One To Watch (38 page)

Wyatt pulled back to look at her, a curious expression on his face.

“What if you and I did find love?”

Bea peered at him, not understanding. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Listen,” Wyatt said, his voice urgent, “this would be only if you want, but you could keep me around—on the show, I mean. And then, if you want to be with one of the other men, then that’s great, Bea. But if you don’t, then I could propose, and you could be with me. Not forever—not really. But for the end of the show, and a little while after.”

“My happy ending,” Bea murmured.

“Exactly.”

“But Wyatt, I don’t want you to lie about who you are. Besides, don’t you think it would hurt your mom even more to see you get engaged and then have it not work out?”

Wyatt shook his head. “If we got engaged, and my mom got to see it—I think that’d make her happy, at least for a little while. And if it was a kindness I could do for you? That would make me happy too.”

Bea thought back to her first night on the show, her gut instinct that Wyatt could be her perfect Prince Charming. Now, all these weeks later, here he was, offering her everything she’d come into this experience to find: a kind, honest, gorgeous man to hold her hand and walk together through the treacherous waters of trolls and critics and make the world see her as beautiful. As beloved.

When the generator finally came back online, Bea had no trouble at all kissing Wyatt passionately as the sunset turned the whole field incandescent. It might not be true love, but here, in this approximation of reality, maybe it was close enough.

Bea was incredibly nervous to meet Asher’s children, but first, it was time to meet his students: She was sitting in on a meeting of his upper-level seminar on the history of Asian immigration to the United States from 1850 to 1900. The class was in a snug room with a walnut conference table and big picture windows overlooking the trees outside; Bea’s heart jumped as she walked in and saw Asher in his jeans and button-down, looking even more handsome than she remembered.

“What, no tweed blazer?” she joked. “You’re ruining my hot-professor fantasy.”

He grinned as he came toward her, wrapping her in a huge hug—she was thrilled and relieved that he seemed much more at ease than he had in Morocco.

“Guess you’ll have to settle for an average-looking-professor reality,” he quipped.

Bea took her seat at the conference table as a handful of junior and senior history majors filtered in, all of whom seemed largely unfazed by the interloping cameras in their midst.

“Okay.” Asher clapped his hands to begin class. “I’m sure you’ve all missed me dearly over the last month, but I trust Professor LaBruyere has been an able substitute?”

The kids mumbled a halfhearted assent, and Asher laughed.

“Damning by faint praise—and on television, no less. You guys are brutal.”

The kids settled in, and Asher began his lecture on the little-known involvement of Asian American soldiers in the Civil War, detailing firsthand accounts he’d read from diaries and military transcripts to piece together the movements of a particular unit in the Union Army that had been led by a Chinese corporal.

“Did any Asian soldiers fight for the Confederacy?” one kid asked.

“What do you think?” Asher turned the question back on the class. “How would that have worked?”

“It wouldn’t have,” said one girl with flowing blond hair and a navy-blue fleece. “The Confederacy had a law against nonwhite soldiers.”

“Yeah, until 1865, when they were about to lose,” countered another girl—she was Black and wore horn-rimmed glasses. “But Asian people weren’t legally categorized as a race back then. So that made it trickier.”

“That’s exactly right,” Asher confirmed. “Have any of you heard of Chang and Eng Bunker?”

The students looked back blankly, but Bea smiled; finally, she knew an answer.

Asher didn’t miss her look—he never missed anything.

“Bea?” he asked, a smile twitching on his lips.

“They were conjoined twins from Thailand who came to America to tour in freak shows,” she responded, remembering watercolor and charcoal portraits of the pair she’d studied in one of her own college classes a decade prior. “They’re the reason we use the phrase ‘Siamese twins.’”

Asher beamed with pride. “Precisely. After they finished touring, Chang and Eng settled in North Carolina, where they married local sisters, fathered twenty-one children, and? What else do you think they did, being rich men in North Carolina in the 1850s?”

The blond girl shook her head. “They bought slaves.”

“Yes.” Asher nodded. “In the Civil War, two of Chang and Eng’s sons, Christopher and Stephen, fought to protect their fathers’ rights to retain slave ownership. They were two of five Asian soldiers we know of who fought for the Confederacy.”

Bea was awed. Ever since she’d met him, she’d thought of Asher’s manner as tense and halting, but maybe that was just his discomfort in being so far out of his element. Seeing him here, so relaxed and charismatic, she felt an even stronger pull toward him—and that much more nervous for how the rest of their day would play out.

