by Sean Lowe
“Luyendyk?” Joe asked when he met Arie. “Are you kin to Arie Luyendyk, the racecar driver?”
“Yeah,” Arie said. “That’s my dad.”
John (whom we frequently called Wolf) was a data destruction specialist, and Joe was a field energy adviser.
I have some stiff competition, I thought. I don’t know what I was expecting, but they all seemed like nice guys—and they in particular became great friends. Of course, I shouldn’t describe them as “contestants.” The producers of the show didn’t want us to view this as a game but as a chance to pursue a real-life love connection between Emily and, well, one of the twenty-five guys sitting in the limos lining the drive.
The show had tried to keep the shooting location under wraps, but word got out fast. I looked up and saw a local news helicopter getting footage for their evening broadcast. The mansion was in a beautiful, gated community, but that didn’t stop some fifty to sixty fans from trying to sneak on the property to catch a glimpse of the action. The show had hired off-duty police officers to keep the crowd at bay.
On the way, through a handheld radio a producer in our limo was holding, I heard that one of the limos had a collision with a manure truck.
“That doesn’t happen when we film in Hollywood,” Scott said. Scott was one of the two house producers who spent all his time with the guys.
I readjusted my tie and took a deep breath. Through the tinted windows, I could see the mansion at the end of the fifty-foot drive, and I knew Emily was in there somewhere, waiting to meet us.
“This must be the biggest thing to happen in North Carolina in a long time,” said Scott. I followed his gaze, looked through the tinted glass, and saw what looked like some sort of monster—a gigantic glob of tree branches and leaves—amid the trees.
“Is that Chewbacca?” one guy asked. A security guard had camouflaged himself with special clothing designed to resemble heavy foliage. It was the sort of gear hunters use, which was appropriate since this guy was hunting for photographers and reporters trying to get some sort of scoop. I watched as he crawled toward us making sure no one got a glimpse of the behind-the-scenes action. Preseason spoilers are a big business and earn prestige, page views, and money for the person who gets the goods.
The biggest spoiler happened during season 13 of The Bachelor. In the show’s 2009 romantic finale, single dad Jason Mesnick proposed to former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader Melissa Rycroft. Viewers at home swooned as Jason and Melissa began “happily ever after.” But just seconds after the show aired, the after-the-rose ceremony came on, showing Jason and Melissa sitting as far away from each other as humanly possible while still being on the same couch. Jason then proceeded to dump Melissa on live television, saying he actually had feelings for the first runner-up. Viewers reeled from the turn of events, but attentive readers of the spoiler blogs had seen it coming for weeks. Somehow, someone had correctly predicted the biggest shock of the franchise’s history—weeks before it happened.
Understandably, the producers were nuts about secrecy. Even though we signed confidentiality agreements, gave up our phones, and were forbidden to speak to the press, information still leaked out. I think this happened for two reasons. First, it’s basic human nature: if someone knows something juicy, he or she can’t wait to tell it. People send bloggers tips such as, “Hey, I’m a friend of so-and-so’s and I heard that . . .” Plus, I wonder if some of these spoilers have a few people inside the show, too, who give them the valuable inside scoop.
The quest for that inside information was why there was a security guard in a ghillie suit inching toward us, reporters crawling over this small town, and helicopters flying overhead.
What is going on? I thought. Only days ago, I was sitting in my cramped office asking people to buy more life insurance.
“First limo,” I heard come out of the radio in the hand of one of the producers, Mary Kate. “Let’s go.”
The driver pulled around slowly under the carport of the mansion. The doors to the multimillion-dollar house were propped open, revealing an ornate hallway with a gorgeous staircase. The show’s lighting technicians knew just how to shine a light here, dim a light there, and burn a few candles to transform a regular room into something out of a fairy tale.
When I drove up, Emily was standing in the foyer, wearing a gold dress and a nervous smile. Candles were everywhere—on tables, on the steps, on pillars, on the floor—and light sparkled off her dress. It sounds cheesy, but she really looked like an angel.
I opened the door of the limo and had two thoughts: Don’t trip over your words, and Don’t make a fool of yourself.
My memory blacked out at that point, because I don’t even remember meeting her.
According to the broadcast I watched later, here’s how it played out: I climbed out of the limo, straightened my jacket, and climbed up ten stairs.
“Welcome to Charlotte,” Emily said.
“You look amazing,” I said.
We hugged. I told her I looked forward to getting to know her more. We hugged again.
After my intro, I walked into the mansion, settled in for a long night, and felt glad I didn’t trip over my words or feet. Certainly I’d held my own compared to the parade of guys who made their introductions after me. As the guys came in one by one, I heard about the gimmicks they came up with—or the producers came up with—to make a memorable first impression. One guy dressed up like a grandma, another brought in an ostrich egg (for reasons I can’t quite remember), one brought her a real glass slipper, and another broke into dance moves. Oh, and one guy—named Jef Holm—came in on a skateboard while clinging to the limo’s bumper. The host, Chris Harrison, admitted that the limo came in much faster than they’d hoped, but Jef rolled in fast, tossed the skateboard into the bushes, and wowed Emily. I was interested to see who the last guy to arrive would be, especially considering that the producers took special care to relegate the guys who seemed most likely to end up with Emily to the first and last slots. As we waited for the last guy to get out of the limo, we realized he wasn’t even in the limo at all. Overhead, we heard a chopper.
