The Holdout

by Laurel Osterkamp

  “That would be good.” He nods, like there’s more to say but something is holding him back. “Oh, what the hell?” Nick mumbles. Then he steps in, smooth and slow this time. I have enough reaction time to move away, but I don’t. I let him place one hand on that spot between my head and the back of my neck, and I don’t mind when he pulls me near and his mouth meets mine. For a moment I forget about my clogged sinuses and stuffy head as I experience the warmth of his lips, the generosity of his touch, and the power of his confidence when there’s no space between us. A tingle runs through me and my head feels light, and neither sensation has anything to do with this cold.

  But then a sneeze breaks us apart and I turn my head just in time to avoid spraying him with snot. I nearly spill the soup in the process, but Nick reaches out and catches the container before it falls to the ground. “Sorry,” I say as he deftly hands me back the soup. “Aren’t you supposed to be the awkward one?”

  “Normally, yes.” Nick raises one eyebrow. “But that kiss just brought out my super powers.”

  “The ability to rescue falling soup containers in a single bound?”

  “Among other things.” His smile soothes me way more than my throat-coat tea. I almost relent and invite him in, but nothing so easy can be worthwhile.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll call you in a week or two.”

  “Good.” He squints like he’s trying to read me but I’m too difficult to decipher. “Are you okay, then?”

  The question catches me off-guard. “What do you mean?”

  “You know… your cold, the pressure from the show, our jury experience.” He pauses. “Grant.” Hearing Nick say his name is like having a brick dropped at my feet, and I’m startled by the thud. Nick clears his throat self-consciously. “I don’t want to pry. I just wanted to know if you’re okay, and that you’re not, you know, hurt.”

  I tense up. “What would you do about it if I was?”

  His brown eyes, which are usually in perpetual motion, stay still as they peer into mine. He answers me in a soft, hushed voice. “I’d try and make it better.”

  For a moment I’m sure he could make it better and for a moment I’m desperate to let him. But fear holds me back, rendering me paralyzed and mute.

  He takes my silence as a rejection of his offer. “Take care of yourself, Robin.” He waves goodbye and turns to go.

  I find my voice. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  He turns around once more, and the look on his face confirms what we both already know: that call may or may not happen.

  Then he walks away.

  Hanging my head, I re-enter my apartment and chastise myself for being such a wimp. As I put the soup in the refrigerator for later, I notice my cell phone lying on the kitchen counter. I pick it up. No new calls. Grant hasn’t called me back since I hung up on him yesterday, and the queasiness lurking around my digestive system is either a new symptom of this cold, or it’s disappointment. I close my eyes and shake my head. Please let it be the cold.

  §

  Two days later I’ve arrived in New York with my Dad and Ian. My cold has subsided enough that I can breathe and talk without too much trouble, but my limbs still feel heavy and simple things, like walking a city block, are taxing.

  Ted gets in late Sunday morning and meets us at the hotel for lunch. We sit at a table covered with a white tablecloth and lit by a dim chandelier overhead. I order a cheese and tomato omelet but all I do is pick at it. After lunch it will be time to report to the studio, where I will see Grant. My stomach is in knots.

  Ted isn’t eating much either. He’s too busy texting.

  “How can they expect you to work on a Sunday?” asks my dad.

  Ted shakes his head while his fingers press the tiny keys. “You don’t get it, Dad. Everybody works on Sundays.”

  Ian, for one, appears to be enjoying his lunch. He talks through a big bite of his hamburger. “Did you know that Robbie is flying to Seattle from here? She’s visiting Monty for Thanksgiving.”

  Ted raises one eye. “Why?”

  “Lucy invited me,” I tell him. “She wants me to speak to her class about the American justice system.”

  Ted laughs. “You’re kidding, right?” He puts his phone down and picks up his fork. “Why you? Was Kim Kardashian unavailable?” He takes a bite of his Cobb salad, chews, and swallows it down with a sip of his tonic water with lemon. But he’s snickering the whole time. “Nice photo of you on the cover of Alright Magazine, by the way.”

