But they all saw.
Wren’s off-limits. Too young. Too innocent. Too everything. So why does it already feel like this whole show is just a long, slow slide into disaster with her at the center?
I’m not supposed to want her. Not like this. But I do. If I’m not careful, I’ll forget why I ever tried to stay away in the first place.
ten
WREN
The castand crew are headed to an off-site shoot at The Righteous Room, a bar that’s not quite a hole-in-the-wall but definitely isn’t upscale, either. It’s wedged at the intersection of three major nightlife zones: the sleek rooftop bars of East Midtown, the divey music joints off Edgewood, and the raucous college bars on Peachtree. The result is a wild mix of regulars, tourists, and off-duty bartenders, all crammed into one chaotic space.
Ryan’s been acting weird ever since the group date. I can’t stop thinking about that moment. The kiss. The breath we shared. The static in the air.
Ugh, this is terrible.
I ride in an SUV with a bunch of the other contestants, most of whom are giggling and gossiping about the skating date. JacqLyn is in our car. Thankfully, she’s soaking up the attention like a sponge. She’s busy dishing about how amazing her mini date with Ryan was and how they areso meant to be. I do my best to stifle my reflexive eye roll.
I pull out my phone and text Elena.
Hey, do you have a plan for how long I’ll be on the show? Just trying to be prepared. I don’t want my brother to be surprised when the show airs.
She replies with a single thumbs-up emoji. Nothing else. Great. It’s only the second week of filming and I’m already feeling trapped. Why did I ever agree to this, again?
By the time we pull up to The Righteous Room, I’m resigned to the fact that she’s either ignoring me or negotiating something more important. Either way, my stomach’s tight with nerves.
We changed clothes during the break, so now I’m stepping out of the SUV in a very short black silk skirt that barely covers my ass. It’s paired with a distressed white crop top with a cartoon drawing of a pair of red lips with vampire fangs and the words LOVE BITES. I tell myself that the outfit is strategic. My armor for the upcoming battle.
My hair has been tousled into what the stylist called “casual bedroom energy.” I feel like a half-dressed pop star wandering into someone else’s dream.
I’m playing a part. The seductive wild card, the edgy pick. But underneath the makeup and sky-high stilettoes, I’m still the weird girl who sat alone in high school reading Greek mythology at lunch. I’m not sure anyone here would believe that.
Inside, the place is packed. Booths line the right side of the room, the bar stretches down the left. There’s a glowing neon double jukebox at the back, already surrounded by tipsy locals. James Brown wails over the speakers. The crowd is so loud, they barely notice our arrival.
The second I walk in, everything goes quiet. People turn. Eyes land on me. I brace for someone to laugh.
But no one does.
They just stare. And for once, it’s not because I’ve said something awkward or tripped over my own feet. It’s because I look good. That thought sticks to my ribs, strange and sweet. I’m not invisible today. And it feels kind of amazing.
This place is a sensory overload nightmare. Too loud. Too bright. Too many eyes. But I’m not the same girl I was last year. I’m supposed to own this version of me. Supposed to.
The production crew ushers us into a sectioned-off row of booths where they’ve discreetly planted cameras. I slide into one of the booths and order a vodka cranberry and a basket of fries from a server who looks vaguely thrilled to be part of the chaos.
Heidi slides into the seat across from me and casually drops a tray of Jell-O shots on the table. “You seem like you need this,” she says, pushing one toward me.
I grin and down the cherry-flavored monstrosity in one go. It burns all the way down. “That was… aggressively alcoholic,” I choke.
Good. That’s what I want. To feel something loud and fuzzy. To be bold and reckless and maybe even a little bit seen.
“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly.
A few minutes later, she asks, “Wanna hit the jukebox?”
“Yes. God, yes.”
She hands me another Jell-O shot on the way, which I toss back even quicker than the first. We link arms and weave through the crowd.
I’m not here to play it safe. Safe got me overlooked. Safe got me stuck. So screw it. Let’s go full chaos.
