The Next Big Thing (25 page)

Chapter Twenty

“Your best bet is to play it safe,” Janelle said. “Wait until Nick approaches you.”

“Yeah, let him make the first move,” Regan chimed in.

“Because if you start chasing him around, pleading with him to talk to you, it’s going to make you look desperate,” Janelle continued, “which you definitely are not!”

“Definitely.
” Regan nodded emphatically.

I was beginning to wonder if Regan had a thought of her own. All she ever did was second other people’s opinions.

And anyway, as much as I appreciated their confidence, I didn’t buy it. How could they say I wasn’t desperate when I so obviously personified the term? It had been eight days since Nick arrived in the house and, thus far, he’d barely spoken three sentences to me. Three sentences in
eight
days. Okay, so in all fairness, more than half of those days don’t count. As soon as the live show had ended Nick was whisked away, taken out of the mansion by the producers to do who-knows-what. Then when he came back (three days ago) he was given some “some private off-camera time” to adjust to being on the show. This “private off-camera time” had lasted for roughly twenty-four hours. Which means for the past two days, Nick had been back in the Fat2Fab mansion. And ever since then he’d been avoiding me like the plague.

I was dying to find out what was going through his head.
And why he’d kissed me during the live show.
But as soon as Nick came back to the mansion, he moved into the downstairs bedroom suite (which had been previously closed off) with Matt. I’d tried numerous times to approach him and start a conversation, but he was doing his damn best to avoid me. He kept a completely different schedule from the rest of us—eating, sleeping, and exercising (as it turned out, he was an avid runner prone to spending ninety-minute stretches on the treadmill) when he pleased.

I
could
have cornered him in Greg’s Gym, but it was too embarrassing. Even though I was getting the hang of not feeling self-conscious while I worked out, I didn’t want to have my big showdown with Nick surrounded by treadmills and elliptical runners. My only link to him was via Matt, Janelle’s ex-husband. He kept me informed by passing along little tidbits of information through Janelle. According to Matt, Nick was “having an especially hard time adjusting” to living in a reality TV fishbowl. It wasn’t anything personal against me, and once he got acclimated, he wanted us to sit down and “have a long talk about our feelings.”

It was slightly encouraging, but given the way the info had been passed down—from Nick to Matt to Janelle to me—there was no telling how accurate any of it was. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine Nick telling Matt he wanted to discuss his feelings. Did men even talk to each other that way? I suspected Janelle had thrown that part in to make me feel better.

“But what if Nick keeps ignoring me?” I asked Janelle. “We’ve got five weeks left in this nightmare. I can’t possibly avoid him for over a month!”

“Oh, there’s no way Nick will be here for the duration,” Janelle said. “He doesn’t fit with the dynamic of the show.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Regan shuddered, jutting out her lower lip. “Briana’s talking like she’s here to
stay.
”

For once I couldn’t blame Regan for pouting. She was under a tremendous amount of stress. Her life had been thrown into huge turmoil by the arrival of the unexpected guests. Living in the cramped downstairs bedroom with Briana was turning into a nightmare. Making matters worse, they were sharing a
small day bed.

“Zaidee wants them crammed in like sardines. That way Regan and Briana are forced to hash out their differences,” Jagger had disclosed to me privately, looking decidedly uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if he was uneasy with their sleeping situation, or if he felt strange for confiding in me. I wondered how the producers felt about Jagger sharing these secrets with me.

I didn’t tell Jagger, but I secretly wished Zaidee had forced me to move into a room (and a bed) with Nick. At least then he’d have no choice but to acknowledge me. Given a few minutes of time to plead my case, maybe I could make him realize I was the same girl he’d fallen in love with—just seventy pounds heavier. And I was working on that, chipping away at my weight problem. Didn’t that count for
something
?

As it was, Nick and Matt’s bedroom door remained closed and—incredibly—they had a lock. Whenever Nick was out and about, he went around wearing a CD Walkman, humming. It seemed grossly unfair that Nick, Matt, and Briana were allowed extra amenities (like access to
a CD players and Kindles so they could listen to music and read) while the rest of us suffered with zero entertainment.

“Don’t stress about it,” Janelle said. “Just focus on your game plan for losing weight and winning challenges, that’s the only way—”

“Kat, please come outside by the pool. Your interview session with Jagger will begin in five minutes,” a voice called over the house intercom.

“Sorry,
guys,” I said, standing up. “Looks like it’s that time again.”

“How come they never let us know anything beforehand?” Regan complained. “Yesterday I was about to hop in the shower when Jagger ordered me to go to the Confession Chamber. I was sweaty and gross and looked like a beached whale.”

“They’re trying to keep us on our toes, keep things spontaneous. If we knew what was going to happen in advance we’d be too prepared. They want us to slip and say something stupid.” Janelle’s reality TV savvy never ceased to amaze me. I often wondered how she’d gotten cast in the first place, considering she always seemed to be one step ahead of the producers. Maybe she was a plant who was actually working for the production team. Hmm? I’d have to give that some thought.

“Well, whatever. I’ve got too much on my mind right now to worry about prepping for some dumb interview.” Janelle eyed me sympathetically. “Want me to pump Matt for more information?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’m going to talk to Nick myself.”

“Really?” Regan asked incredulously. “How are you going to get him to talk to you?”

“Who knows? I’ll bludgeon him over the head if I have to,” I joked. “Wish me luck, gals.”

I headed downstairs and into the backyard. I had come to a decision. No matter what it took I was going to confront Nick. I was sick and tired of dancing around things. Good or bad, I needed to know where we stood. If I had any chance with him at all.

