Chapter 21

The stables are empty when Krystin pulls the Corolla into the lot—though, at nearly six in the morning, she's not sure what else she expected. She's still on Eastern time, and besides, she didn't sleep much anyway. She hasn't since she got home nearly two weeks ago.

Krystin treads across the mud, boots flattening the occasional patch of grass. This steadily into autumn, the sun is still at least an hour away from rising; the sky is vast and dark, and so silent. When she was younger, training for her first competitions, she used to get to the stables this early every day. She watched the other girls wipe crust from their eyes, groggy and irritable, their parents and trainers chastising them for complaining about being awake before dawn. And it's not like Krystin wasn't also tired—she was exhausted, and sore, and worried about her calc homework. But Montana is never so silent as in the very early morning, black as a sensory deprivation tank, so incredibly still that Krystin feels as if time is suspended. Sometimes, while making coffee in the kitchen, the only light coming from the microwave, she feels as if she's in deep space. She never feels so calm.

Ringo grunts affectionately when she approaches him. She traces his face, drawing a line from the diamond on his forehead all the way down to his velvet nose. She slips the bridle over his ears, nudges the bit between his teeth. She can see her reflection in his glassy eyes. He bends readily under her instruction, and she leads him to the ring.

The arena gate surrenders under her weight, exhaling a familiar creak. A few red flakes of rust flutter to the ground. Then she places a boot in the stirrup and hoists herself easily into the saddle.

As good as it felt to ride in Patagonia, it didn't feel anything close to Ringo. Their movements are entirely fluid; her hips melt into his; where she ends, he begins. They walk, trailing the fence for a while. She presses her heels into his flank, and he falls into a trot. Again, and they're running.

After a while, Krystin dismounts and drags three barrels into the center of the arena. They bolt from one end of the oval ring; she pulls Ringo in a tight cloverleaf pattern, racing around each barrel and back again. She does it again. And again. And again.

She doesn't think about anything while they run. She doesn't think about Lauren, and her glossy hair and full lips and the swath of skin inside her thighs that feels like silk. She doesn't think about Josh or the way his face crumpled in his front yard, or David pulling Wendy away from the sight of Krystin breaking her son's heart. She doesn't think about Lauren and Josh together, on Long Island, sitting around the same bonfire as Krystin did, holding hands as Lauren lies her way to the life she's always wanted. She doesn't think about how Josh will respond when Lauren finally, inevitably, breaks his heart too. Or maybe she already has—Krystin doesn't even know if they're still filming. All she knows is that Lauren won't marry him either. She never would.

Krystin wipes at the sweat beading on her forehead. Her heart rattles against her ribs. She leads Ringo around the pattern, tighter this time, threading each needle with a lifetime of precision. She imagines judges sitting in the empty first row, sees hundreds of faces filling the barren bleachers. She hears their cheers, their whoops and hollers, and smells cotton candy and buttery popcorn mingled with dirt.

She pulls on the reins, coaxing Ringo to rest. She squints her eyes shut, feeling the blood pump from her heart into every finger and toe. She waits for the room to stop spinning around her, leans forward to wrap her arms around Ringo's neck, brushing his damp coat.

When she opens her eyes, Delia is sitting in the third bleacher row, elbows resting on her knees. Krystin feels her heart jump into her throat. Their eyes meet, and Delia stretches into an upright position.

Krystin clucks and nudges Ringo forward. They walk slowly to the fence; Delia pauses for a moment, then stands, descending the handful of steps and stopping in front of the ring. They meet at the edge, but Krystin doesn't dismount. She just sits there, five and a half feet in the air, afraid that if she stands, her legs won't be able to hold her.

Delia leans against the fence; it whines under her. "Hey."

"Hey."

Ringo takes another step forward under Krystin, and Delia reaches out to pet his nose.

"I think he missed me," she says.

Krystin attempts a laugh, but it comes out more like a sniff.

Delia strokes Ringo's face, brushing hair out of his eyes. When she speaks, she looks only at him. "Was he the only one who missed me?"

Krystin waits for Delia to tilt her head to her, but she doesn't. "No," she says softly. "He wasn't."

