I Said Yes: My Story of Heartbreak, Redemption, and True Love (12 page)

I woke up the next morning with a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. Nerves. Sadness. I already missed Ricki and I hadn’t even left yet.
What am I doing?
I wondered as I stared at my two giant suitcases and checked my flight status on my phone, the last time I’d be able to use it for a while.

On time.

This was one occasion I wouldn’t have minded seeing the word
Delayed
.

The car ride to the airport was a tear fest. After picking up the dress, Mom drove, and Ricki and I nestled as close to each other as we could in the back, our seat belts crushing us. I cried. Ricki cried. And when Mom noticed our tears when she glanced in the rearview mirror, her own started trickling down her cheeks. I knew Ricki would be okay, but the dismal thought of us being apart for so long started chipping away at the golden façade of this opportunity. I also knew I was going to miss my mother. Over the past few years, she had become my best friend.

Standing outside the terminal in the orbit of passenger arrivals, where some good-byes were brief and others lingered, I pulled my little girl closer into my chest, smelling her freshly washed hair. I think the good-bye was hardest on me. Ricki, just like her dad, was an adaptable kid. She handled change well, never coming unhinged when her routine got interrupted. I, however, was a blubbering mess of sobs and forced smiles, doing my best, obviously unsuccessfully, to put on a brave front, saying good-bye to my two favorite people in the world.

“Move it, ladies,” an annoyed-looking policeman barked in my direction, before sounding his whistle.

“I’ll call you when I land,” I promised Ricki, who grabbed my face in her chubby little-girl hands and beamed, “I love you, Mommy.” And off she pranced, holding on to her beloved Mimi’s hand as she climbed into the backseat. I stood on the sidewalk, waving at the two of them until the taillights of the car were unrecognizable specks.

Ready or not,
Bachelor
, here I come.

“We have to send for an SUV,” the driver said, annoyed, as his gaze shifted from me to my two trunks of luggage. That’s right, I said
trunks
. One was so big, it could have been used as a furniture piece.

I was only allowed to bring two suitcases. Although I’m a stickler for rules, there was no way I was going to fit a two-month wardrobe of hot-weather and cold-weather clothes, loungewear, swimwear, formal dresses, jewelry, accessories, heels, boots, flip-flops, and a bathroom of toiletries, which probably demanded its own suitcase, in two regular-sized airport bags. Let’s be realistic.

Since downsizing my wardrobe wasn’t an option, I had no choice but to upsize my luggage. Problem was, the trunks I used didn’t fit into the town car the show had sent to pick me up from the airport. And when the driver told me they’d have to send for another car, a bigger one, well, I was certainly not going to be
that
girl. I didn’t want to set off the high-maintenance panic alarm before I even arrived at the Bachelor mansion. Petrified at this thought, I told the driver, “Look, I’ll do whatever I need to do to make these things fit.” I meant it.

For the next fifteen minutes, we pushed and pulled and turned and shoved and repositioned and readjusted, and finally, with sweat pouring through my blouse, we drove off, me sitting in the front passenger seat uncomfortably lodged alongside a gigantic piece of luggage. Though our efforts were successful, the driver still looked sour. I sighed. I wasn’t getting off to a very good start. I wondered if he was going to go to the producers and complain about what a diva I was.
Desperate not to come off as a prima donna, I tried to butter the guy up with small talk.

“Boy, the traffic is pretty bad,” I remarked as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on a smog-filled highway.

“Well, this is L.A.,” he replied curtly, immediately turning up the radio and drowning out my feeble attempts at chitchat.

I resigned myself to staring out the window on the way to the hotel. Without conversation, my mind raced.
Wait. What is happening? Is this for real? Oh my goodness. I’m a contestant on
The Bachelor
. What in the world?

My mind flitted from one thought to the next.
What if the girls don’t like me? What if I don’t like the guy? What if I get sent home the first night? What if I trip and face plant on camera? What if my words get twisted and I’m portrayed as the awful spoiled-brat girl? What if—oh dear Lord—what if I actually meet the man I’m going to marry?

