Blind Reality (2 page)

With each step closer, my heart races faster. I get that I’m the bride that found her fiancé cheating with her best friend and that I’ve been moping around my parents’ house for the past year, but this isn’t right. A mother should never want her daughter to experience her wedding this way. It’d be one thing if I signed up for the show; I’d be prepared mentally. Right now, the only thing I’m prepared for is to lose my bladder from nerves.

“And here comes our bride.”

I fumble over my own feet when I hear the announcer say those words. My hand tightens around the assistant’s as she walks me on stage. The bright lights burn my skin, making me sweat.

Attractive
.

I’m handed off to another arm, one that’s clad in a coat of some kind. In my mind, it’s my dad, and he’s in a tuxedo walking me toward the man of my dreams.

“You look lovely, sweetheart.”

My throat swells, and I try to fight off the tears. The last thing I want is for the groom to see me with mascara dripping down my face because my dad just spoke to me.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t let you get married without walking my baby girl down the aisle, or in this case on the stage.”

I shake my head. “Daddy, this is so stupid. I don’t think I can do this.”

He leans in and whispers, “You have a microphone pinned to your dress, and everyone can hear you. It’s only three months. Think of it as an adventure.”

All my life, my dad has supported every harebrained idea my mom has come up with. From the time I was going to be a figure skater to pageant queen, from soccer star to head cheerleader, my dad’s support has never wavered.

“Don’t leave my side, okay?”

“Never,” he says before placing a kiss on my cheek.

The Wedding March starts, and the crowd hushes. I’m curious to know if there are illuminated signs telling the audience when to laugh or to be quiet. Will they be prompted to say ooh and
ahh
when we say our vows? Are there hecklers out there? So many unknowns face me right now, but the biggest one on my mind, the one that I’m trying not to think about, is my groom good-looking? I know it’s vain, but damn it, if I have to spend three months with this guy I at least want some man candy. Someone who looks like Joshua Wilson would be nice.

Joshua Wilson is an actor with the most perfect shade of brown eyes I’ve ever seen. I’ve tried to replicate that color with my coffee and cream, but I can never get it just right. His hair is brown and red, and simply the most attractive color on a man. When I first met Tony, they matched in that sense. I spent most of my relationship with Tony comparing him to Joshua. Where Joshua is tall with nicely defined muscles and arms—I can’t even begin to describe how I feel about his arms—Tony is thinner and less muscular, but still cute. I think that may have been some of my downfall with my ex. I used to prattle on and on about how hot Joshua is, how sexy and how I’d give anything to have his muscular arms wrapped around me. Tony would roll his eyes and complain, but that didn’t stop me from watching every movie, TV spot, reading every interview, and buying every magazine that he’s in. I’m slightly obsessed. It’s easy to admit when you’re never going to meet your celebrity crush.

I hear a few gasps and can only assume that I’m approaching where I need to be. My father hasn’t let go yet, and for that I’m thankful. He’s keeping me steady on my feet and somewhat calm, even though thoughts of hanging my mother by her pedicured toenails are filtering through my mind. If she thinks I’m going to share my winnings with her, she’s off her rocker.

Winnings? How can I even think about winning? I’m not going to be able to pretend to be okay with this for three months. And what if he likes me? What if he finds me attractive and tries to kiss me? Then what? Ninety days of purgatory that’s what. I’m so not ready to live in a house with five people I don’t know all while trying to compete for
Best Betty Crocker
.

The announcer clears his throat and gets the audience cheering. Behind my blindfold, I’m rolling my eyes and glaring simultaneously at my groom. I know he’s standing in front of me; I can smell him. If anything, his cologne smells good, but it’s probably something his production assistant told him to wear.

Is he nervous like I am? Is he sweating from standing under these heat lamps? Are his parents here, too? What made him so desperate that he had to come on national television to find a bride? That’s the answer I want to know, but will never ask for fear of what he might say.

Neither of us should be doing this and yet here we are. I could run. I could slip off my blindfold and run without looking back. But what if he’s my soul mate and I don’t know it?

What damage could three months do?

Everything!

My father places my hands into those of my groom and while I should cringe, I don’t. My fingertips, hands, wrists, arms and everywhere else tingle. I feel warm, but not from the lights. It’s a different kind of heat. My tummy flutters. My heart pounds furiously in my chest, drowning out the audience, the music blaring overhead, and the crackle of the microphone. It’s all too soon when the music stops and I’m quickly reminded that this is just a show. I shouldn’t be excited.

“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to compete with in good faith, from this day forward for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, or until three months has expired?”

Um … what?
What’s his name? Don’t I get to know his name at least?

“What do you say?” the announcer’s voice bellows through the microphone. I can hear mumbling from the crowd as they wait with bated breath on what I’m going to say. Do people actually come on this show and say no?

“We need your answer.”

I bite my lower lip and nod. If he can make me feel the way he did when he held my hand, maybe three months won’t be so bad. “Yes,” I squeak out, my voice barely audible.

“She said yes,” the announcer roars, and the applause is deafening. I can’t help but smile even though I’m dying on the inside.

My groom’s voice is almost as quiet as mine, making me feel somewhat better that he’s just as nervous. I sigh in relief when he says yes. The crowd cheers again and the announcer pronounces us man and wife.