  Ian pats my hand. “Don’t be mean,” he says to Ted. “She’s going to compare her experiences from The Holdout to her recent jury duty.”

  “Sounds thrilling,” replies Ted. “But I’m still surprised Lucy asked you, especially when her husband is this big time lawyer.” He makes an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh. That’s right, I forgot. Monty gave up law for what, philanthropy? What’s that even about?” Ted’s phone vibrates with a text alert, and he picks it up again to respond.

  “I think he’s still practicing law. He’s writing policy…” I let my voice trail off when I realize that Ted isn’t listening. I look down at my omelet. Its grey-white skin is covered with tiny beads of grease, the cheese has congealed, and the bits of tomato stick out like pin pricks of blood. I push my plate away.

  “I should get going,” I say. “I have a couple of things I need to do before I go to the studio.”

  Dad smiles at me. “Okay, sweetheart.”

  I get up and my father stands as well, giving me a hug. “You knock them dead tonight, okay? We’ll be in the audience to cheer you on.”

  I sniffle. “Are you sure you’re not disappointed that I didn’t make the final three?”

  Dad leans in and kisses my cheek. “Honey, I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

  He’s sweet, but still, I can’t help but wonder: could he be prouder of Ted or Ian?

  “Good luck tonight, Robbie. Be sure to wave to us.” I smile my thanks to Ian, and glance over at Ted. He’s still texting.

  “Thanks for coming, Ted.”

  He looks up. “Oh. Yeah, you’re welcome. What time does it start tonight?”

  “Eight.”

  He sighs. “Okay, well I’m leaving as soon as it’s over. I have an important 7:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow.”

  Ted’s attention is now entirely on his phone. Ian and Dad have started talking about sports. I search my pocket for my room key and quietly walk away.

  When I’m back in my room I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Even with my eyes open, images of the last time I saw Grant, face to face, float through my mind.

  We had checked our bags at the Kalibo airport, and we were waiting for our respective flights, which were to leave a mere twenty minutes apart. I was sitting in the crowded waiting room and Grant was standing, leaning against a window. He was freshly showered, wearing a light blue t-shirt and khaki shorts, but his hair was still too long and his curls stuck out in every direction. While still adorable on the outside, I now knew what lurked beneath. I tried to ignore him, but when the person sitting next to me got up, Grant took the seat.

  “Well,” he said, “if Henry wins, he’ll have you to thank.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I replied.

  For a moment he sat silently staring at his thumbs. I leafed through my magazine without seeing any of it.

  “I really am sorry, you know.” He swiveled his body towards me, knees and chest and head had all invaded my personal space.

  I didn’t flinch. “I don’t care.”

  He placed a hand on my knee. I picked his hand up and dropped it to his side.

  “I’m trying to apologize. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  I focused on an article in my magazine. It was about the pros and cons of dating a divorced man with kids. They had a checklist but I couldn’t take it in. “What about your smack talk during the fire challenge?”

  He sighed. “I was just trying to shake you, but it was all for the game, Robin.
I didn’t think anything that I did or said would have consequences outside of the game.”

  “I don’t believe you’re that stupid.”

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  My fingers clenched, wrinkling the glossy edges of my magazine. “Oh, I see, but using me, that was okay?”

  “You used me too,” he said quietly. “Maybe not in the same way, or as much, but you did use me too.”

  The announcer came on, speaking Spanish, but I could understand that my flight number was being announced. I stood and grabbed my carry-on.

  “Good bye, Grant.”

  He stood too. His rosy lips parted slowly, afraid to ask their question. “Am I ever going to see you again?”

  I was not going to let in his clean-shaven charm. I stared at him, eye to eye. “You’ll see me on the show.”

  Then I had to turn away, because if I kept his gaze my face might betray my emotions. The fact that Grant’s eyes were filled with tears meant nothing to me. Nothing at all.

  Now, lying on my hotel bed, I squeeze my eyes shut. I could invite him here tonight and he would most likely say yes. My body warms at the thought. I abruptly raise myself up, go to the bathroom, and splash some water on my face.

