I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (11 page)

Overall, I was in a great place. I was happy to be back in North Carolina. The transition was pretty seamless, confirming I had made the right decision. My twenty-four-year-old self had a wonderful group of friends, was going to church, and was overall enjoying life. Five-year-old Ricki was having the time of her life in kindergarten and being close once again to her grandparents.

Granted, I was lonely. At times I’d feel the ache of not having a companion, a special someone to do life with my little girl and me. I tried not to think about it that much, but whenever I’d hear of someone I knew getting engaged or married, a dash of disappointment would sprinkle right on top of my heartfelt congratulations.

Apparently, I was more dissatisfied with my single status than I thought. Nikki, who knew me inside and out, was brutally honest with me that day. “Emily, I love you. But I’m tired of hearing you complain about being single,” she admitted, though still being her sweet Southern self. “Look, I had to do something.” I didn’t get how throwing me to the wolves on national TV would be considered an appropriate “something.”

My reservation aside, the whole thing was pretty funny. While the idea of being considered as a contestant on
The
Bachelor
was ridiculous, what I thought was more ridiculous was actually getting picked out of thousands of girls. There was no way I’d get chosen. Nikki went on her way, and as I spent the next few days continuing to do typical, everyday mom stuff, like driving Ricki to and from school, working, doing laundry, and cleaning, I forgot all about her announcement.

One day the phone rang. The man on the other line said he was a casting director for
The Bachelor
. Not taking his introduction seriously, I snickered and said, “I’m not interested, sir,” before he continued.

I repeated my thanks but no thanks, but before I could hang up, the man said, “Just give me one more minute, Emily. Your friend Nikki, she wrote and told us all about you. Just give me a few more seconds so I can read to you what she had to say.” Once he mentioned Nikki, I finally realized this wasn’t a prank call. And I ended up staying on the line, but only because I was curious about what Nikki had written in her letter.

As the casting director read a beautifully written letter, in it some of the nicest words that anyone had ever said about me, I started crying. Nikki’s kind thoughts just about blew me away. My emotions got the best of me and the few tears turned into an all-out I-can’t-get-a-word-out crying. I could just imagine this man beaming from ear to ear, thinking,
Good grief, this woman’s in tears already? She’s a shoo-in!
Though I appreciated Nikki’s complimentary thoughts and was shocked and very flattered that I was even being considered to be on
The Bachelor
, I still didn’t want to be on the show. And I told that to the casting director.

But the guy kept calling—and e-mailing. And calling—and e-mailing. He finally convinced me to fly out to Los Angeles
for a weekend just to learn more about the opportunity and to get a feel for the process. No strings. Nothing to lose. I was intrigued and agreed, making arrangements for my mom, who wasn’t jumping for joy at my decision, to fly into town so she could spend a few days with Ricki while I was gone.

When I arrived at LAX less than two weeks after that first phone call, I was picked up by a town car and shuttled to a nondescript hotel. The whole scene was very hush-hush. No one had given me an itinerary or a plan. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. I was assigned a handler from the show whose job was to shuffle me back and forth to different conference rooms around the hotel that weekend. Outside of navigating my way through a maze of hallways escorted by a handler, I had to remain alone in my room. I couldn’t even walk down to the lobby to get a Diet Coke or a bag of chips.

That afternoon, I had my first interview. Keep in mind I still wasn’t sold on the idea. My only intention up to this point was to gather information. That’s it. What I didn’t know, however, was that the producers had their own agenda. Rather than simply arm me with the lowdown of the show, they wanted to check me out to see if my personality meshed well and to ensure I wasn’t a total whack job (the serial-killer kind, not the good kind of nut that makes for entertaining TV).

Before my first interview, I was given a packet of papers to sign and a two-inch-thick detailed personality questionnaire to fill out. Finally, I walked into an empty and dimly lit, almost-pitch-black room. A producer began interrogating me with a bunch of questions about my personal life while a cameraman filmed the process.

“Has anyone taken any pictures of you?”

“Oh sure,” I said, before I realized he was talking about the provocative, birthday-suit kind, not the here-are-Ricki-and-me-at-Chuck-E-Cheese kind.

