The floor is black marble, so polished they can see themselves in it. The walls and the furniture are pristine white. The kind of white that screams Don’t touch me to people like Mack. The kind of white that purrs You deserve me to people like Rebecca.
Directly across from the grand entry door, framed in gilt gold, is a larger-than-life oil portrait. A young man in a uniform that’s probably from one of the world wars, though Mack couldn’t say which, stares out at them. The edges of the portrait are dark, but he’s surrounded by light, almost haloed by it. His gaze is determined, a noble lift to his chin as he surveys them. One hand holds a small leather book over his heart.
“Who’s he?” beautiful Ava asks, pausing in front of the painting.
Linda’s smile is tugged into place, but her eyes narrow reflexively as she looks at the portrait. “The town founder. Of sorts. Silly to say one person founded a town when it was very much a group effort. He certainly didn’t do it alone! Now, boys, you go to the right, and girls, you follow me.”
They’re separated. Men in one wing, women in another. A bath stretches the length of the building. High-set windows let in light that seems alive in the shifting steam. The prettiest women are the most loath to disrobe. Ava strips without hesitating. Her right leg is a Jackson Pollock painting of damage, abstract and misshapen with scars. She slides down into the pool with a sigh.
“Okay, I changed my mind, this isn’t a waste of time.” She grins, then dunks herself. Water streams off her head as she emerges.
The rest eventually follow, though they do so from behind the cover of towels for as long as possible. Beautiful Ava leaves her towel tied tightly around herself in the water. She eyes the corners for cameras. Finds none. Is not reassured.
Rebecca swims elegant, leisurely laps.
Beautiful Ava is disappointed, and disappointed in herself for being disappointed. She’s a feminist. She doesn’t want to pit herself against other women, even in her own mind. But she can already see how the season will be framed if it ever becomes television. Rebecca will be the lead. Beautiful Ava will be “the other hot one,” the throwaway one. Maybe she can start a romance with one of the men. That should bump her up, narratively. Brandon is the easiest target but not cinematic enough. Jaden is a good bet. She’s branding herself as a fitness model, and he’s a CrossFit instructor. It’s a good combination. She’d rather spend time with Mack—something about her is soothing. Or sweetheart Brandon. She’d like him if she let herself. But she’ll pursue Jaden.
She doesn’t know if it will be a show. None of them do. The packets are very fuzzy in that regard. But if there’s the chance, she’ll treat it like it will happen. And she’ll make sure she’s the love interest, not the villain. Or the other Ava.
She’s jealous of Brandon for being excited, for viewing this as an adventure and not an opportunity. She’s so sick of trying to turn everything into an opportunity, trying to exploit every hobby, every interest, every talent, even her own fucking face and body in a desperate attempt to make enough money. The last time they spoke—a year ago, maybe?—her father accused her of being lazy, of not working, but the truth is, like everyone her age she knows, she’s always working. She’s just not making a living doing any of it. Yet.
Mack has found the farthest corner. She dunks herself, lets her hair soak, lets her whole self soak for as long as she can, until her lungs are bursting and spots dance in front of her eyes. And then she waits another full thirty seconds before tipping her head so her nose and mouth are above the water. The steam is so thick that if you didn’t know she was there, you would never know she was there.
Isabella sits on the steps, arms crossed, impatient. If the organizers aren’t here, this does her no good. A coiled tension in her stomach that no amount of warm, buoyant water can undo tells her that none of this will do her any good. She stands first, needing to get out of the steam and the heat and the relentless pressure. An attendant hurries forward with a plush white robe and guides her to the next room.
Rosiee hangs on the side of the pool, resting her chin on her arms as her legs float. She toys with the pile of silver she took off. She doesn’t care about the clothes, but she feels naked without her jewelry. She’s shaped herself into every piece she wears. This ring when she told her mother to go to hell and resolved to never speak to her again. This cuff bracelet with the last reserves of her silver the night before she ran out on Mitch. This delicate heart necklace with a sharp point in memory of her sharp-witted grandmother, the only person who ever believed in her. Who is she without that belief hanging around her neck?
Who will she be when this competition is over and she has to face reality again? She sinks lower in the water, squints her eyes so all she sees is light glinting off silver. A new piece takes form in her mind. One shaped by triumph. One shaped by strength.
Sydney wants to chat, but everyone else is so damn blissed out. She should think of a great prank to do. This many strangers, naked together? But the water is too hot, and the steam makes her lightheaded, and even if she did think of a good prank, Linda took their phones at the door.
Pranks are stupid. She knows they are.
She’s going to be twenty-seven next week, and she’s been obsessing over where the threshold is when she’s no longer in her midtwenties, but in her late twenties with nothing to show for any of it. She spends all of her free time watching teenagers on social media so she can mimic their movements, their mannerisms, their speech. Sometimes she’s terrified the FBI will look at her viewing history and ask why she has such an intense interest in underage girls. Now she’s in a room with women her age and she has no idea how to talk to any of them, how to have an actual conversation without a script.
God, she hates herself so much. It’s too quiet in here. She can’t take it for another second. She stands and smiles. “So fun!” she chirps, before the attendant leads her to the next room.
* * *
—
LeGrand refuses to take off his clothes, or be in a room where anyone else does. He sits out in the lobby and waits. Beneath the portrait is a white couch—so obviously untouched by any child ever that it makes him miss Almera with a physical pain. The world is huge and scary and confusing, and he doesn’t understand how he got here. He wants to go home, to load Almera in the wheelbarrow, to push her as fast as he can until she squeals with laughter.
The rest of the men are in a sauna. It’s miserable, but each pretends to relish it. Except Brandon. Brandon really does love it. He leans back, breathing deeply, letting his body relax. He’s in a sauna! Last week he had to clean up after someone was sick—both ends—all over the gas station bathroom at three a.m. And today, he’s in a fancy-pants spa. “Isn’t this amazing?” he asks.