  When I look in the mirror the face that stares back at me seems foreign, and I don’t think she could scare a bunny rabbit. I square my shoulders. “Buck up,” I say to my reflection. “You’ve come this far. Don’t blow it all again.”

  §

  The stage lights are blinding. We’re sitting on a reproduction of the bamboo set that was used for Island Assembly. All sixteen of the cast-members are here, and we’ve been divided into four rows. The fourth row, raised up in the back, seats the first four people voted out, and it progresses on in that order. I’m sitting in a glorified office chair at the far right of the front. Grant sits next to me; Klemi is to his left, and at the edge is Henry. On a big screen to the side they play highlights from the final Island Assembly, including my entire speech to the jury.

  Tonight, Grant is wearing black jeans and a charcoal grey shirt with a thin green tie. I can smell his after-shave from where I sit, and his curls have been cropped short. On screen, I watch a grubbier version of Grant asking me for forgiveness, and I see my tearful-self deny his request as I make my final pitch for Henry.

  As the filmed flashback fades Joe Pine steps into the spotlight. He’s wearing his usual safari shirt, but it’s a darker blue tonight and his shoes look like they’ve never met a speck of dirt. None of us on stage do either. I could barely recognize myself when they were done with my hair and makeup. Tonight they’ve dressed me in teal and silver, and my hair is clipped back in a wide, shiny clasp. My blouse is thin and scoop-necked and my chest is adorned in a thick chain of turquoise. Maybe I’ll get to keep the outfit?

  The crowd cheers when they see Joe, and the steel guitar and drums play The Holdout theme song. Joe shouts over it all into his microphone. “Welcome to The Holdout: Philippines live reunion special! These cast members have had a long wait to hear the results of the final vote.” He turns to Grant, Klemi, and Henry. “How nervous are you right now?”

  Henry uses one finger to rub at his eye. He’s wearing contacts instead of glasses, and his hair is clean and combed. He’s also dressed almost all in black, save for the white shirt collar sticking out from his sweater. I sort of expect him to speak more deeply now, but when he talks it’s with the same old tenor. “I’ve been more relaxed,” he jokes with a squeaky, trembling voice.

  Joe indicates the ballot basket he’s holding. “Grant, Klemi, do either of you want to guess who will win?”

  “I think Grant will win,” says Klemi.

  “I’d rather just have you read the results,” says Grant.

  The crowd cheers and Joe, enjoying the energy of the room, throws his head back in laughter. “I think the audience is with you on that. Okay. Let’s find out who our million dollar winner is!”

  Joe stands, smiling, and reaches into the ballot basket he is holding. Grant and Henry scoot their chairs towards Klemi, so the camera can get a good shot of the three of them. As Joe removes each ballot, he reads it first, and then shows it to the audience.

  “First vote, Grant.” There is a smattering of applause from the audience. “Second vote, Grant.” More applause. I lean over to try and catch Henry’s eye, but he’s staring straight ahead. “Third vote, Grant.”

  Grant’s grin is stretched so wide that he has to think he’s won. Joe reaches for another ballot. “Fourth vote, Henry.” Screams from the audience erupt, probably from Henry’s family. “Fifth vote, Henry.” More wild applause. “Sixth vote…” Joe pauses, and slowly holds the ballot for the audience to see. “… Henry.”

  Joe speaks over the cheering crowd. “That’s three votes Grant, three votes Henry, one vote left.” My stomach is twirling around like a ballerina, but then I realize: I haven’t seen my own ballot yet.

  “Oh my God!” I yell, and then quickly clamp my hand over my mouth.

  Joe shoots me a cross-eyed look and I mouth my apology. He then reaches in, looks at the last ballot, and slowly holds up my writing for the world to see. “The winner of The Holdout: Philippines, Henry!”

  The tribal music swells. Streamers fall from the ceiling, and the audience is chanting their approval. Tears come pooling to my eyes. I leap out of my seat, as happy as if I’d won myself. I jump up and down, cheering, and Henry does the same. Before he runs off the stage to be congratulated by his family, he hugs me, hard. “Thank you, Robin!” he says in my ear. I hug him back, so tight that for a moment I’m incapable of letting go.

