It was…umm. I don't know. It was cool to see. I was happy for him. And from that morning on, Emma was there. She likes her eggs over easy, with hot sauce on them."
Paul Ricardo, Personal Chef
78
#Casma
EMMA
As soon as the first episode aired, we got the call about the reunion. Michelle predicted it, then crowed like a rooster with ten hens when her phone rang mid-Ceaser salad.
Five months had passed since the final episode wrapped, and a reunion was a bit ridiculous since the six of us had communicated with each other on a weekly basis since moving out of the mansion. Even Marissa. I swear to God, through IMs I might grow to actually like Marissa.
Yes. I was also shocked. You couldn’t tell, because I had enough botox injected in this forehead to freeze a penis in place, but I was positively aghast at the idea.
The network didn’t seem to hold any grudges over the lawsuits that Cash and I had both filed, suits that had eventually given us final cut approval—a staggering accomplishment that Michelle was still bragging about. We weren’t able to nix the ‘Emma had a sleepover’ comment but we did film a new confessional with Wesley and Cash where Wesley explained it.
Dana, bless her demonic little heart, was rumored to be in love, and I was curious to see if she had filed down her fangs or planned to gut us on screen. Johno put up ten grand that one of us would cry, and no one would take the bet.
The mansion now housed a L.A. Lakers' player with multiple wives, so the reunion was happening at a sound stage in Burbank. I rode with Cash and waved to a trio of teenage girls who jogged beside his car, their phones out and recording.
In the backseat, Edwin filmed the exchange, then posted it. “Done,” he announced.
“Oh.” I tapped Cash’s arm. “This weekend, I told Wes we’d do a movie night. The Ranch said we could use the theatre.” It was amazing, with Cash at my side, how quickly the facility had dropped my volunteer suspension and welcomed me back with warm and open arms. I was now on a regular schedule there, and between my visits and Cash’s—Wesley never went more than three days without seeing one or both of us.
“Cool.” He nodded distractedly.
“You okay?” I threaded my fingers through his. “Nervous about the show?”
“Nah.” He flipped the air conditioner higher. “It’ll be easy.”
"Hey…" Edwin warned. "Don't jinx yourself. All it's going to take to blow this to garbage is having either of your parents on the guest list."
"Mine are safely tucked away in Arizona." My parents were settled into their new home in Tucson, a destination chosen for its flourishing urban gardening communities. The new location fit our relationship well. We now spoke on a monthly basis and were navigating a wobbly but warm path of rapport. Cash and I were going there for Christmas and it was all going surprisingly well. Maybe that was because my expectations were nil and their competition was weak. The more I interacted with the Mitchells, the lower my bar of parental expectations fell.
“And mine are in Egypt, according to Therma.” Cash slowed as the traffic ahead clogged to a complete stop.
“We should go to Egypt sometime,” I mused. “Bo’s family has a house there. He keeps telling me to use it.”
He nodded. “Net Jets has been bugging us for a post. We could take a comp jet and stop in London on the way.”
"I'd love that." I grinned at him, and he leaned over and gave me a kiss. From behind us, someone beeped their horn, and he took his foot off the brake and rolled forward, then stopped again in the gridlock.
“Okay, normal person in the backseat,” Edwin mewed. “Please stop pissing me off with how incredible your lives are. I had three layovers between here and Miami last time I went home.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” I glanced back at him. “There’s plenty of room in the—”
“Okay, wait, hold that thought.” He held up a finger, his eyes glued to his phone. “And really, hold that thought because I really liked it. But shit just went bananas online.”
“Like what?” I searched for my own phone, which ended up being wedged in between my seat and the center console.
“Flipping BANANAS.” He started doing this weird flapping his hand thing, and I couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or panic. “Check Twitter.”
“Can’t you just tell me what happened?” I demanded, cramming my fingers into the tight spot and prying my phone loose.
“Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod.”
That was definitely dread in his voice. I think. Maybe. I growled at him and reached for his phone, but he held it out of reach.
"Just look at it yourself!" he barked.
“Mother…” Cash swatted at the air. “How did a fly get in here?”
“Oh shit, and it’s trending.”
I got my phone unlocked right when Cash started to roll down the windows, and the stifling Los Angeles heat poured in. I ignored it, opening Twitter and checking the trends. #CashandEmma was the third result, and I clicked on it with trepidation. The first few tweets made no sense, then I saw one from three minutes earlier. Cash's Twitter account. Four simple words. No hashtags or images or brand tags.
@mrcashmitchell: Will you marry me?
I looked at him, and the ring box was out, a tentative grin pulling at his gorgeous face. I looked back at my phone, then at him. "Are you serious?"
“Never wanted something more in my life. Will you marry me?”
"You're proposing to me by tweet?" I frowned, but the smile tugged through, and this couldn't be actually happening.
"I thought about IG, but know you're trying to diversify your platform use."