Delia's lips break into a faint smile, her eyes still glued to the horse.

Krystin sighs, then kicks her leg out of the stirrup and across Ringo's back, dropping gently onto the loose dirt. "How'd you know where I was?"

When Delia finally looks at her, her gaze is at once leaden and bright. "It's like I said. I know you."

Krystin doesn't say anything. She combs her finger through Ringo's mane, and lets the breathing fill the space. Then she leads him out of the arena and back to the stable, lifts the saddle from his back and onto its rack, hangs the bridle and reins on the tack. It doesn't take too long to brush and comb him, but as the minutes tick by, Krystin wonders if Delia will leave, even as she knows she won't. When she walks back into the arena, Delia is sitting in the bleachers again, reading a well-worn copy of Mrs. Dalloway.

Krystin kicks the bleacher softly. "Do you wanna walk?"

Delia nods, tucking the book into her bag. They walk the length of the ring in silence. Outside, the air is crisp and light. The sun, barely broken over the mountains, casts a dull blue over the field.

Delia speaks first. "I didn't expect you to be back so soon," she says, looking at her feet.

Krystin sucks her teeth. "But I thought you knew me so well." It sounds more bitter than she intended. "Sorry," she adds.

"Don't be," Delia responds. "I shouldn't have said that. I mean, even if it's true—" She turns to look at Krystin. "I shouldn't act like I know everything when I clearly don't."

"Yeah," Krystin says. "Thanks." She pauses, bending down to pluck a blade of grass. "You know, I didn't expect to be back either. But I don't really know what I expected." She holds the blade between her nails, then splits it cleanly down the middle.

"I guess that's what I don't understand," Delia says. "What I never understood. What did you … want?"

Krystin laughs. "A husband."

"And you don't anymore?"

"I don't know," Krystin starts to say, but then she remembers her efforts to stop lying to herself and others. "No," she amends. "I don't."

Delia nods. "Do you know what you want instead?"

Krystin exhales, a long, steady thing. "I think, my whole life, I've thought that there are paths stretching out in front of me, good ones and bad ones, and if I made the right choices, I'd find the best one. Like, if I trained really hard, and really committed, I could be the best barrel racer in the state. Or if I went on a dating show, and, like, practiced, and tried really, really hard, I'd fall in love."

They'd come to a stop. Krystin tilts her head back to look at the sky, the clouds that feel like they could swallow her whole. Delia's silent, waiting for her to finish.

"When I left the show, I left that path. But I didn't choose another one. I'm just, like"—she waves her hands around, gesturing at the grass—"standing in a field. And I don't know what I'm doing."

Delia sits down in the grass, then reaches up to tug Krystin down with her. She follows suit, pulling her legs near her.

"You don't know what you're doing," Delia says quietly. "But do you know what you want?"

And then Krystin cries, because she does. She feels it so strongly it shudders out of her in heaves, and Delia steadies her with her warmth. When the tears subside, Krystin pulls away, rubbing at her eyes.

"It's funny," she says without laughing. "I think I did fall in love. It just wasn't with the Romantic."

Delia rubs Krystin's back, drawing small circles with her thumb. "Well, no one can blame you for that. He's basically just a golden retriever in a man's body."

"What's wrong with golden retrievers?"

"Absolutely nothing, in dog form."

Krystin laughs, then sniffles. "Did you … watch the show?"

Delia pauses, then nods slowly.

"Really? Every episode?"

Delia looks pained. "Yes, Krystin, every episode. I wouldn't have … said all that stuff at your parents' house if I hadn't."

"Right."

"Yeah. Did you watch it?"

Krystin shakes her head. "I don't want to see it."

Delia tilts her head. "You don't want to know what happened?"

"I know what happened. I was there."

Delia rolls her eyes. "I mean after you left."

The finale aired a few days ago. "I'll have to watch it before After the Final String," Krystin explains, even though it doesn't answer the question. The truth is, she hasn't been ready to confront it all yet—the excitement she felt in the early days, the women who shit-talked her, all the times she looked at Josh and lied, to him and to herself. Lauren. "I'm just … I'm scared. To go back." Evidently, she's scared of a lot of things.

