For the Right Reasons (12 page)

“I want to go on a shopping spree with you,” Shay said, taking the papers from my hands. “Where’s the part about your clothing allowance?”

“Yeah, you won’t find anything about it,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. “I’m responsible for buying all of my own clothes.”

“What?” Shay was incredulous. “That’s going to be a lot of money.”

When she stated the obvious, I took a deep breath. Anxiety crawled through me until I thought of my wonderful Granddaddy. He was raised in Alabama, poorer than dirt. His father was very abusive physically and drank a lot. Granddaddy used to tell me the story about how when he was fourteen years old, he tried to get a job to take care of his family. He applied at the movie theater, and the manager told him he’d like to give him a job. He didn’t get the position, though, because they didn’t have uniforms back then. The manager told him, quite frankly, that his clothes weren’t nice enough. The thought of my Granddaddy as a fourteen-year-old kid having to support his family really put things into perspective.

“I’ll figure it out,” I told Shay.

“You can’t just hope for the best.” Andrew held up his hand. “You need a new suit. A good one. Let Shay and me get you one as our gift.”

I was deeply touched by this kind gesture. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“It’s only because we don’t want you to make us look bad,” Shay said. “We’re the ones who sent in your application, after all.”

“And speaking of hideous,” Andrew said. “What’s up with your hair?”

Shay punched her husband in the arm.

“Weren’t you wondering too?”

Instinctively, I reached up to my head and ran my fingers through my hair, which was longer than usual.

“The producers wanted me to grow it out,” I said. In one of my previous conversations with the producers, they told me to work on my look by growing out my hair. Maybe my All-American look was too boring for a prime-time television show.

Shay looked at my head skeptically. “I don’t think your head is the right shape or . . . something.”

The next day, I continued my show preparation by e-mailing the producer, breaking the news that my hair wasn’t looking as good as they had hoped, and getting it cut back to its normal, short, boring length. Then I went to the mall and filled up several bags of clothing—T-shirts, shorts, socks, sandals, tennis shoes, everything. But the suits were harder to figure out. Not only were they more expensive, but it was more complicated than simply picking one up at the mall. Apparently, my brother-in-law is the kind of big shot who gets all his suits custom made, so he sent his seamstress to take my measurements. Within weeks, I had a navy blue, perfectly fitted suit. My parents also kindly bought me a couple of suits, which completed my wardrobe for the show.

Emily’s season was not going to begin in Hollywood. Because she didn’t want to disrupt her daughter’s life too dramatically, ABC agreed to bring the show’s production to her hometown. On the morning of my flight to Charlotte, North Carolina, I placed my new purchases on the table and began stuffing them into my bags.

“Wait, wait,” Andrew said. He and Shay had come over because they agreed to take me to the airport. “Fold your shirts like this, and hang them up as soon as you get there,” he said as he situated my clothing in the bag.

“There’s just not enough room.”

“Well, you can’t show up looking like you slept on the street,” he said. By the time I had to leave, I threw five bags into the back of Andrew and Shay’s Tahoe. Yes, that was more than I was supposed to be allocated, but there was no way to fit all those clothes for all those climates in two bags. As we drove to the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, I called Dad.

“You busy?” I asked.

I could tell from his voice he was in a public place.

“I’m in the locker room at the gym, getting ready to work out,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I’m on my way to the airport and just wanted to tell you good-bye. I won’t be able to talk to you for several weeks.”

“Your mom and I have and will continue to pray for you, son,” he said. “I love you, and I know God will use you somehow in all of this.”

When I hung up the phone, my mind raced. What was I getting myself into? What would it be like to have cameras following me around all the time? What would the other guys be like?

But the one thing that kept coming back to me was the text Andrew sent me when I was auditioning in Los Angeles.

Mark my words: you’re going to win
.

four

A NOT-SO-MEMORABLE FIRST IMPRESSION

The producer smiled, with her hand outstretched. “Hand it over.”

I arrived in Charlotte about three days before filming was to start, and the first thing I had to do was give up my phone. The producers wanted to control every aspect of our lives, for obvious reasons. They didn’t want to invest time and money into our potential relationships with Emily, only to have their investment ruined by former flames wooing us away via e-mail, phone, or text. Also, they didn’t want any confidential information leaking out to a hungry press.

For many people, this was the hardest moment of all—handing over the one thing that connects you to friends, family, and—really—the world. But I couldn’t wait to get rid of my phone, which had haunted me for months. Every time it rang after the collapse of our company, it meant bad news or a terribly uncomfortable conversation. After things settled down with that situation, it became my connection to work e-mails. I was thrilled that I no longer had to respond to the constant noise of work communication
. Good riddance
, I thought as I turned off my phone and handed it to the producer.

Though I was glad to be free from my phone, it meant there was no easy way to kill time while I was on
The Bachelorette
. My hotel room had nothing for entertainment but a minibar and a hotel television. I’d been on Sagi’s diet
so long I wouldn’t touch the minibar, and watching television got old after about an hour. I sat on the bed, looked out the window, and wondered if any of the guys I saw walking in from the parking lot were my competition. Looking back, I realize those days in the hotel room alone were a big part of the show prep. When I’m bored in normal life, I would’ve checked scores on ESPN, read the news, or texted my friends. But there, alone in my room, my only real option was to think about Emily. Would I like her? Or, more importantly, would she like me? Would I meet her daughter? What would it be like to date a mom? What should I say to her when I got out of the limo?