  But he releases me, and ventures down into the audience to receive hugs and kisses from his mother, his father, his girlfriend, and all his third cousins who tagged along. I sink back into my chair, smiling and wiping the tears from my eyes.

  “Congratulations, Robin. You win.”

  I turn towards Grant. “Henry won,” I say.

  He speaks through a plastic smile. “My losing is your winning.” The muscles in his face relax and his eyes widen. “I can’t defeat you, and that only makes me want you more.”

  My fingers rub against the smooth silver of my bracelet as I try to form a response.

  “Did you hear me?” Grant asks.

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “Robbie! Hey, Robbie!” Through all the music and cheers, I hear Ian’s shouts. I can’t see past the stage lights, but I wave in the direction of his voice. Doing so gives me a chance to interrupt the buzzing of my nerves.

  Joe tells the television audience to stay tuned and we cut to commercial. Henry is shepherded back onto stage and we prepare for the cast interview. When the show resumes Joe starts questioning Henry about strategy, and they show clips of his greatest moments.

  “Well,” says Joe, “This has definitely been one of the most eventful seasons of The Holdout in our show’s history. That was due in no small part to Grant.” There is a smattering of boos from the crowd, mixed with claps and shouts of support. “Grant, tell us about your strategy of making people emotionally attached. How did that work for you?”

  A self-deprecating smile creeps modestly across Grant’s face, like he’s a grade-school winner at a science fair. “Not so well,” says Grant. “I didn’t think about the endgame, or who I would hurt.”

  “So you still have regrets?” asks Joe.

  “It’s funny you should ask,” says Grant. He hops off his chair, faces me, and nimbly lowers himself to his knees. A huge camera zooms in to catch the moment. “Robin,” he says. “There are no hidden agendas now. The game is over and I lost. So I’m begging you for one more chance. I can’t get you out of my mind, and if you say yes I will travel to Iowa and take you out on the most amazing date you’ve ever been on in your life.”

  Grant places a hand on hand on my knee. I’m torn between jerking my leg away or grabbing his hand to guide it further up my thigh. I do neither; instead I sit there, shocked and silent as the studio au
dience yells their directives at me. I look from Grant’s teddy bear eyes to Joe’s gleeful presence standing above me. I bet he wants me to say yes so they can hire a camera crew to follow us around.

  “Um, I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say.

  There’s a loud, collective “Ooh!” from the audience. Grant’s smile dissolves and he returns to his chair.

  Joe takes a step in towards Klemi. “Klemi, what do you think about this? Are you sad that Grant is now choosing Robin over you?”

  Klemi leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. “Please,” she says. “I went on The Holdout to win money, not to find love. The only thing that makes me sad tonight is that I didn’t win.”

  Joe nods his head, talk-show host style. He sidesteps closer to me. “What about you, Robin? Why did you go on The Holdout? Was it to find love?”

  I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and take a deep breath. I don’t trust my voice to answer adequately. “No, not to find love. But it wasn’t just to win money, either. I guess I thought it would a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I wanted an adventure, and all the self-discovery and challenges that come along with it.”

  Joe raises his eyes. “But what if part of that adventure is in fact, finding love?”

  I weave my fingers together in my lap and try not to look at Grant, but I’m like a bobble head with a metal brain and he’s a great big magnet. Grant is staring at me, waiting for me to respond.

  I shrug. “What if it is?”

  “So… you’re not saying no to Grant?” asks Joe.

  “I’m saying I have to think about it.” My voice, which had been on the mend, becomes muddled with mucus. I clear my throat. “I can’t think clearly on live television.”

  Joe chuckles like I’ve just said something hilarious. “What do you think about that, Grant?”

  Grant spreads out his hands in surrender. “If it isn’t a “no” then I can live with it.”

  A woman from the audience shouts, “I’ll go out with you!”

  Everybody except me laughs. “You’ve got a lot of female fans, wouldn’t you say, Grant?” Joe asks.