Here it comes
. I sense my groom moving closer, and I hold my head high. His hand fumbles on my neck until he rests it gently on my cheek. The crowd is hushed and everyone is waiting for the moment that seals us. His lips brush softly against mine, and he pulls back before I feel his wet lips press against mine again, this time fully. If not for his hand, I’d be crumbling to the ground. My knees start to buckle. My palms, already damp from earlier, are sweating profusely. My heart has stopped beating, but I can hear his. This is a first kiss for the records, and the only thing missing is his face.

The announcer clears his throat and my groom steps back, much to the delight of the viewers. “This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” the announcer says. I read from the rules that the groom’s blindfold comes off first. There’s a collective gasp, followed by a series of ‘oh my God’s’ and ‘that lucky bitch’.
Gee thanks, audience members
. I can safely assume my groom is cute. Great, perfect. I have a cute husband who can turn my insides to goo when he holds my hand. Hopefully he’s not planning on winning many competitions that require physical touching because I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.

Someone comes up from behind me and starts to untie my blindfold. I keep my eyes closed. I want to see him fully when I open my eyes. I open them slowly, but keep them focused on the ground. Slowly, I take in what he’s wearing—black patent leather shoes, with black tuxedo pants. His hand rests at his side, and I see the glint of a wedding band and quickly look down at my own hand. Was I so lost in my rambling thoughts that I don’t remember him slipping a ring on my finger, or me giving him one?

I remind myself that this marriage is not real.

“I’ll get you a bigger one,” a familiar voice says.

My head moves up quickly, and I’m caught in the dark, smoldering eyes that I’ve studied for hours on end. I swallow hard and say, “Holy shit,” before the darkness takes over, and I crumble to the ground in a heap.

“I
can’t believe you’re doing this.”

My best friend and roommate, Rob, follows me into my bedroom. My pile of clean laundry sits on my bed, waiting to be packed. It’s hard to pack for three months knowing that I can’t just run to the mall to pick up something new. When I’m on location, it’s no big deal, but this time tomorrow I’ll be married and confined to a house with no outside contact.

“I don’t have a choice,” I remind him.

“You were drunk. We both were. What we say and sign under the influence should not count.”

Except it does and it’s binding. Most producers run to the hills, waving their newly inked contracts around when something like this happens. As an actor, you shut up and do your job.

“What’s done is done. Matt already tried to get me out of the show, and short of claiming that I have some disease, which will ruin my career, there’s no reason I can’t fulfill my obligation.”

“We were set up!”

I wave him off. Yes, we were drunk. Yes, I feel as if I were duped. After trying desperately to get out of the contract, only to be told repeatedly that it’s binding, I gave in. Once I let the idea settle in, it stuck with me. I have nothing to lose by going on
Married Blind
—quite the opposite really. I can use my fame and fans to deliver a public good message. If we win, it’s one million in our pockets, my wife’s and mine. We’ll split it and go our separate ways. My lawyer still thinks it’s a risk and encouraged me to file an injunction against the producer because he fears that I’m going to get stuck with some clinger who’ll want some of my fortune. That won’t happen because there will be no sex involved. It’ll be the two of us and some simple game playing. We’ll woo the TV viewers with my charm and hopefully her good looks. My female fans are going to hate that I’ve done this, but I’ll be sure to give them a lot of shirtless screen time to make up for it. They just have to remember it’s only for three months.

“Some brilliant ideas happen when people are drunk,” I say as I watch Rob’s face morph into something indescribable. Before he moved to Los Angeles, he was a character actor and most of the time can make me laugh. This is not one of those times. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this position right now.

“You know you could leave, catch a flight somewhere.”

Ignoring Rob, I continue to pack. It’s a chore that I hate, but this time I’m taking my time to fold my shirts nicely, making sure my jeans aren’t rolled into a disastrous ball, and even separating my underwear and socks. I don’t want my new wife to think I’m a slob, even though the state of my apartment confirms that I am.

“What about a non-disclosure agreement?”

I shake my head, causing Rob to throw his hands up in the air in frustration. Matt and Jason are going to their graves prematurely.

“I see your acting lessons are paying off.” Rob is what Hollywood considers a B-list actor. He gets minor parts here and there, but hasn’t been considered for anything major. That’s all me. After one small part that turned into an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actor, my career has skyrocketed. Matt Stokes is my agent. He’s older, sophisticated, and works amazing deals for me. Jason MacNicholl is my lawyer. He’s young, resilient, and a workhorse. He’s currently having a mild heart attack because I refuse to have my future bride sign a non-disclosure agreement. I can’t have one signed. We can’t do it before the ceremony because that will give away my identity and once we’re married, it’ll be too late. I’ve assured them both that we won’t be consummating the relationship, so there shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

“I’m trying to look out for you,” he says with a shake of his head. “I just don’t get why you’re doing this.”

I set down my shirt and sit on the edge of my bed. This all started late last fall. Rob and I had met for a few drinks and ran into Barry Barnett, one of the producers from the reality show. The more the drinks flowed, the more Rob started joking about me submitting my name for the next season. I laughed him off until Barry insinuated I didn’t have what it takes to compete. I didn’t take too kindly to that and Barry told me to prove it. I let it go, but the drinks continued to flow and then my on again/mostly off again girlfriend, Jules, showed up and started acting like we were together, which we hadn’t been for a while. She laughed when I told her I was going on the show to find real love, but stormed out of the restaurant once I took the pen from Barry. She never saw me sign on the dotted line.