More questions followed. What did I like about the show? How would I describe my personality? The questions kept coming, random ones. No topic was off-limits. It was exhausting. When the interview was over, I was escorted out. Thinking I was going to be taken down another hallway and ultimately back to my room, I started dreaming about the lovely nap I planned to take to give my brain a rest.

No such luck.

I was shown into another room, brighter with windows. A big-screen TV monitor was positioned at the front where the interview yours truly had just finished a minute ago was being played. About twenty people, who I later learned were producers, sat in chairs organized in a semicircle watching me answer some question or other. I was mortified. To say the least, it’s uncomfortable to watch yourself on screen while all eyes are on you. I was confused and turned to the handler, hoping she could give me at least a clue of what was going on. But she just directed me to an empty chair right in the middle of the circle and in front of the TV screen. One of the producers paused the interview from a remote and the interrogation was under way.

“So, Emily, who’s your favorite guy from this season of
The Bachelorette
?” someone called out. Season 6 with Ali Fedotowsky was currently airing, and though I had watched a few episodes, no guy stood out. Certainly no one I would leave home for two months for. No offense, but none of them was my type. I thought I needed someone older, refined, sophisticated. Heck, what did I know?

“None, to be honest,” I replied.

“What about any other season?” another producer asked, then added, “We just want to get a feel for who your type is, Emily.”

I thought for a moment and said, “Brad Womack.” I know. I’d just offered the name of, at the time, the most hated Bachelor of the entire show. A bit loony, don’t you think?

I noticed two producers immediately look at each other, both making a funny face. I imagined they thought he was an odd pick. After all, nobody liked Brad. And perhaps for good reason.

“Tell us what you like about Brad,” someone else asked.

“He’s manly, Southern, rugged,” I answered. “And I feel bad for him because he got such a terrible backlash for his decision.” It sounds odd now, but I actually liked the fact that Brad didn’t pick anyone. And I did think he was a nice guy who didn’t get a fair shake. Never in a million years did I imagine he’d actually be on the show. The thought never even crossed my mind.

Then, more questions.

“Why are you still single?”

“What do you like in a guy?”

“What don’t you like in a guy?”

When the questions stopped coming, I had a final interview with a private investigator and was given a thorough background check. Then, the end of the two-day adventure. A producer shook my hand and said, “Thank you, Emily. That’s it for now. We’ll be in touch.”

On the plane heading back to Charlotte, I eased into my seat, thinking about what had just transpired. It was an unusual two days—that was for sure. I didn’t know what the next step was. More waiting, I supposed. I didn’t have this overwhelming
sense of “Oh my goodness! I definitely want to be on the show,” but I also wasn’t totally opposed to the idea, as I had been at first. I also wondered how Ricki would fit into the picture, my biggest concern, and what my parents would think if by some strange collision of fate and chance I actually ended up on
The Bachelor
. Thankfully, before I had the chance to worry away the next few hours, I dozed off.

A few days later I received an e-mail from the show. “Congratulations, Emily. You’ve been chosen to be on season 15 of
The Bachelor
.” Wow! Talk about a surreal moment! But I hadn’t yet made a decision. I let the e-mail sit for days, unanswered. Then came the barrage of phone calls from producers. My mind spun in nauseating circles. This was all happening too fast for my comfort. By the time I got the guts to call someone back, I repeated my previous response of thanks but no thanks. I wasn’t comfortable enough to say yes, and besides, no one, other than Nikki, seemed to think it was a good idea.

When Mom and I had a heart-to-heart about the opportunity, she wasn’t as excited about the opportunity as I would have liked. She had recently watched an episode of
The Bachelor Pad
, and under no circumstances would she support her daughter partying, carrying on, and disrespecting herself on national TV. “Please, Emily. Don’t do it,” Mom begged. “They’re going to eat you alive.” She was being protective, a natural instinct for any mother. Who “they” were, I didn’t know. The other girls? The media? The American public? All the above?

When a producer called one night trying to convince me to do the show, I purged all my fears on him. “How could I leave Ricki? What if I get portrayed terribly? And is the whole show even real? It doesn’t have a positive track record!”

