her smile grows any bigger, it might break her damn face.
Yep. I’m so lucky. Not only do I get to run the whole freaking contest, I also get to discreetly attend the dates as a third wheel. FML.
“Well, you know, I’d be more than happy to let you take my place,” I respond without hesitation, but what I really want to say is, Seriously, Gloria, for the love of everything, put me out of my misery and sacrifice yourself to this stupid contest you created! “Pretty sure that’s the benefit of being the boss,” I add, in a sad, pathetic attempt to persuade her. “You get to call dibs on any assignment you want.”
“Don’t be silly.” She waves off my words with a casual hand. “You’re going to have so much fun with this.”
Oh yeah, Gloria. So much fun. A deathly, so-painful-it-feels-more-like-hell amount of fun.
“And what about his dates?” she asks. “Were you able to find five women that you think meet the criteria?”
Was I able to find five women? Yes.
Was it a horrible, mind-numbing process that took me days upon days of scouring through a weirdly peppy cesspool of hundreds and hundreds of female applicants? Also yes.
“Uh-huh. And actually, they should be here in the next fifteen minutes or so to sign NDAs and get abreast of how the contest will move forward.”
“Fantastic. Sounds like everything is running smoothly on your end, then.”
“Sure is.” Considering I’ve yet to officially talk to our Bachelor Anonymous, it’s safe to say things aren’t exactly running smoothly. But if there’s one thing you learn as a journalist early on, only tell your dictator—I mean editor in chief—what you need to tell them. And right now, all Gloria needs to know is that the contest is in progress.
“Well, if you don’t mind,” I add before she can ask me any more giddy fucking questions I don’t have answers to. “I’m going to head out and get ready for my meeting with the five women.” She gives a little nod of approval, and I waste zero time hauling ass out of her office.
Once I’m settled at my desk, I prepare myself for the first priority of the day—the nerve-racking phone call to Mr. Bachelor himself.
It takes several deep breaths and numerous more read-throughs of the bullet-pointed and numbered notes I took in preparation.
1. Name: Jake Brent. (Don’t forget to identify yourself as Holley Fields from the Tribune!)
2. Tell him the readers loved his personal ad submission and he has been selected as the Bachelor in the SoCal Tribune’s Bachelor Anonymous Contest.
3. Give some time for him to react positively; act supportive and excited.
4. Tell him it’s best if we get together in person to go over all the details and sign some paperwork; ask what time works best for him. Possible locations if he doesn’t suggest any: Grey Street Coffee, Ballard’s Restaurant.
5. Don’t forget to ask if he has any questions about the way the contest works; detailed rules and procedures listed on paper under this one.
Hello, neurotic, right?
Well, trust me, there’s a reason for my neuroses, and it revolves around my lifelong track record of turning into a flustered, bumbling mess on a dime.
When I’m confident I have all the important reminders laid out in front of me, I pick up my phone from its cradle and carefully dial the numbers from Jake’s application one by one.
Here goes nothing…
When the first ring sounds over the line, I take a deep breath and toss my reading glasses onto the top of the desk.
Of course, I panic then, because I’m not going to be able to read any of my notes without my damn glasses, and I scramble to get them back on my face as the line clicks over to answered.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hi.” I stumble over my words, briefly surprised by the young, female voice. Cold calls are not my forte—to be honest, they’re not even my “five-te.” While I may be a confident, successful, intelligent woman by some measure of the world, I am also an eternally awkward mess. Babbling, stuttering, fumbling—I’m guilty of all the cardinal tells. “May I speak with Jake Brent, please?”
“Oh! He’s not in right now,” the girl says cheerfully. “Can I take a message?”
Shoot. I wasn’t entirely prepared for this. I was expecting Jake himself to answer the phone, to be able to follow my little prewritten script, and I foolishly didn’t prepare a backup script for the instance of leaving a message. Still, there is an actual human waiting