“So tell me about this boyfriend of yours,” Jagger said, settling into the chair across from me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and stared down at my hands.

“You want to hear about my
boyfriend,
do you?” I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

My boyfriend.
It sounded strange, foreign. Was that what Nick was? Certainly not now, but had he ever been?

“Yeah, I’m very interested to hear more about your relationship.” He smiled at me. “Any guy worthy of your attention has gotta be pretty special.”

I knew it was a line. A cheesy line, probably prewritten for him by Zaidee or one of her cronies. After all, it was Jagger’s
job
to pry stuff out of us; and flattery, as they say, will get you everywhere.

But
I clung to it anyway. I was feeling low as pond scum, and his flirtation was oddly comforting. “There’s really nothing to tell,” I said. “We were sort of seeing each other – or not seeing each other, if you want to get technical about it, considering we’d never met. He was a guy I started talking to online and I, probably very foolishly thought I was in love. I thought we were in love. And then we he came here and he kissed me,” I swallowed hard, to keep my emotions from getting out of control, “I thought there might be some hope, but now it’s kind of up in the air.”

“Uh-huh. What do you mean by ‘up in the air’?”

Wasn’t it obvious? Did I have to spell it out for him? “Well, it’s been over a week since Nick and I first met. We’ve barely spoken since then.”

Jagger nodded. “You guys have been pretty distant. What’s the story there?”

“What’s the story?” I repeated. “I’m fat. That’s the beginning, middle, and ending—the story of my life. Never mind that I’m smart, or loyal, or funny. At least I
hope
I’m all those things.”

Jagger fixed me with a small grin. “You are.”

“Well, thanks. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. I’m fat, and that’s all Nick cares about. Hell, that’s all anybody cares about. My whole life, that’s the only thing that’s mattered.” My self-doubt had reached a fever pitch, and I struggled to keep it in check.

Jagger looked alarmed. “You can’t honestly think that.”

“I don’t think it; I
know
it.”

“Kat, you’re overreacting.”

Overreacting? My mind flashed back to our volleyball game. I remembered the man and woman who’d chastised me on the boardwalk. Total strangers who had
hated
me. I was a whiner, they’d said. I was lazy. Stupid. Mean.

Before I could say anything, Jagger spoke again. “Honestly, Kat, do you really believe one so-called ‘bad’ quality cancels out all of the good ones you have?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Because it doesn’t. People aren’t
that
shallow. Well, maybe out here in L.A. you might find a
few
people who are that shallow.” He laughed good-naturedly. “But what do you care what shallow people think anyway?”

I sighed. If only it were that simple. “I wouldn’t care . . . but it’s just, I don’t know, I always measure myself up to other people and I come up short. Sometimes it’s like the world is this exclusive club and I’m not a member.”

“Come on, isn’t that paranoid?” Jagger frowned. “The first step is to stop being so negative. It’s self-destructive.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Truth be told, I wasn’t normally so self-indulgent. But I’d been publicly humiliated in front of all of America. I was entitled to wallow a little. “

If you feel this bad about yourself, you’re never going to be happy, no matter how much weight you lose.”

What was he, an armchair shrink?

“Once I’m thin enough, self-esteem will no longer be an issue.”

“But who classifies when someone is ‘thin’ enough?” Jagger countered. “When you can wear a bikini? When a doctor gives you the seal of approval? When Hugh Hefner calls and invites you to do a
Playboy
spread?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “It’s simple, really. I want to be thin enough so I don’t turn beet red when someone tells a fat joke. I want to be thin enough so that I never get embarrassed when shopping for clothes. Thin enough that no one ever calls me lazy, or dumb, or ugly, or worthless. I want to be thin enough so that no one would ever even
dream
of calling me fat.”

Jagger nodded. “It seems like you’re placing a lot of emphasis on what other people think and say.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Okay, then, what if I tell you you’re thin enough? Does that count?”

I blushed. “If you meant it, it might. But we both know that’s not true.” I patted my protruding belly, wishing I could push it down, flatten it out.

“Say I do mean it. Say I prefer women who aren’t skin and bones. Say I prefer women like you, Kat.”

“But you don’t,” I argued, my mind whirling at the prospect.

“I might.”

“There’s not a man alive who does. Guys want a Cameron Diaz, not a Camryn Manheim.”

Jagger laughed. “And you know what every guy on earth wants, huh?”

“Sorry, I’m being a pain in the ass. I’m in a foul mood. I’ll admit it.” I couldn’t help smiling in spite of myself.

Despite the fact that Jagger knew all the sordid details of my life—including my real weight—I was comfortable around him. And the feeling was obviously mutual. Jagger was
definitely
flirting with me big-time. It was an unexpected—and highly welcome—experience.

Then he burst the bubble.

“Full disclosure: I don’t actually prefer larger women.” I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. He’d lured me into believing him, and then slapped me in the face with reality. “Oh, right. See, I told you so,” I said, dejected. How much rejection did I have to endure in the name of this damn show?

“I don’t prefer any
type
of woman,” he said, still smiling. “Big, small, it doesn’t matter to me. I honestly don’t think about that kind of stuff. When you like somebody, they become more attractive to you—no matter how they started out looking. And if you don’t like them, they’re the ugliest person in the world.”

“Right.” I wasn’t falling for his cornball shtick twice.

“So, back to what we were talking about,” Jagger said. “Tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”

“Oh God, haven’t we already been through this?” I groaned. “Nick won’t talk to me. End of story.”

“Yes, but I’ve got an answer to offer you.”