“I’ll tell you what, Emily,” the producer said. “Just say yes and come meet the guy.”

I replied, “But say I think the guy is a total jerk or just not for me. Then you’ll probably work your editing magic and make me out to be some lunatic.”

He laughed. “I promise you, Emily, we won’t. But I also promise you, you’re gonna like the guy.” Something in his voice seemed reassuring.

And so, a week before filming, the end of October 2010, I finally agreed to do the show. At the tail end of the nonstop worrying, pondering, and questioning lay two big words:
Why not?
Maybe, just maybe—and I’m telling you at the time I was convinced of this—God planned for me to meet my husband this way. True, it was unconventional. And a little strange. But my life had been pretty unusual up to this point, so what was the difference? Though Mom was disappointed, she was quick to get on board and agreed to watch Ricki for me. I didn’t know exactly how long I’d be gone, but Mom graciously blocked out her schedule for the full two months, just in case.

My yes required signing my life away, so it seemed, in a contract thicker than my real-estate textbooks. I was sworn to secrecy starting the moment my signature was on the page until a certain time well after the show would air. I was not to have contact with the outside world during filming, which meant no phone calls to anyone—not family, friends, or media—and no access to the Internet or e-mail. I couldn’t share details about the show or the filming process with anyone. I was basically enclosed in a bubble for the next few months. ABC was very accommodating, however, considering my single-mom status and my earlier hesitance to do the show. The network made
allowances for me to call and check in with Ricki on a daily basis. I wouldn’t have done the show without that exception, so thank you again, ABC!

The contract was accompanied by a vague packing list. The list was so ambiguous I needed help—and fast.

I enlisted the keen eyes of my fashionista buddies and turned my guest bedroom into a packing room. While Ricki slept, Nikki and others leaned over a bed covered in what seemed like thousands of articles of clothing—from bathing suits to T-shirts to cocktail dresses. My gal pals helped me create a two-month wardrobe, matching weather-appropriate tops and bottoms and organizing them into daywear and nightwear, taking pictures of every outfit so I could remember what pieces went with what. There was no way I was going to get through filming and freak out because I didn’t have a thing to wear. My friends were awesome!

There was only one teeny hitch. The dress we had painstakingly chosen for the first rose ceremony needed alterations. We spent a lot of time and thought making the decision because if I got sent home that first night—which I prayed I wouldn’t; nobody wants to be that girl—I wanted to at least look good while getting rejected. I dropped the dress off at a local tailor, feeling confident that a few days was plenty of time to get it fixed before I flew out to Los Angeles.

Though I was heartbroken at leaving Ricki for so long, I knew she was in good hands. She loved her Mimi (what she called her grandmother) and was thrilled to get to spend so much time with her. Because
The Bachelor
is a very complicated concept for a five-year-old to understand, I told Ricki that I was working, hosting a special show, but that I’d call her
every single day to tell her I loved her. I left Ricki presents for each day I’d be gone, as many days as the best-case scenario of making it to the final rose ceremony. In secret places, I hid a bunch of Barbies, coloring books, and other toys attached with notes telling her how much I missed and loved her.

While Ricki got gifts, my mom wasn’t so lucky. She got the boring stuff, like a ten-page instruction list of how to care for her granddaughter, complete with a list of Ricki’s favorite foods, a detailed hour-by-hour schedule, and every emergency contact number, from our pediatrician to the local police department. Mom never looked at the meticulously prepared booklet. She shoved it right back in my face, rolling her eyes. “Emily, this is insulting. I’ve raised two kids. I know what I’m doing.”

Point taken. It’s not that I underestimated my mother. I was just nervous leaving my daughter for too long.

The day before I left for Los Angeles, I picked up the dress I had dropped off earlier for some alterations. When I tried it on, I was horrified to find out nothing had been done. It had the same unflattering potato-sack shape. “You have to fix it!” I shrieked at the tailor, fully aware that my flight was in less than twenty hours. After profuse apologies, the woman promised it’d be ready first thing the next day. I’d have to pick it up on my way to the airport.