My thoughts were interrupted only when staffers would come and grab me to do various tasks—extremely awkward tasks. The first thing I did was take a written psychiatric evaluation.

When you get mad, do you ever think of hurting animals?

How do you feel when you lose twenty dollars?

After I answered five hundred questions, I had to meet with a psychiatrist who traveled with the cast. She read my questionnaire and asked me a few more questions.

“So what’s the verdict?” I asked at the conclusion. “Am I normal?”

She didn’t declare me “normal,” but she did give me the go-ahead on the show. Then I underwent an extensive background search.

Have you ever been involved in pornography?

Have you ever sent anyone nude photos?

Have you ever been convicted of domestic violence?

To ratchet up the awkward a few more notches, the producers had to make sure we had no sexually transmitted diseases. As the nurse drew my blood, I thought,
What have I gotten myself into?

Of course, we also had photos taken—headshots that would soon be put on
The Bachelorette
website for people to evaluate and judge.

Other than these things—which didn’t take up a ton of time—I sat in my hotel room and went stir-crazy. The night before filming was to begin, I was told the producers were scheduled to drop in and introduce themselves. I prepared myself for two or three visits—four, tops. I was surprised when one producer after another after another showed up. By the time I went to
bed that night, about twenty people had stopped by, introduced themselves, and gauged whether I was ready for this adventure. One of the producers pulled me aside and lowered his voice.

“Traditionally, we try to pick the two guys we think have the best shot ending up with our girl to be the first and last out of the limo,” he said. “We want
you
to be first.”

I was so honored by this news that I could barely sleep that night.

The next morning, since I had nothing else to do, I started getting ready early. I paired the custom-fitted navy suit with a white shirt that had a blue checked pattern. I took a deep breath, looked in the mirror, and marveled at how much the cut on a suit can improve your look.
Thank you, Andrew and Shay
. When the knock came on my door, a producer telling me it was time to go, I couldn’t get out of that hotel room fast enough.

My limo had three other contestants, to whom I quickly introduced myself. On the show, the guys all seemed to go by their first names (or, even worse, descriptions: “the guy with the bad suit” or “the guy with the crazy eyes.”) But in the limo, in the last few moments before we entered the world of
The Bachelorette
, we still had last names, and I met Arie Luyendyk, John Wolfner, and Joe Gendreau.

“Luyendyk?” Joe asked when he met Arie. “Are you kin to Arie Luyendyk, the racecar driver?”

“Yeah,” Arie said. “That’s my dad.”

John (whom we frequently called Wolf) was a data destruction specialist, and Joe was a field energy adviser.

I have some stiff competition
, I thought. I don’t know what I was expecting, but they all seemed like nice guys—and they in particular became great friends. Of course, I shouldn’t describe them as “contestants.” The producers of the show didn’t want us to view this as a game but as a chance to pursue a real-life love connection between Emily and, well, one of the twenty-five guys sitting in the limos lining the drive.

The show had tried to keep the shooting location under wraps, but word got out fast. I looked up and saw a local news helicopter getting footage for their evening broadcast. The mansion was in a beautiful, gated community, but that didn’t stop some fifty to sixty fans from trying to sneak on the property to catch a glimpse of the action. The show had hired off-duty police officers to keep the crowd at bay.

On the way, through a handheld radio a producer in our limo was holding, I heard that one of the limos had a collision with a manure truck.

“That doesn’t happen when we film in Hollywood,” Scott said. Scott was one of the two house producers who spent all his time with the guys.

I readjusted my tie and took a deep breath. Through the tinted windows, I could see the mansion at the end of the fifty-foot drive, and I knew Emily was in there somewhere, waiting to meet us.

“This must be the biggest thing to happen in North Carolina in a long time,” said Scott. I followed his gaze, looked through the tinted glass, and saw what looked like some sort of monster—a gigantic glob of tree branches and leaves—amid the trees.

“Is that Chewbacca?” one guy asked. A security guard had camouflaged himself with special clothing designed to resemble heavy foliage. It was the sort of gear hunters use, which was appropriate since this guy was hunting for photographers and reporters trying to get some sort of scoop. I watched as he crawled toward us making sure no one got a glimpse of the behind-the-scenes action. Preseason spoilers are a big business and earn prestige, page views, and money for the person who gets the goods.

The biggest spoiler happened during season 13 of
The Bachelor
. In the show’s 2009 romantic finale, single dad Jason Mesnick proposed to former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader Melissa Rycroft. Viewers at home swooned as Jason and Melissa began “happily ever after.” But just seconds after the show aired, the after-the-rose ceremony came on, showing Jason and Melissa sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible while still being on the same couch. Jason then proceeded to dump Melissa on live television, saying he actually had feelings for the first runner-up. Viewers reeled from the turn of events, but attentive readers of the spoiler blogs had
seen it coming for weeks. Somehow, someone had correctly predicted the biggest shock of the franchise’s history—weeks before it happened.

Understandably, the producers were nuts about secrecy. Even though we signed confidentiality agreements, gave up our phones, and were forbidden to speak to the press, information still leaked out. I think this happened for two reasons. First, it’s basic human nature: if someone knows something juicy, he or she can’t wait to tell it. People send bloggers tips such as, “Hey, I’m a friend of so-and-so’s and I heard that . . .” Plus, I wonder if some of these spoilers have a few people inside the show, too, who give them the valuable inside scoop.

The quest for that inside information was why there was a security guard in a ghillie suit inching toward us, reporters crawling over this small town, and helicopters flying overhead.