Delia nods. "I'll watch it with you," she offers. "Whenever you're ready."

Krystin smiles half-heartedly. She picks another blade of grass, rips it in half, ties it in knots. The sun is beginning to spill over the hills.

"So," Delia says, watching Krystin's fingers. "The person you love."

Krystin ties another knot, then flicks away the dismembered green. "It's Lauren," she says, unceremoniously, obviously.

Delia sucks in a breath.

Krystin bites the inside of her lip. It's coming back to her again, and this time she can't ward it off like she usually does, frightening it back with a fiery torch. "Are you surprised?"

Delia considers, leaning backward on her hands. "Do you remember when we were reading in your room? We were, I don't know, fifteen or something."

Krystin waits for Delia to elaborate, but she doesn't. But Krystin doesn't need her to. She remembers it perfectly.

"Yeah," she says. "I remember."

Delia's mouth quirks up at the corner. "I kinda thought you forgot about it. You never said anything."

"Neither did you."

"Mm."

Even after all those years, after years of talking and not talking, of bad dates with boys and new friends and sorority sisters that could never match up to each other—even after all of that in the air around them as they sit in the field, the words scratch in Krystin's throat like pollen. She lets the breeze move through them and settle in her lungs.

"It felt too big to talk about, I guess," she says. Delia nods. "But it was also, like, maybe it wasn't big for you, and then you would have thought I was dumb for bringing it up. Or—"

"Gay?" Delia finishes the sentence for her.

Krystin sighs. "Yeah."

Delia thinks. "Well, I can't say for sure how I would have reacted if you had brought it up, even if I did feel similarly. Obviously, I didn't talk about it either."

"But you thought about it?"

"Of course I thought about it. I mean …" Delia splays her fingers in the grass. "Okay, look. While you were busy with all your sorority stuff, I was doing stuff too."

"‘Doing stuff,'" Krystin repeats, flatly.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm so beyond laughing."

"Anyway—you remember Sam, right? The girl I met in my photo class sophomore year at MSU?"

Krystin does. As much time as she and Delia spent together, the sorority took up a fair amount of Krystin's time, and she was always relieved when Delia mentioned hanging out with Sam—especially when Krystin had to bail on their plans to get ready for a mixer with the boys from Sigma Nu.

"Long story short, we split a bottle of wine going through our negatives, lines blurred, etcetera etcetera. Sound familiar?"

Krystin grins. "Did you guys take artful nudes of each other wrapped in fur?"

"Relax," Delia says, holding a hand up. "It wasn't deep. I'm just saying, while you were doing all your glitter cult stuff, I had to find other ways to keep myself occupied."

Krystin giggles, then looks up at Delia from across the grass. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Probably for the same reason you didn't tell me either."

They could talk about it more, but Krystin doesn't have anything else to say. What happened between her and Delia, however big or small it was, was years ago. They'd moved on—maybe not right away, but eventually time felt something like closure. And if time didn't, Lauren did.

Krystin looks at Delia. The sun has started to climb up behind the mountains, and a beam spills over the top, reflecting off of her hair. Krystin is so used to seeing her best friend as a blazing force of impassioned opinions and confidence, she's unprepared to see her at peace.

"How did you … know?" Krystin asks.

Delia raises her eyebrows. "How did you know?" she challenges.

When a boy liked Krystin, she didn't have to think about it. He handed her a handwritten valentine, or asked her to homecoming, or mentioned something to her friends, who would set them up on a double or triple date that left her pity-laughing at his jokes. When he wanted to kiss her, she let him. When he wanted to do more than that, she let him do that, too.

Krystin hadn't kissed another girl after Delia until she was dancing with Lauren, pressed so close to her that she couldn't stop herself from getting closer, closer, until there wasn't anything between them at all. And Lauren had been right—Krystin kissed her, just like she kissed Delia back then. It had been her choice. Because she wanted to.

