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“Thanks for your patience as I finished up a call…” I smile conspiratorially. “With your bachelor!”
They all clap and giggle, and I have to fight the urge to cover my ears. It’s good that they’re excited. It wouldn’t make for an interesting read if they were feeling super lackluster about the whole thing, but that doesn’t make me enjoy it any more. Frankly, the shrill sound of their joy kind of makes me want to ralph.
“Let me tell you…he is great,” I lie. I know absolutely nothing about him—don’t even know for sure who he is. “You’re all going to be so thrilled with the man who’s been chosen.”
They all squeal. I wince and look around to make sure I haven’t somehow stumbled into the middle of a pig farm, but all I find are relentlessly attractive, svelte women.
“Great,” I mutter to break up the noise. “I’m so glad you’re all excited. But in order to get started, we need to get some paperwork out of the way. First, you’ll find a document in front of you. It’s a nondisclosure agreement. Essentially, it means that you agree to keep the details of the contest to yourself. That means your dates, the bachelor, your involvement in the contest…anything pertaining to Bachelor Anonymous, you’re strictly—legally—forbidden to talk about.”
“But what about, like, Twitter?” one of them asks, her blond bob swinging side to side.
“No Twitter.”
Her eyebrows knit.
“Instagram?”
“No. No social media platforms, no texts, no phone calls, no letters…” I laugh to myself. Suddenly, I have a handle on every method of communication, and yet ten minutes ago, all I could come up with was carrier pigeon. “It’s all legally forbidden. You are not to discuss the details of this with anyone.”
Another woman with wavy auburn hair opens her mouth, and I cut her off. “Not your mom. Not your sister. No one.”
They all kind of frown, but I charge ahead. “It’s like being on a jury. You are sworn to secrecy over the details until the contest is completely over. And even then, you’ll have to be released from your nondisclosure agreement in order to share anything.”
“What’s the point if we can’t share anything?” the blonde asks again.
“To find love,” I offer. “To meet someone you can spend the rest of your life with.”
“But, like, how would that work? My mom is going to want to meet the guy I marry,” the blonde asserts.
I nod, though I kind of want to smash my head into the table. Really, though, it’s my fault. I should have seen this coming. When there’s this much hair spray in a room, the fumes are at least partially noxious. I should have told Dolly to put them in a room with a window.
“The nondisclosure will almost definitely end after the contest is over,” I begin to explain. “And then, you’ll be free to share your relationship wherever you and your partner like. But it’s an integral part of the contest now. It’s to protect both your and the bachelor’s privacy as you get to know each other.”
Four of five women put their pens to the paper and sign. One, though, she’s a holdout for some reason. To be honest, I can’t tell if she has a genuine problem with those terms or if she’s still trying to make sense of it all in her head.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that these women have done nothing to wrong me, no matter their striking likeness to Raleigh’s assistant, and smile.
“Is there something I need to explain more?”
She shakes her head but doesn’t offer up any explanation for her hesitance.
“Are you uncomfortable with the terms? You’re free to back out at any time if this makes you uncomfortable, and we’ll fill your slot with another contestant.”
That apparently strikes a chord. She picks up the pen and signs her name at the bottom of the paper.
“Great,” I approve with a smile, collecting the NDAs and filing them in my folder immediately. “Now we can move on to the fun stuff.”
More squeals fill the air, and I reach into the folder, pull out the next round of forms, and mentally brace myself to be stuck in this room of giggly squealers for the next hour and a half.
Lord, please give me strength.JakeMusic thumps through the ceiling of the kitchen like there’s almost no buffer of drywall and wood at all between one floor and the next, but I’m the one who built this house—I know better. The construction is sound.
That can only mean one thing—my daughter Chloe is trying to communicate with otherworldly lifeforms via her stereo system.
Just another normal Tuesday night.
I smile to myself as I jog down the hall and take the steps two at a time up the stairs to the second floor. I pass a guest room and bath and knock on the closed door on the right with four hard raps. There’s no point in wasting my time with a gentle tap. She’s raving in there—there’s no way she would hear me.
