right, sis. Nothing’s gained without it.”