“Love you too,” she replied, smiling. “What was that for?”

I shrugged. “Because I’m so fucking happy.”

She scooted over to nestle her head on my shoulder as we set off on the hours-long drive. The road ahead looked pretty damn great, both literally and figuratively.

I’d never not feel like the luckiest man in the world that she had chosen me. The twist of fate that had landed us both in the same town at the same time must have been the universe screaming at us that we were soulmates.

No one got me the way she did, and I knew she felt the same.

Everything about us was meant to be.

The End

The Reality of It All

“Calla, you almost ready?”

I tore my gaze away from my reflection to find Brady hovering in the door of my suite.

“Um, can I have a few more minutes?”

“Of course.” He flashed a reassuring smile that did little to settle the queasy feeling in my stomach. “I’ll knock again in five, but then we really have to go.” His tan hair flopped forward as he raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Number two needs five more minutes. I repeat. Number two needs five more minutes.”

The way he so effortlessly reduced me to a number made me wince. Brady seemed nice for someone who worked in reality television, but then again, I was completely oblivious to this world. Anyone who knew me would never have said I was the kind of person to do this sort of thing. They’d all have insisted that quiet, shy Calla did not have the right personality for TV.

I looked back at myself in the mirror, taking in my bright blue eyes, now lined with soft brown liner. Rosy blush dotted both of my cheeks, and my raven hair was styled in a long braid. The hair and makeup team had begged me to wear my hair down in loose, long waves, but I’d insisted on wearing it pulled back. The makeup already felt like a lot. This was a writing competition, after all; it wasn’t like I was going on The Bachelor.

Smoothing one of my eyebrows, I continued to inspect myself. I had never felt self-conscious before now, but I had also never experienced the stress of considering what the general public might think of me. People were harsh and cruel, and I feared I would be no match for their scrutiny. Sure, I was pretty, but not in the way that caused people to stop and stare. Everything about me was intentionally understated, just how I liked it.

This was a writing competition, I reminded myself again. For authors. How many people would even watch? And if anyone did, surely they’d care more about my talent than the way I looked.

Calla Scott, budding novelist from Chicago, arriving for her chance to compete on The Next Great American Classic.