As we pulled into a Radisson hotel, a handler from the show hurried out and accompanied me to my room and spouted off a loose schedule. The next day and a half would consist of interviews, when I would be asked a hundred different versions of “How are you doing / feeling?” followed by a photo shoot for my ABC bio, and then—nobody told me this part—hours of downtime, waiting, alone in my hotel room. I wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone, let alone meet any of the other girls.

The day before the famous limousine ride to the Bachelor mansion, the show’s fabulous stylist, who is so intimidating merely because of how amazing he is, bounced into my room to check out the dress I planned to wear on that first night, the one I’d picked up on my way to the airport. As he held up my choice, slowly eyeing it up and down, side to side, I hoped he wouldn’t
toss it into a corner with contempt. Thankfully, the stylist gave the thumbs-up. I was relieved, but after he left, as I eyed the dress in the same manner he had, I noticed it looked small. Really small. Like could-practically-fit-my-daughter small.

The next morning, I was told to get ready, though I wouldn’t be arriving at the mansion until later that night. A makeup artist and hairstylist came by to doll me up, the only time I’d have these amazing men and women work their magic. When the room emptied and I started pulling on my dress, I heard a knock at the door. “Sound guy!” someone belted from the hall. “I’m here to mic you up.”

“One minute!” I yelled, frantically trying to pull up the dress that was, in fact, so tight I was terrified the seams were going to pop. Another knock sounded as I finally wrangled the beautiful black number up and over my back, zipping it with relief. I was happy I got it on, not so much that it was like a second layer of skin and I could barely breathe. When the soundman came in and I saw the mic pack in his hand, I groaned. Somehow, by the grace of God, that two-inch-thick transmitter had to shimmy its way down my back underneath the suffocating fabric. And somehow, by that same grace of God and a considerable amount of inhaling, sucking in, twisting, and turning, I zipped that dress back up, mic’d and ready to go. Granted, the dress was choking the living daylights out of my ribs and pushing up my lady parts to my chin, but by golly, I did it. I prayed all night that the zipper wouldn’t pop off and take someone’s eye out.

It was nine in the evening by the time I was taken to the hotel lobby to meet the five other girls with whom I’d be sharing the limo ride to meet the Bachelor. Lisa M., a sweet girl
from Kansas, was there, along with two other women who I’m afraid I don’t remember because they were sent home later that night. Keltie Colleen, a leggy former Rockette, and drop-dead gorgeous Michelle Money were also in the mix, chatting away like besties. I was struck by how confident they looked and acted, and in my insecurity I shyly retreated into my shell.

I don’t remember saying much more than a “Hi, how are you?” to the group before the producer assigned to us shuffled us to the waiting limo. I do remember asking Keltie a question and her looking at me befuddled, as if I had just spoken to her in Cantonese. She turned to Michelle and asked, “What did Emily just say?” Apparently, my Southern accent made my words unintelligible—as well as fodder for an awkward moment. Though later the three of us, as well as Lisa, would become close, I didn’t feel a connection with them on the limo ride. Then again, it was hard to feel much of anything while being so overwhelmed with anxiety.

All our belongings were packed in our suitcases and manned by a crew member. Whoever would be going home later that night would find her bags by the front door as she was leaving the house for good. Our bags would be packed every rose ceremony going forward, so whoever was sent home had no time to say good-bye to the other girls once the Bachelor said good-bye to her.

The ride to the house, more so the super painfully slow climb to the top of the driveway, where our male prize awaited our arrival, seemed to take forever. Sometimes we waited in the limo; other times we were told to get out, stand around, and wait for makeup artists to scurry around and touch up our hair and faces. Then we were herded back into the limo and
told to wait some more. I listened quietly while the girls tossed ideas around of who the Bachelor would be. None of us knew for sure.