I laughed and grabbed his shirt collar.
"SAY YES ALREADY!" Someone yelled out, and I looked out the window to see Bo in the car beside us, Eileen beside him. I looked around and realized that every car around us was familiar, all of their windows down. My parents, somehow not in Kansas, beaming at me from two lanes over. Johno and Marissa, in a Range Rover to our left, with Paul and Dion in the backseat. Ahead of us, the curtains parted on a school bus back window, and Wesley jumped up and down in the middle of the aisle, waving with both hands. Someone started playing the chorus of "Will you marry me" by Jason Derulo, and everyone started singing along.
“There isn’t a flash mob dance planned, is there?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t want you to see my dancing and change your mind.” He grinned at me. “Please say yes. This is going to be hella painful if you break my heart in front of the entire internet.”
I grinned at him through watery eyes. “Yes.”
"Yes?"
I laughed. “YES.”
And then, on a live stream from Edwin's phone and broadcasted to over a hundred million people—he slid a ring on my finger and kissed me. And I didn't care about any of them except for the people around us. The ones who truly loved us.
79
Quote
"The reunion show tanked. It was soooo boring. Johno was clean, Marissa was still vegan, and Cash and Emma were madly in love. Like, not a single catfight or juicy moment the entire time. I kept waiting for them to unveil that Layton was actually a woman, or that Eileen had slept with Cash—but there was nothing. A complete waste of an hour of my life. Like, who wants to look at happy people all day long? Ugh. Gag me with a spoon."
@emilyshouldbeshopping14
"Their wedding would have been the social media event of the year, but they did it all incognito. Some of the guests took photos, so we could piece together the details, but considering how much of their life is online—it's so weird that that night was kept from us. Anyways, it looked beautiful from the pics. Their entire backyard was lit by candles, and Emma wore this simple white cotton dress with an open back, and he wore a suit, and they had karaoke and a buffet by the pool, and Cash's brother was his best man. They honeymooned in Fiji in one of those huts on top of the water. There was a rumor that Emma was a virgin until their wedding night,
but no one actually believed that. I mean, come on. Cash Mitchell? You could give him an extra nut and leprosy, and I'd still rip off my clothes and be ready for action."
Rachel Gladden, Crew, House of Fame
Two years after the reunion show… on May 14th, both Emma and Cash deleted all of their social media accounts. Like… deleted them. Gone. Followers. Photos. Videos. Branded posts. Everything from the two arguably most famous internet celebrities in the world, gone in less than five minutes, and with no warning whatsoever.
The internet flipped a shit. There were scavenger hunts going for screenshots and saved posts and articles that had featured them—it was crazy. People who had never followed them were getting pissed that they no longer had the chance, and you had thousands of girls snapping videos of them bawling because they couldn't find their profiles. It legitimately shook every social media and dominated every airway. My grandma heard about it, and she still thinks George W is president.
And at first, we thought it was a publicity stunt. And then people were saying they died. And then we found out that Wesley Mitchell had been moved out of the Ranch and that was when the conspiracy theories began, and an entire new wave of media circled and honestly—it was brilliant. It was all so damn brilliant. I wanted to stand up and applaud them for it, but it's hard to applaud someone who wasn't there, and Emma and Cash were just flat out … gone.
Poof.
From a hundred and twenty million followers to 0.
Like I said, brilliant.
Ingrid Long, The Celebrity Report
80
#dontlookoverhere
EMMA
We spent over a year on the plan. The first six months was making sure we really wanted to do it, then six months in the implementation. Wesley was our chief concern and priority, and we wanted to make sure that he was happy with the idea and would be in a location around other teenagers with Down's.
It took three months to find what we needed—a town where we could disappear but not be isolated, and somewhere close to a city where Wesley could have frequent interaction and instruction with other Down's Syndrome teenagers. Most importantly, a big piece of property that had secure access points and privacy.
I recognized our home the moment I saw it. Thirty-two acres that butted up to a top-secret government facility, the sort with twelve-foot electric fences and KEEP OUT signs that threatened deadly force. It had a six-thousand square foot house in terrible need of remodeling, a barn, and two guest cottages. It was in a small town with poor internet access, more bookstores than restaurants, and an average resident age of 63.
In January, we closed on the property, hiding it behind a string of LLCs that would take a forensic team to trace. We were welcomed, shown how to program the property's entrance gate, and then left to fend for ourselves.
In February, we moved a caretaker into one of the guest cottages and started renovation of Wesley’s room and our master suite. We applied for our change of names and moved our money into a variety of trusts and stocks. It was staggering, when you looked at our assets. More than enough to live the rest of our lives on, with only a slight reduction in our annual charitable donations. All in all, it was more than enough to disappear with.
In March, the kitchen was torn down the studs and redone. A pool was added between the home and guest house, along with secure fencing and surveillance along the perimeter of the property. I sat down with my parents and told them the plan, minus the details of our location.
