The Final Rose

Chapter Three: Win Like a Girl

The group date card came later that evening after we'd finished dinner. Stephie—who seemed to have voluntarily taken on the responsibility of feeding everyone—and a woman named Monica shared kitchen duties to make a Mexican fiesta for the house. The twenty of us who remained were scattered around the mansion waiting for the day to be over. With the exception of the first date card, the day had been idle and unproductive. Most everyone, myself included, sat in the big, open living room. I sipped on water while everyone else drank margaritas. A few of the younger, more animated women in the house had forgone the triple sec and lime juice and were lining up tequila shots on the bar

As I sat listening to Stephie and Monica, an olive complexioned woman from Washington State, compare cooking notes, my mind wandered to Lee and her date. A limo had arrived about an hour after the arrival of the date card to whisk her away for an afternoon with Jacob. I wondered what they were doing at this moment while the rest of us hung out in pajamas and facial masks. Our second night in the house better resembled a sleepover party than a competition.

A collective squeal erupted when the doorbell rang. One of the tequila women ran for the front door and returned moments later with an envelope clutched in her hands. "It's the group date card, ladies!" she proclaimed.

The sound of the doorbell drew the other women who'd been elsewhere in the house back to the living room. Candace returned with the other women and silently sat down beside me on the couch.

"Read it, hurry!" one of the other tequila-drinking women urged.

"I'm too nervous!" the first woman exclaimed before shoving the envelope into another girl's hands like a game of Hot Potato.

Beside me, I heard Candace's quiet snort.

"What's so funny?" I asked quietly.

"Flight attendant," she mumbled. "She probably can't read."

I lightly slapped Candace's arm with the back of my hand. "That's not nice," I admonished.

"I'm not trying to date you, Pocahontas," she dismissed.

The second girl upon whom the envelope had been forced stood at the front of the room, with nineteen sets of eager eyeballs and half a dozen video cameras trained on her. With shaky hands, she opened the envelope. She looked unaccustomed to being the center of attention; in her spot I would have had equal difficulty and probably would have withered under the pressure.

She cleared her throat and read from the card: "Ladies, let's get back to our roots." She proceeded to read off a list of names. After hearing my own called, I kind of zoned out until a sharp sob erupted across the room.

On an adjacent couch, a pale woman with light brown hair began to cry. Her hands covered her face and her shoulders slumped forward. The women who flanked her on the couch tried to console her.

"What just happened?" I spoke quietly to Candace. "What'd I miss?"

"Her name wasn't on the date card," she told me. "It happens sometimes at this stage of the game. There's too many women and not enough room on the date. By my count, four girls won't be coming on the group date tomorrow."

I glanced unobtrusively at the woman who continued to quietly sob. She was pretty, but not particularly stunning. She looked like the kind of girl who would garner second-glances on her own, but in a room full of beauty queens, nothing stuck out. It reminded me of Candace's comment about herself when we'd first met.

"And that's reason to cry?" I asked.

"There's a good chance those four won't get a rose unless someone screws up on the group date. It's not necessarily a death sentence, it just means they won't have had time with Jacob outside of the cocktail reception before the next rose ceremony."