“Is that a news helicopter?” someone asked, peering out the window.
“Nope,” another said. “It looks like a guy is getting out of that.”
Sure enough, it happened. A guy jumped out of the helicopter in a move that definitely upstaged Jef’s skateboard.
When I heard about all this, I wondered if my two hugs and polite “nice to meet you” would be enough to stand out.
A few minutes later, Emily came in on the arm of “helicopter guy,” followed by a camera crew. It was amazing to see this in action. At the casting call, I’d been filmed with a single, stationary camera. Having an entire crew of people standing around in various places catching everything you do on film was quite a new experience. Between the lighting, the fairy-tale setting, and the camera and sound guys, nothing felt real.
Emily made her way around the group, chatting and pulling some guys aside for private conversations in areas that the producers had set up with cameras and romantic lighting. Getting time with her was crucial, because there was the all-important “first impression rose” at stake. It seemed a little odd that all these guys were competing for a rose, but the flower was just a symbol. It represented an invitation to stay longer. Emily’s job was to give this rose to one of the guys who really stood out, thereby protecting him from being sent home during the first rose ceremony.
No one was looking forward to the rose ceremony. At the end of each cocktail party, Emily would hand out a single red rose to each guy she’d like to get to know better. On the first night, we were told, she was sending six guys home. As the evening progressed—and beer glasses got drained—a palpable sense of desperation came over the group. Thankfully, everyone was aware of the general flow of the evening. Tonight was about starting casual conversation, making an impression, and not taking up too much of her time. It was only considerate to make room for the other guys.<
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Not everyone felt this way.
“Helicopter guy” was having his private moment with her in the courtyard as the rest of us milled around inside. I kept asking producers when I could talk to her. Finally, Scott pointed at me and said, “You’re up.”
“Mind if I steal her for a minute or two?” I asked politely after making my way out to them. I normally wouldn’t interrupt people having a conversation like this, but I was now on “Planet Bachelorette,” where normal behavioral rules didn’t apply.
“I certainly mind,” the other bachelor said pointedly. “But I don’t know if I can object.”
Awkward silence.
“Well,” I said. “I’d appreciate it.”
He didn’t budge.
“Well, thank you,” Emily said to him, indicating it was time for him to go. He muttered something about how I needed to treat her like a princess as he walked back into the mansion. Inside, some of the guys who’d witnessed his weird response confronted him about it, and a Bachelorette villain was born. I’m no expert on the show, but it seems as though every season there’s “that guy.” (Or on The Bachelor, “that girl.”) That’s the person who isn’t there to make friends and proceeds to make sure he is the most unfriendly person there—except to the Bachelorette’s face, naturally.
It didn’t matter to me, because I got a chance to talk to Emily. While these cocktail parties were supposedly casual meet-and-greets, I had a strategy. Every time I talked to her, I had one idea that I wanted to get across. On the first night, for example, I wanted to tell her about my family back home. I was just able to get the words out when someone interrupted. However, our conversation went well, and I couldn’t wait to get to know her better.
The night stretched out longer than it probably appeared on television, because it took time to set up cameras to capture Emily talking with each and every guy. Before she was swept away by the host, Chris Harrison, she gave the first impression rose to a single dad whose kid had handwritten Emily a letter.
Well-played, Single Dad.
While Emily was deliberating over whom to send home, the producers lined us up to hear the verdict. We waited while Emily made her final decisions and the producers arranged the guys’ names into the order they wanted her to call them out. Since it was the first night, no one knew all the guys’ names yet. A producer stood off to the side, to give her helpful name prompts.
When the cameras started rolling, Chris Harrison walked in and clinked a champagne flute. Once he had everyone’s attention—which he certainly already had—he began explaining how everything would work. I suddenly felt anxious. I don’t remember what Harrison said, but I knew the score. If she gave me a rose, I’d stick around. If I didn’t get a rose, I’d be on the next plane departing from Charlotte Douglas International Airport.
Emily picked up a flower from the tray and paused.
“Coming into this, I was really scared—scared that maybe you guys weren’t going to be into me or I wouldn’t have the feelings I hoped I would have, especially on the first night,” she said. “You all have exceeded my expectations a million times over. It made me really hopeful, and I’m really confident that it can really work out this time!”
And with that, she began handing out the roses.
Charlie.
Kalon.
Arie.
Jef.
I honestly didn’t think I’d be one of the first to leave and had a quiet confidence as I stood there. However, I have to admit, my heart pounded as she went down her list. Shay and Andrew had joked around about how I didn’t want to be the guy sent home on the first night.
Aaron.
Joe.
Chris.
Alejandro.
Finally, when I heard her say, “Sean,” I sighed in relief. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. Emily sent home six guys that night and—thankfully—I wasn’t one of them. By the time I got my rose, it was two o’clock in the morning—and we weren’t finished yet.
