I’ve never met her—never even seen her in person until today. I’ve seen pictures of her, of course. Lots of pictures. More than I should have. Stalking her Instagram profile was one of my favorite pastimes for months after the news about her and Aaron came out. Like picking at a hangnail, I pulled at it over and over again. I pored over posts trying to figure out what she had that I didn’t.
The worst part was that we were sosimilar. We were both Southern. She was from Alabama, and I was from Georgia. I’d gone to USC, and she’d gone to UC San Diego. We both lived in LA right after college. We both started our own businesses. She has her jewelry line, and I have my athleisure line, NikkiB. It was almost uncanny. So why had Aaron chosen her and not me?
Though, in the end, I suppose he didn’t choose either of us. A few months after the live special debacle, I saw paparazzi pics of Aaron on Instagram, at dinner with an Olympic gymnast.
Not that this made me feel any better whatsoever. After all, Aaron basically trampolined out of the scandal and into the arms of one gorgeous girl after another, while my love life suffered a near-fatal vaulting accident. No one wanted to date the girl who was left at the altar onLovedBy—or if they did, it was just because they were chasing their own fifteen minutes of fame. My personal brand took a massive hit too. The story was broadcast everywhere; I became the punchline of jokes and the headline of cruel tabloids. It was surreal, believing that the whole world was laughing at me, shaking their heads at my gullibility,blamingthe result on me: saying I’d chosen wrong or deserved what I got. It took me over a year to find an athleticwear company willing to partner with me to develop my athleisure line, to take me seriously as a businesswoman and not see me as just a reality TV hack.
But what was far more difficult to deal with than what everyoneelsethought of me was the complete and utter loss of trust inmyself. Maybe Sybil’s right: I’ve been clinging to my list of reasons, making sure each guy I date fits the requirements because I don’t trust myself to follow my heart anymore.
Thanks to Aaron.
And thanks, in no small part, to his accomplice.
IROLL OVER ONthe bed and find my phone, immediately firing off a text to the group chat:Code Red. Cooper’s new fiancée is Cara Lancolm.
I let out a long exhale and turn my head toward the other twin bed, Mom’s words from this morning coming back to me:She’ll be staying in the other twin bed in your room. I’m hit with a fresh wave of horror. She’s staying here. In my room.
“Nooooo.” I allow myself an unladylike groan. That is not happening. If she’s going to sleep in here, I’m going to have to find somewhere else to stay. Possibly Brazil?
My phone vibrates at my thigh as all three of my best friends call nearly simultaneously. I patch everyone into a video call.
“Did I read that text right?” Emma asks. “Cooper is dating—”
“Marrying!” I interject, my voice bordering on hysterical.
“—the girl Aaron wascheatingon you with?” I can see her cheeks turning pink with anger on my behalf. Right after we’d broken up, Emma came across Aaron at a random taco joint and threw a burrito at him. One of the patrons caught the whole thing on video, and it went viral. I still can’t post anything on socials that even vaguely references Mexican food without getting at least half a dozen comments about #burritogate.
“Yikes, I’m sorry, Nikki,” Sybil says. “That’s seriously messed up.”
Willow nods. “Yeah, wow—the fates are really messing with you.”
“The fates are sadists,” Emma chimes in.
“She’shere. In my house.” I groan. “With her stupid strawberry shortcake jewelry designs.”
“Actually,” Emma says, “technically she has five distinct lines now: There’s the strawberries, and the bumblebees, and the foxes, and the lockets, plus the anc—” She cuts herself off.
“The anchors,” I supply.
“Sorry,” Emma squeaks.
I let out another groan and roll to my side, curling into the fetal position, facing the bed where Cara Lancolm, my ex-fiancé’s ex-girlfriend, is going to sleep for the next week.
“I want you to know that I agree with you completely and that her jewelry designs are hideous,” Sybil says. “But I could… in some alternate universe… understand how people would think they’re notcompletely disgusting. And they could… maybe… even veer into the realm of pretty?”
I don’t say anything.
The silence on the line stretches out.
“But obviously notthisuniverse,” Sybil adds. “That we live in. Together. Another one. Far away. Abadone.”
“Right,” Emma agrees. “Would you be open to us continuing to hate her but liking her jewelry?”
“No!”
“Fair enough,” Emma says, closing the matter and pressing forward with the practical questions. “How did they even meet?”
“I have no idea! She probably sought him out on purpose, like the self-serving, social-climbing little life-ruiner that she is,” I spit out, instantly shocked at my own words. I sound more like a Real Housewife than the Nikki B. the world saw on their TV screens.