Growing up, Krystin was never near any queer people in a meaningful way. Sure, there were kids that were different, "tomboys" who were assumed to grow out of it, even strangers at the gas station and walking through the aisles at Walmart, but sexuality was never explicitly discussed. She didn't see rampant homophobia so much as she never saw a happy gay future represented. And Krystin had always relied on a very clear definition of happiness, characterized by what she knew. She always saw the perfect life as being the one that her parents shared.

But that had never been what she wanted.

Maybe the reason Krystin was so lonely wasn't because she needed a man to share it all with, but because she didn't share … anything. She'd been alone for so long, and it was easier that way. But maybe what was easy was that there wasn't anyone questioning her. That she didn't have to question herself.

"You know," Delia says, after a while, "it's kind of ironic. ‘Hopelessly Devoted' is a song about heartbreak. I mean, sure, Sandy's devoted to Danny, but she knows the relationship is doomed."

Krystin laughs. "What, the car lifting them both up into the clouds isn't enough romance for you?"

"I'm just saying—it's a little misguided to name a dating show after a ballad about deception and insecurity."

"Funny," Krystin says. "That's exactly what it was."

The kitchen is warm, the air spicy from the onions and peppers sautéing in the pan. Krystin stirs the vegetables with one hand, takes a sip of chilled wine with the other. She can see Delia dancing with Krystin's father in the living room; he grabs her hand and twirls her around, bobbing his head to "Copperhead Road."

"You don't even like country music!" Krystin yells to Delia over the speakers.

Delia just sticks her tongue out.

And Krystin laughs, because she remembers what home feels like. Peg stands behind her, holding her own glass. She looks at her husband, then at Krystin, and Krystin knows what her mother is thinking without her saying it. I'm glad you're home.

The song ends, and Krystin hears a knock at the door.

"Who could that be?" Peg wonders aloud, moving to answer.

Krystin stops her. "No, you stay. It's probably another Mormon. I'll get it."

She does, leaving Delia to square dance with her dad. When she opens the door, Josh stands on the porch, one hand in his pocket, the other paused mid-knock.

"Sorry," he says, lowering his hand. "I tried a couple of times. I guess you couldn't hear over the music."

"No," Krystin says, because she doesn't know what else to say. "I didn't."

She steps outside, looking around the porch, the lawn. But there aren't any cameras. Josh is here, in Montana, alone.

"Why … are you here?" she asks.

Josh raises an eyebrow. "You mean, why am I here without Holland or Jim?"

"I mean …" Krystin shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. "Yeah, I guess."

"Because I think we have some stuff to talk about."

The flush from the wine catches on fire, spreading down from her cheeks to fill her whole body. "Josh …" She really does not have the capacity to have this conversation again, or any iteration of it. Watching Lauren reject his proposal had made her feel even worse—it was hard enough to witness his hurt the first time, and even though it was all her fault, she really does not want to relive the pain she caused.

But Josh puts a hand up. "Stop. Before you go there, I'm not here to get you back."

The flush drains. "Oh," she says, mildly embarrassed for assuming he had been, though that explains the missing film crew. There's no way they'd miss something like that. "Really?"

"Really," Josh says, scratching his facial hair, which he's let grow into more than a five o'clock shadow. "Believe it or not, I actually don't want to have to convince someone to marry me. Or even like me."

Now Krystin's hurt. "Josh, of course I like you. I wouldn't have stayed so long if I didn't like you."

"Maybe don't talk about why you stayed so long," Josh says. "Or at least, don't try to make it seem like it was about me."

Krystin leans against the doorframe. "Okay, ouch."

Josh looks different. There's a burning in his eyes, a determination Krystin didn't see at the chateau. Or maybe didn't notice.

"Krystin," he says. "Let's not dance around it anymore." He runs a hand through his curls with a roughness that catches Krystin off guard. "I know about you and Lauren."

"What?" Krystin cries. "How?"

"Lauren told me."

"What do you mean she told you?"

"She called me," he says. "She came clean, about all of it—not about you, not explicitly, but I put two and two together. And she apologized. Which you also could have done, by the way."

Krystin twitches so hard she nearly knocks her head into the door. Then she almost falls backward, because the door opens.