Much behind-the-scenes action happened that made the initial cocktail party—and, really, everything on the show—take up so much time: Every guy had “In the Moment” chats (known as ITMs) with the producer and a more formal sit-down with Emily. Cameras were set up for the ceremony—and then taken down. Emily had to take occasional breaks during the night to rest or eat because it’s such an exhausting evening.
In fact, we didn’t wrap filming until six o’clock in the morning. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling, Harrison went into the kitchen and made everyone breakfast burritos.
The first evening on The Bachelorette was certainly memorable. I headed back to my room, clutching that rose.
I knew it wouldn’t be my last.
five
THE BIG BABY
“Gentlemen, good morning. Let me tell you how this works,” host Chris Harrison said to the bachelors after he called us out of the mansion. There were a total of sixteen guys left vying for Emily’s attention, and we all waited anxiously as Harrison laid out exactly what was going to happen next.
“Each week, you’ll be going on dates with Emily: one-on-one dates and group dates. There will be roses up for grabs on each date. If you get a rose, you’re safe during the next rose ceremony.”
It was hot that March day in Charlotte, and the guys shuffled in their seats. “Now let me tell you about the individual dates. They’re a little more complicated. You need to have your bags packed, because if Emily decides not to give you a rose on those dates, you’ll be going home immediately.
“A word of advice,” Harrison said. “Not all of you will be going on dates this week. If and when you get time with Emily, take advantage of it. It might be the only time you have with her. Who gets to go on what dates? Or who doesn’t get a date? Well, you’ll be told on date cards. I have the first one right here.” He placed the card on a table and walked away.
Someone grabbed the card and read it aloud. I’m not sure who went on the first one-on-one date, but it wasn’t me. This sent me into a waiting pattern—very common in the world of The Bachelorette. A date card would come, guys would get pumped for their dates, and the rest of us would hang out at the mansion. Not a bad life, of course. Since there was no way to kill time by surfing the net, checking e-mail, or texting friends, we hung out at the pool, ate some of the great food they left for us, and relaxed with the other guys. In the mornings, I’d go out onto the second-floor porch that overlooked the courtyard and read from the book I’d brought.
Jesus Calling had a devotion for every day of the year. The author—Sarah Young—wrote from Jesus’ point of view, so the book is like Jesus talking to you. Because the readings are based on Scripture, I couldn’t wait to read them when I woke up. Ever since my spiritual renewal after college, I felt like I needed the Bible to get through the day with the right mind-set. And since I was in such an extraordinarily unusual environment, I needed God even more.
“I will not show you what is on the road ahead, but I will equip you for the journey,”4 I read one muggy morning in the courtyard of the mansion. As I read the words, I really felt like Jesus was speaking to me.
“Hey, what are you reading?” asked a voice from behind me. It was Alejandro, a bright, urban mushroom farmer from San Francisco who’d been on Forbes’ “30 under 30” list. Being a mushroom farmer seemed so much cooler than being an insurance salesman. It was hard not to compare myself to these accomplished guys.
“This is my daily devotional from a book,” I said. “Every day, it’s like a message from God.” As soon as I said the words, I knew I was labeling myself as “the evangelical Christian guy,” but I wasn’t going to hide who I was.
“Cool,” Alejandro said before walking back into the house.
And so we whiled away the hours, waiting until the next date card would arrive. I didn’t have a date during the first week. But on the second group date, finally, my name was on the card, along with a bunch of the other guys’ names. The invitation simply read, �
�Let’s play.”
The coy wording left me wondering what on earth we’d end up doing. The producers never told us what we would be doing, only what we should wear. The word came down that we were supposed to dress for outdoor sports. This, I thought, could benefit me because of my football background.
When we arrived at a park on a sunny day, Emily was waiting for us, holding—you guessed it—a football. I’ve got this.
We tossed the football in the park while all the guys tried to impress her. It was hard to figure out the dynamics of a group date, something that would never happen in real life. Because I’m not the type of guy to aggressively pursue women, I hung back as some of the others flirted and joked with her. Then, suddenly, she left.
“What do you guys think we’re going to be doing today?” someone asked.
Well, you have to hand it to the producers. They knew how to put us in uncomfortable—and revealing—situations. Instead of tossing the pigskin, Emily introduced us to a group of her friends. Their job was to interview us individually, to see who would be a great dad for Emily’s six-year-old daughter. Nothing was off limits, so they asked us: Have you ever cheated? What things do you have in common with Emily? Have you ever dated someone with a child? What is the worst quality about yourself? And my personal favorite, What’s up with the guy with the egg?
Watching the guys go before me was nerve-racking—I saw one of the guys dance and another do push-ups on a picnic table. When it was my turn, they didn’t hesitate to start grilling me. After a few warm-up questions—what I did for a living and where I was from—they got down to business.
“So why do you think you have a connection with Emily?” one of her friends asked.
“I think we’ve connected on a few points,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Well,” I began, “I come from a family that’s centered on faith. That’s who we are and what’s most important to us.”
