The next morning, I do a quick run through my room to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Dropping down to one knee, I check under the bed, but I don’t find a stray shoe or eyeliner. Instead, all I see is a large cardboard box. I reach forward and drag it out. Scrawled across the top in Erica’s quick handwriting it says, Simon’s for C. A soft gasp escapes me.

Last summer, when I tried sorting through some of Dad’s things, I asked Erica if she could just save some of them for me. I’d already taken one of his threadbare flannels, his favorite slippers, and a few of his Clive Cussler novels just after he died, so I felt okay leaving it to her to decide what was worth keeping. Especially when the alternative was me facing all the pain I’d been hiding from for years.

I let my fingers dance along his name for a moment. A part of me feels sick to know that I slept here all week with his remaining belongings just hovering beneath me, like a ghost. I wasn’t ready last summer, and I’m definitely not ready now. I slide the box back where I found it and take my luggage across the yard and into the main house.

Inside, Erica is rushing around with a woman slightly older than her in a floral Oxford shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, and thick-soled walking shoes. “And this is where I keep their favorite cups. They’ll use the other cups, but these are their favorites. Gus hates celery. Mary will tell you she can swim without her puddle jumper, but she’s lying. In fact, it’s best to assume Mary is lying more often than not. She’s not malicious. Just creative. And Jack is a bigger softy than he lets on and—”

The sound of my two large suitcases rolling over the tile interrupts Erica’s rapid-fire info dump on this poor woman.

“Oh, Cindy!” she says. “You’re ready! Let’s get Bruce to take you to the Marriott to meet the rest of the girls.”

“Maybe I should take a Lyft or something? Less conspicuous?”

Her eyes light up. “Yes!” She turns to the woman beside her, who is surprisingly unfrazzled. “This is Jana. She’ll be taking over with the triplets for the summer.”

Jana smiles. “Nice to meet you.”

“Jana was the behind-the-scenes nanny for that Nicole + Joel + More show. You know, the one with the young couple who were having fertility trouble and then ended up with quintuplets.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Didn’t he cheat on her with…”

Jana smirks. “With their new nanny. After I moved back to Los Angeles.”

I nod. “Well, I guess triplets will be a breeze for you.”

“That’s what I was trying to explain to Ms. Tremaine,” she says gently but firmly.

Erica sighs. “Sorry, mom anxiety is at an all-time high today.”

I nod and stand there for a moment. I hate saying goodbye, especially to Erica. Do we hug? Say I love you? The two of us weave awkwardly back and forth for a moment before opting for a side hug. Nothing says You’re my only living almost parent like a goodbye side hug.

I leave my phone in the drawer in the kitchen, but before I power it down, I shoot off one text to Sierra. I’m disappearing for a little while, but if you tune in to Channel Eight next Tuesday night, you’ll see why. I love you.

When I arrive at the hotel, I find that the show has taken over the unopened hotel bar.

There’s a small check-in table with some junior assistant producers, including Mallory from yesterday with the braids and the band sticker clipboard. I line up, get a name tag, and am instructed to leave my luggage and go mingle with other cast members.

“Cin!”

My heart swells at the sound of Drew’s voice.

Her head bounces above the crowd of women—all of them tall and thin in very chic, low-maintenance looks.

My hips and I part through the crowd until I see Anna and Drew. “Thank God,” I whisper.

“It’s so good to see you!” Anna says loudly, sounding more like an acquaintance than a sister.

A woman who could potentially be a long-lost Kardashian with smooth straight black hair stretching nearly to her waist crosses her arms over her busty chest. Pointy nude nails make her fingers look endless. “And how do you three know one another?”

Anna’s expression goes blank, but Drew swoops in to the rescue. “We went to high school with Cindy. She was a year behind us, right, Cin?”

I nod. The best lie is always the truth. “Yep, high school.”

“Isn’t that cute?” the woman says.

Anna beams. “Addison, this is Cindy. Cindy, this is Addison.” And then like she’s the mayor of HottieMcLegville, Anna introduces me to the rest of the girls in their little circle. Zoe, Claudia, Jen S., Jen B., Jen K., Gen with a G, Jenny, Olivia, Trina…The names keep coming. There are a few lawyers, one doctor, and a teacher, but most simply say they’re in social media consultation, which seems to be code for Instagram model.

“Okay, ladies! Please take a seat,” Beck calls through cupped hands from where she sits on top of the bar. “Orientation time, people!”

We crowd around little round tables, and I find myself safely tucked between Anna and Drew. I wave at Beck, but her gaze coasts right over me, and I’m guessing it’s because she’s trying not to play favorites. Then again, that assumes I’m her favorite. I shake the thought from my head. She’s probably that friendly with all the contestants so they warm up faster. Get it together, Cindy. This isn’t real life. This is reality television.

I felt good this morning. I put on a pair of pointy coral patent leather loafers I made for my final during my study abroad in Italy and a crisp white T-shirt tucked into my favorite cuffed mom jeans. But every single woman here is shiny and glossy and polished in a way I’ve never been. I am definitely out of my depth here.

“All right, class, listen up,” Beck says. “Most of you know me, but for those who don’t, I’m Beck. Back at that table are Zeke, Mallory, and Thomas. They are your assistant producers. And this is Wes.” She motions to the tall guy with light brown skin beside her with his hair shaved close on the sides, leaving a pile of curls atop his head. “Think of Wes and me as co-captains. We are your junior executive producers. We are your people. If something happens, you talk to us. If something that is supposed to happen doesn’t happen, you talk to us. Think of us as your mothers, your sisters, your therapists, your fairy godmothers, but also your dad who sometimes has to lay down the law.”