In April, we began shipping our life. We ignored the furniture, but mailed the clothing, private items, and art to the new home. I sold our extra vehicles and quietly discontinued our local memberships. I set up compensation packages for Edwin, Dion, and Michelle and prepared termination paperwork. I sat with Cash in a bare and minimalistic house and brainstormed about our future.
“Tell me we aren’t crazy.” I laid on my back on the couch, my head in his lap, and watched the fan above me slowly turning.
“We aren’t crazy.” He traced a design along my stomach. “I think this is the first un-crazy thing we’ve done.”
“Are you going to miss it all?” I tilted my head back so I could see him.
He smiled down at me. “Maybe a little. But I would also love the idea of walking into a grocery store and not having a mob of people come up to me.”
“I want to go an entire day without looking at my phone.” I settled back into place.
“I want to grow a beard. A huge one. One long enough to twirl.”
I laughed. “I want to stop shaving my legs. And under my arms. And bathing.”
"Okay, yes. This is crazy. Abandon the plan." He tickled me, and I shrieked and kicked his hand away.
"Alright, I'll bathe," I conceded. "But I'm definitely stopping waxing, blowouts, and makeup. Like, maybe mascara on date night, but otherwise no."
“I like that idea.” He brushed my hair off my forehead. “You’re beautiful without makeup.”
"I also want to fart in public," I decided, and he laughed. "No, I'm serious!" I picked up a couch pillow and swung it toward him. "There's no way we can fart in public now. It'd be a disaster. But in a month…" I gave a happy sigh. "I could let out a giant loud fart, and someone would shoot me a horrified look, and that would be it. No further repercussions."
“You know…” he said slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you fart.”
“I rarely do it.” I lifted up one butt check and tried. Nothing happened. “I’ll come find you next time I feel one coming on,” I promised.
“You don’t have to do that.”
I grinned.
“Do you think we’re going to be bored?”
"I don't know." I traced my fingers over the back of his hand. "I think renovating is a pretty full-time job. And we'll have to fill up the house with furniture, since we're keeping all this here. And then we'll get horses. And pigs."
“One pig,” he interrupted. “You said one pig.”
“I know, but I’m worried it will be lonely. So two pigs. Just so he has a friend.”
“And Wesley wants a rabbit.”
“Right. Plus…” I moved his hand under the hem of my shirt, so it was flat against my stomach. “I hear babies are a big distraction.”
He caressed the small bump that was getting harder and harder to hide. “A very big distraction,” he said quietly, and there was an emotional catch in his voice that warmed every inch of me.
"So, we won't be bored." I looked up at him, and he lowered his mouth to mine and gently kissed my lips.
“No,” he agreed. “We won’t.”
One month later, inside the gates of our new home and with Wesley sandwiched between us on the couch, we took a deep breath and reached for our phones.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.” I nodded.
It took less than three minutes, and then we were gone.
81
#whattoreadnext
Hey there! I hope you enjoyed The F List.
This book is a little different from my others. For one, it has no sex. If you like the lack of hanky panky in your books, I’d point you to The Ghostwriter next. It’s a more emotional and suspenseful read, but I promise that you’ll love it. It was nominated for Mystery/Suspense of the Year and has over 6,000 five-star reviews on Goodreads.
If you like more sizzle in your novels, I’d direct you to the majority of my backlist. Love Chloe is probably the most similar to this one, in terms of trendy, 20-something heroines. But here are a few other recommendations…
Filthy Vows. A super-steamy story of a married couple who decide to spice up their life in some unorthodox ways.
Love in Lingerie. A friends-to-lovers romance about coworkers who can’t keep their hands off each other.
Black Lies. A 3x New York Times bestseller that is a love triangle with a jaw-dropping plot twist.
Hollywood Dirt. A 3x New York Times bestseller about a small town girl who meets her match in a movie star. T
his book was actually made into a movie!
If you are on a budget and would like a free book, my romantic comedy Tripping on a Halo is available at alessandratorre.com/freebook.
Happy reading! Thank you for picking up this novel, and please consider recommending The F List to your friends.
#abouttheauthor
Alessandra Torre is an award-winning New York Times bestselling author of twenty-three novels. Torre has been featured in such publications as Elle and Elle UK, as well as guest blogged for the Huffington Post and RT Book Reviews. She is also the Bedroom Blogger for Cosmopolitan.com.
In addition to writing, Alessandra is the creator of Alessandra Torre Ink, a website, community, and online school for aspiring authors.
If you enjoy Alessandra’s writing, please follow her on social media, or subscribe to her popular monthly newsletter, where she hosts a monthly giveaway, along with writing updates, personal photos, and more.
www.alessandratorre.com
[email protected]
The F List: Fame, Fortune, and Followers Page 20