"Dear God," Delia says from the other side. "Not again."

"Hello to you too," Josh responds.

"Why is he here?" Delia asks, still standing with the door open.

"Yeah," Krystin says, still trying to wrap her head around her secret not being a secret to the one person she never wanted to tell. "Josh, why are you here?"

"Listen," he says, and then he's looking at Krystin with a sincerity she associates exclusively with him. "I know I've been giving you a hard time about this." He pauses, sighing. "I'm not over it. It's probably going to take me a little while to get over it. But … there was love on the show, even if it wasn't for me. I still want to do what I can to help it happen."

"Ha!" Delia blurts, then turns to Krystin. "As if. This guy wants to play knight in shining armor?"

"All right, Delia, I know you don't like me—"

"It's not about whether or not I like you. I want to make sure you're not setting up my best friend to be humiliated on the same show she just dumped you on."

"Delia!" Krystin shouts. Everything is happening too quickly. "Just—everyone shut up for a second."

They do. Delia draws her lips into themselves, her tic for when she wants to stop herself from saying something she might regret, as if she could hold the words between her teeth. Josh just scratches the back of his neck. Krystin takes a breath.

"Okay," she says. "First of all, Josh, I do think Delia's point stands." She sees Josh's expression flicker into affront. "Not because I think you're vindictive. I hope I've made it clear by now that I think you're a really great guy who wants the best for everyone. But I do wonder why you'd want to help the two women who just"—she falters on the words—"broke up with you on television."

"In other words," Delia interrupts, clearly done with her imposed silence, "what's in it for you?"

Josh sighs. "Fine. Yeah, it sucked for two women I was into to reject me." He looks at Krystin. "In front of my parents."

"Three if you count Amanda from last season," Delia mutters.

"I'm really sorry, Josh," Krystin says. "I really am."

"Well, this is one way you can make it up to me," Josh replies. "I need my reputation to be more than the guy no one wants to marry. Just, like … let me be the hero here."

Krystin brushes her fingers through her hair. "Josh, I want to do anything I can to help you. But whatever you're thinking, I don't think it's going to work. I fucked things up pretty majorly."

"Krystin," Josh says, fiercely. "I don't think you realize how she feels about you."

She shakes her head. "I gave her a lot of chances to tell me." She looks around her, and realizes she's standing between her childhood crush and her ex-quasi-boyfriend, talking about the girl she's in love with. This is insane. She pulls her hair back into a ponytail, then lets it fall back. "I am really sorry, Josh. For everything. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I let you become collateral. It wasn't fair."

"It wasn't," Josh says. "But I know you're sorry. Lauren doesn't."

Delia clears her throat. "You said you gave Lauren plenty of chances to tell you how she felt. Maybe you have to tell her." She places a hand on Krystin's shoulder and squeezes.

Krystin takes a deep breath. "So, what are you proposing I do?"

"Okay," Josh says, and now he looks kind of excited. "You're coming on After the Final String, right?"

"Yes," she confirms, though she wishes she weren't. She can't imagine facing Lauren again, let alone McKenzie and Kaydie, and the rest of the Devotees. "It's in my contract."

"Okay," Josh repeats. He's rocking back on his feet, bouncing like a quarterback. "What better way to apologize than in front of a live studio audience?"

"Ha!" Delia laughs. "You're kidding."

Krystin shifts her weight. "Josh, Lauren wouldn't even come out to her family. Do you really think she'd be cool with me proclaiming my feelings on TV? To her hundred thousand Instagram followers?"

"I think she's changed," Josh argues. "I don't know, when we spoke on the phone … She said she didn't care who knew anymore. I think her priorities have shifted. Just—trust me."

Krystin's silent, turning it over in her head. "Are you sure Penny isn't hiding behind a tree here? This all sounds pretty most dramatic season yet."

"She's not," he promises. "Look, they want drama, but not like this. Besides, if we told them, we'd have to do it their way."

Krystin tucks her hair behind her ear, rolls back on her heels. For the first time since she left the show, she feels the familiar batting in her chest, but this time they feel like they're lifting her up rather than pulling her under. Butterflies. The real kind. "So, what, we're gonna do it our way?"