When we finally stopped in front of the house, Michelle blurted, “It’s Brad Womack!”

I started shaking. I whipped around to face the window and see if it was true. By golly, there he was. Brad. Well, I’ll be darned. I grabbed the producer’s hand and said, “Oh my gosh, this is crazy!”

He smiled and said, “We told you you’d like him.” All the girls were anxious to meet the dreamboat, giggling and primping. I felt like I was going to throw up.

Keltie shimmied out of the limo first, showing off her limber dance skills with a high kick. Michelle was next, sauntering up to Brad and reeking of sex appeal. As the other girls got out one by one, I sat frozen, trying to scrounge up ideas to make for a memorable entrance.
Okay, I can’t dance, let alone kick. And I’m not sexy. I can’t sing or compose a haiku on the spot. What the heck am I going to say or do?
Earlier, a producer had asked me to think about what I’d like to do or say at my first rendezvous with the Bachelor.

I hated the thought of a contrived introduction. Whenever I had watched the show in the past, I would make fun of anyone for spouting off a cheesy one-liner that had obviously been planned out well in advance. I thought I’d rely on spontaneity, refusing to put on a show, giggle and feel his muscles, or say something corny. But while sitting and waiting for my cue to get out of the limo and start walking toward Brad, I could have kicked myself in the behind—if my dress wasn’t so tight—for not coming up with something witty. Or just something,
period.
Oh crap
, is what I thought as I opened the car door and tried as gracefully as I could to exit the limo.

When you watch the show at home and see the trail of girls making this famous trek to meet who they hope is the man of their dreams, you hear music, background music in sync with each careful, stilettoed step. But when you do it in real life, outside of masterful editing, all you hear is crickets. It’s awkward, people. Really awkward.

Brad was as tall and as dreamy as I had seen him on TV. I couldn’t stop smiling and I didn’t know what to say except, “I’m so excited to be here” and, “I’m so glad it’s you.” I repeated these things about five times during the course of our few-minute conversation. Then I scurried off like a nervous mouse.

I don’t know what was more nerve-wracking—meeting Brad for the first time or what happened immediately afterward, walking into a living room full of the competition, the twenty-nine other girls, showing off their perfectly coifed hair, fit bodies, and smoky eyes.

I didn’t know whether to sit or stand or drink or not drink the champagne in my hand. I set about looking for some producers I knew, familiar faces. Aside from being the movers and shakers of making the show a hit, they are also nice people, many I still keep in touch with, which is why, during this cocktail gathering, I wanted so desperately to hang out and talk to one of them. But I couldn’t find anyone I recognized.

Everywhere I turned, all the bachelorettes were talking about how Chantal slapped Brad. I kept quiet, keeping a low profile and listening to the conversations. I didn’t say much of anything to anyone and for that reason probably came off as either standoffish or creepy. (Later, some of the women would
tell me they couldn’t believe how shy I was that first night!) I was so on the fringe of the intense social dynamic, that when I overheard a producer ask a bunch of girls, me included, to talk about “the vampire,” my first thought was,
Who?
I hadn’t even noticed the beautiful blonde with fangs!

As introverted as I appeared, I was still stoked about getting to meet Brad. But so were twenty-nine other women. Women who returned from their vis-à-vis all saying different versions of the same thing: “Brad is so awesome! We had such a connection!” I sipped on champagne in the background, flashing back to my encounter with Brad. All I knew was that it wasn’t an epic failure.

Most of that first night was an exhausting blur. By the time Brad was done meeting and mingling with his harem, it was about two in the morning. My energy tank was waning. Outside of saying our initial hello, I hadn’t had any one-on-one time with Brad but was content to just wait around and see what happened. Sitting on the couch, listening to the noisy and nonstop chatter and giggles, I started nodding off when a producer grabbed me by the arm and told me to follow him to the back of the house. “Brad wants to see you,” he whispered.