Page 5 of Forever is the Sweetest Con
“I’m sorry,” I say, hurrying back to my post. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Just one more,” he says, with a wry smile. “Wouldn’t want to end up like that.” He nods toward the Frat Bros, who are now crowded in consolation around one guy, who is crying loudly.
I watch them as I scoop ice into a fresh glass. The almost hot guy is hanging back. He looks up at me and grimaces, his eyes darting to the blubbering bro. I laugh. He’s cute. If it weren’t for that ponytail, I might consider going home with him tonight.
I bring the Silver Fox his drink.
“Have you given it any thought?” he asks.
“Given what any thought?” I’m watching the bros, how the almost hot guy is helping the sad one put on his jacket, how he’s being awfully kind and gentle to a guy he barely knows.
“The show. The money.”
“Oh. No, still not for me. Thanks, though.”
He regards me through slightly squinted eyes. “I tell you what. I’m going to write down a number you can call, just in case you change your mind.”
“It’s really not necessary.”
“Just in case.” He smiles and pulls his wallet out of his lapel pocket. “Have you a pen?”
The bros are shuffling out. The almost hot guy gives me a wave and a warm smile, and I watch as his ponytail disappears out the door.
The Silver Fox has scribbled something on the back of a business card. “Auditions are almost over, so time is of the essence,” he says, “but I know they’re still looking for someone special.” He slides the card across the bar to me. “Tell Tyler I sent you.”
He has scrawled the words Camp Couple-Up, which sounds more like a bad joke than the name of a hit reality TV show. Underneath, there is a phone number with a 323 area code. Los Angeles.
There’s something about the tangible proof of this opportunity that gives me pause. Could I? No, it feels too good to be true. Opportunities like this don’t just fall into my lap—that shit’s for other people, the ones with the charmed lives. But maybe I’m due a bit of good luck. Haven’t I worked hard enough, been through enough, to finally get a break?
Nah. That’s not how the world works. It’s probably just a scam. I mean, what kind of dating show has a quarter-million-dollar payout? Sounds fake.
But I shove the card in the pocket of my apron, just in case.
Chapter Two
Having absolutely zero disposable income really takes a hit on your social life, let me tell you. Which is why I now spend the majority of my nights off at home with my mom, watching reality TV. Tonight, like most nights this summer, we’re watchingLove Island, which of all of the reality shows on TV, is my mom’s favourite.
Love Island’s my favourite too, to be honest. Just because I don’t want to be on one of these shows doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching them, but for different reasons than my mom. She’s a sucker for the romance—the declarations of love, the beds strewn with rose petals, the over-the-top dates—but not me. That’s the worst part of it, in my opinion—the artifice of it all, as if those people aren’t just (a) looking for fame and fortune, or (b) horny and looking to party or (c) all of the above. I see through all of that, but for some reason, I still find it soothing to watch hot people engage in low-stakes drama in a predictable 54-minute format.
“Cleo, come on, it’s starting,” my mom calls from the living room.
“Coming.” I shove a packet of popcorn into the microwave. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m not surprised to see that it’s “Michael Kateb” from the “First Union Bank” calling about my “loan” again. He’s nothing if not persistent. I silence the call.
The staccato jazz of the popcorn finally starts to slow down. It takesforever in this ancient microwave, which, like most things in this house, is a relic from the 90s. It belonged to my grandparents, who took us in after my dad left. Then, five years later, after they’d both passed away, it became ours.
Mom has never renovated. I doubt she’s ever even thought about it. Not just because she doesn’t have the money, but more that she is, at the best of times, a little checked out of the world. I wonder if she even sees how worn the linoleum on the kitchen floor has gotten, or how badly the cupboards need a coat of paint.
I remove the bag of popcorn from the microwave, holding it by the corner, and I tuck a bowl under my arm. I thread two wine glasses between my fingers and retrieve a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge. I’m actually kind of excited for this evening, for watching TV with my mom. When I was living with Dylan, I never got time like this with her. And while conditions are less than ideal at the moment, at least I have the reassurance that she’s okay. It’s a sad sort of progress, I guess.
By the time I sink down next to her on the worn plaid sofa, the couples onLove Islandhave already set out on their dates.
“These two,” my mother groans, indicating to the two hot people on the screen. The girl has a high ponytail and has been cast as the Villain for the season, and she’s been paired with the Pro Athlete for only the last few episodes, managing to avoid elimination by claiming that their “journey is just beginning.”
But even my mom sees through the bullshit. “You can tell they don’t really like each other because they aren’t looking at one another. And they should be smiling. You know if they’re smiling like fools then they’re really in love. But these two? No way.”
She’s right. The two hot people on the screen are saying all the right things to one another, but there’s an emptiness to their words. They’ll be accused of committing the cardinal sin of reality TV—being there for the Wrong Reasons—and that will ultimately be what comes between them and the cash prize, which, I notice, is nowhere near $250,000.
My phone buzzes again. Okay, that’s enough. This guy has been badgering me for months, and it’s time to put him in his place.