"No." Josh smiles. "You're gonna do it yours."

Which is how Krystin finds herself pacing the floor of the green room, running over the lines in her head while watching thirty-one women of Josh's season of Hopelessly Devoted on the monitor.

"Listen, J," Gabi is saying with a smirk from her seat. "I would have treated you better than eeeeveryone else here." She draws circles around the group with her acrylic-pointed finger.

A chorus of groans rumbles through the women, and the studio audience laughs.

"All right, all right." Josh plays at containing them, but he's blushing. "Let's play nice."

"I am playing nice." Gabi splays a hand innocently over her heart. "You could have seen me play really, really nice."

Lily rolls her eyes. "Can you keep it in your pants, please?"

"Well," Jen says, "we all know who didn't."

Krystin, mid-gulp of her Poland Spring, nearly chokes. Even Josh looks like he's ready to kick Jen to the curb.

"Oh, come on," Jen says over the booing from the audience. "We all watched it!"

"And?" Sara-without-an-H responds, swiveling in her stool to face Jen, who sits a row up and three seats down. "We are not here to slut shame."

"We don't know what happened behind closed doors," Sarah-with-an-H says, attempting diplomacy, but Jen rolls her eyes.

"Some things are implied," she insists. "But I'm not surprised you never learned to read between the lines."

"Oh, Christ." Krystin brings the water bottle to her temple, but it's tepid and unhelpful.

On the monitor, Josh waves his hands to dispel the chatter. "Guys, guys. Let's not spend too much time on any one person who isn't here yet."

Only four women are missing from the lineup: Kaydie, McKenzie, Krystin, and Lauren. They'll each be brought on, in the order of their elimination, to talk one-on-one with Josh.

Krystin feels nausea prickling at her. But for the first time, it's not from lying. This time, she's going to tell the truth.

To Lauren. Who doesn't know. Who probably hates her after what she did. Oh, God. She takes another gulp of water, and wishes it was something stronger.

"Shit," Krystin whispers. "Fuck."

Someone knocks on the door, then opens it, popping their head through the crack. It's Penny.

"Everything okay in here?" she asks, eyeing the water bottle in Krystin's grip, then the two empties crumpled on the table.

"Yep," Krystin responds. She gives a thumbs-up to drive it home.

Penny leans forward, opening the door a little more. "You know, I can say it now that we're not filming—you're a really bad liar."

Krystin almost laughs. "You're right."

Penny looks at her for a moment. "Josh is too. Which is how I know you guys are up to something."

Krystin opens her mouth to protest, but Penny stops her.

"I don't care, do whatever you want. This is my last season. I'm going to Housewives." Penny points to the water. "You should lay off, though. You're gonna have to pee while you're up there." Then she closes the door and leaves.

Krystin stands there, mildly stunned. She turns to the monitor, where Kaydie and McKenzie are discussing the sister-like bond they formed behind cameras that Krystin never saw.

"I just think that we both knew each other was serious," Kaydie says, clutching McKenzie's hand, "and we really connected because of that. And that was really what got me through the experience. The sisterhood."

McKenzie nods, even though Krystin never saw her the entire last month, due to McKenzie barricading herself in her room with only Taylor Swift as defense.

But whatever.

Krystin looks away. She paces some more, pees three times, and finally just sits down in the middle of the floor, patting her glittery dress gingerly.

And then she hears Lauren's voice. Krystin swivels to the screen, but she's not there—the voice is coming from outside the door, attached to clip-clopping heels and breaths in huffs. Krystin's stomach drops ten stories. It drops another twenty when it fully sinks in that they're in the same building, separated by just concrete and underpaid production assistants.

The audience is laughing at something Josh said, and Krystin can hardly breathe. She feels like she's at once untethered and impossibly rooted to her body. She can hear her blood in her ears, and she can't feel her hands.

Another knock sounds at the door. This time, Penny opens it wide.

One, two, three, four, in. One, two, three, four, out.

Penny looks at Krystin surrounded by her dress on the floor and says, "You're up."