After the class wrapped up, they took a walk through the bucolic Middlebury campus, colonial buildings nestled among dense lawns and evergreen trees.

“You seem really at home here,” she told him.

“It’s been the perfect place for me,” he said, taking her hand. “When I finished my PhD, I was on my own with two small kids, and I didn’t have time to take on a tenure-track position. The lecture job here was a perfect compromise. I get to do what I love, but still have time to be a dad.”

“That’s wonderful.” Bea squeezed his hand. “Do you think you’re here for the long haul?”

Asher stopped walking—Bea turned to look at him.

“No, actually.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t sure when to tell you this,” he said, “but I guess now’s as good a time as any. Now that my kids are older, I’ve been thinking it’s time to go for tenure. There aren’t any open positions here, so we’ll be moving in the fall.”

“Do you know where?”

“I have offers in hand from Michigan and Columbia.” He paused. “And USC.”

“As in …?”

“L.A.”

“Oh,” Bea breathed.

“Obviously, I have a lot of factors to consider. What’s good for my career, for the kids—and I know my parents would be really happy to have me in New York; they’re still in Westchester.”

“Of course,” Bea agreed. “That all makes sense.”

He took her hands. “But I’m thinking about it. Okay?”

Bea nodded. “Okay.”

During the afternoon break from filming, as she changed into form-fitting jeans and a burgundy Marc Jacobs cashmere sweater with a V-neck just low enough to reveal the barest hint of cleavage (“Very hot mom,” Alison observed), Bea tried to convince herself that tonight’s dinner was just another in a long series of dates on this show. But standing on Asher’s stoop with wrapped gifts in tow and cameras at her back, Bea felt the weight of this night bearing down on her—not only what could happen if it didn’t go well, but what it might mean if it did.

She’d barely touched the doorbell before she heard a scream of “I’LL GET IT I’LL GET IT” and a stampede of feet from inside the house—the door swung open and there was Linus wearing big glasses, a Spider-Man sweatshirt, dark leggings, and an absolutely lavish tutu.

“Are you Bea?” he asked, not standing aside to let her in.

“Yes.” She matched his solemn tone. “Are you Linus?”

He nodded.

“I really like your tutu,” Bea said, and he brightened immediately.

“It’s blue, for boys! Come in, we’re having CHICKEN,” he screamed, and ran inside, leaving the door wide open in his wake.

“Hi, hi, I’m so sorry.” Asher rushed to the door, wearing an apron and oven mitts. “I was just getting the chicken out of the oven. Can I take your coat?”

“With those things on your hands?” Bea laughed. “I’m good—just point me to the closet.”

Bea had pictured Asher’s abode as a neatly organized modernist palace—clean lines, little clutter—but of course, that wasn’t a realistic notion of any home with children. In reality, the house was bright and chockablock, stuffed with books and knickknacks and sporting equipment, not to mention rogue dress-up costumes and dance outfits. Leon Bridges played on a vintage turntable, and Linus twirled around the living room while Asher finished making dinner in the open galley kitchen.

“Can I get you some wine?” he offered.

“Please,” Bea responded, just as Linus called to her, “Bea, come dance with me!”

Asher threw an apologetic look to Bea. “Buddy, Bea just got here, what if we let her sit down for a minute?”

“I love dancing.” Bea made her way past a cameraman to join Linus, but a loud throat-clearing stopped her.

“
Ahem.
”

Bea turned to see a twelve-year-old standing on the stairs, and she was indeed Asher in miniature: same rigid posture, same black glasses, same vaguely contemptuous expression. If it hadn’t been for her glossy chin-length hair and fringe of dark, thick bangs, Bea could easily have mistaken Gwen for a younger version of her father.

“How soon is dinner?” Gwen asked curtly, looking only at Asher, and deliberately avoiding any eye contact with Bea.

“I’m just finishing up,” Asher said. “Do you want to come down here and join us?”

“No thanks, I have homework.” Gwen turned and retreated up the stairs. “Tell me when it’s ready.”

“Will do,” Asher called after her, but her bedroom door was already shut.

“So, that was Gwen.” Asher smiled as he made his way over to Bea, glass of wine in hand—she gladly took a drink.

“I think she liked me,” Bea joked nervously, hoping this night wasn’t ruined before it had even begun.

Asher kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry. She’ll come around.”

Bea leaned against him and tried to relax. If Asher wasn’t freaking out, she certainly didn’t need to. But a few minutes later, when the table was set and ready to go, Gwen still hadn’t come downstairs. Asher shouted for her for the third time, his annoyance starting to show.

“Gwen, come
on
. We’re eating!”