by Sean Lowe
I could tell Mom was trying to remind me of real life, to tell me life could get back to normal, to emphasize that everything could be the same.
“The last time I was at your house, Emily was there,” I said. The yard, the house, my life would feel dingier in her absence.
“Yeah, I know. I know,” she said. To her credit, Mom didn’t try to reason with me. Instead, she simply commiserated. “It’ll be okay.”
I hung on to that promise as I spent the next several days in what could’ve been a fun, relaxing resort. Taking one for the team, in the Bachelorette world, was not so bad. They got me a two-story, picturesque townhouse on the ocean, which I barely even noticed. In my head, I relived every moment between Emily and me a million times. Should I have said this? Should I not have said this? Should I have done this differently?
“You’ve got a week on the ocean,” Brenner said. “Wanna get your scuba license?”
I had to hand it to Brenner. He knew I wanted to become scuba certified, and he was by my side the whole time encouraging me to appreciate the moment. But I never took him up on any of his suggestions. I was devastated, because I had been certain Emily would be my wife.
One day, we went down the street to eat some sushi, and my twisted sense of humor got the best of me. “Brenner, do you know what would make me feel better?”
“What, buddy?” he asked. This was the first time I even indicated a possibility of happiness, and he was eager to do whatever would help.
“If you ate that,” I said as I pointed to the golf ball–size glob of wasabi next to my sushi.
“That?” He looked at the mound of wasabi, also known as Japanese horseradish. “The whole thing?”
I nodded.
To my surprise, Brenner popped the whole ball in his mouth. His eyes started watering, and he began coughing. If we’d been in a cartoon, smoke would’ve come out of his ears. I started laughing, and—once he stopped choking—Brenner started laughing too. It was the first moment my thoughts weren’t consumed by Emily since I’d been sent packing.
“Thanks, man,” I said when I finally regained my composure. “You’re a real friend.”
Since this was our favorite sushi place, we went there the following night. “Wanna make me happy again?” I asked, probably taking advantage of Brenner’s good nature and eagerness to cheer me up. “It would really make me laugh if you drank the water out of that vase,” I said, pointing to the flower vase that was sitting on our table.
Without a thought, he picked it up and took a swig. I was so surprised that he’d done it, I started laughing and couldn’t stop. That’s the amazing kind of guy Brenner is—he was a great friend during a tough and terrible time.
One night, after Brenner had gone to his place, my mind raced. As I got ready for bed, I picked up the phone and dialed my hometown friends Laura and Stephanie. It had been a long time since they’d helped me make my audition video for the show.
Understandably, the producers requested secrecy and warned me not to tell people of the results. However, they’re also reasonable people who knew there was no way to keep the results a secret from everyone, especially those closest to me. Since I trusted Laura and Stephanie implicitly—and they’d been with me all along this journey—I just had to hear their voices.
“It’s Sean,” I said, knowing I was calling from an unfamiliar number. I got emotional as I told them all the details.
“We love you and can’t wait for you to get home,” Stephanie told me.
“I just know Emily made a mistake,” I said. “Nothing adds up.”
“I’m sorry,” said Laura.
“I can’t stop thinking about all the things she told me,” I said. “All the reassuring things she told me and how our faith aligned. Nothing makes sense.”
“You’re not thinking of . . .” Stephanie began.
“But she’s made a mistake,” I said. “I feel like I need to talk to her.”
“No!” they both said in unison before I could finish my thought. “Don’t do it!”
“As loyal Bachelorette watchers,” Laura said, “you have to listen to us. When people who’ve been sent home show back up to plead their case, it never ends well.”
“Yeah,” agreed Stephanie. “Don’t do it. Don’t be that guy.”
I decided to listen to their advice, because I knew they had my best interests at heart. Knowing they were right didn’t stop me from tossing and turning in my bed, though. I stared at the ceiling, counted sheep, and prayed. Despite how tired I was, thoughts of Emily pushed any possibility of sleep far from me. I couldn’t make sense of it all. If she thought I was “the one” when we arrived on this island, what possibly could’ve happened to change her mind? And what about all her winks, knowing glances, and secrets? My mind raced. Was it possible that all this was a misunderstanding? I couldn’t imagine her in a relationship with Arie or Jef. After a couple of hours, I slipped out of bed, out the door, and into the streets of Curaçao.
I started walking down the road toward Emily’s hotel. Streets that looked quaint and welcoming in the day looked ominous under the cover of darkness. We’d been warned not to walk around the city at night because of the crime. But when your heart’s broken, you think—and do—crazy things.
Not that I was doing anything more than walking. I didn’t actually have a plan.
Maybe I’ll see her somehow, I thought. It’s late at night, so maybe I’ll run into her.
As I walked farther from my resort, the streets got seedier, and I became more aware that I—a big, blond American—stuck out like a sore thumb. I had only a vague knowledge of where Emily’s hotel was, so I walked in that general direction for over a mile, passing guys standing in packs on the street corners and lone women standing in alleys.
I finally found her resort, next to the ocean. The glowing lights from the windows looked welcoming and cozy.
Now what? I was the dog who caught the car. What do I do next?
I just stood there, looking at her hotel, and imagining where she was in it. Asleep? Thinking of me? With Arie or Jef?
Pain washed over me anew. Finally, after standing there for far too long, I figured there was nothing I could do, turned around, and walked back to my room.
Alone.
“What are we going to do when we see you kissing?” Stephanie asked, making the whole room groan.
I stuffed a fistful of popcorn in my mouth and settled in to the couch. I didn’t know how I would feel to see myself fall in love—and out of love—on national television. But I knew there was no other place I’d want to be than at Stephanie’s house with my tight-knit group of five or six friends.
“Tonight, Emily meets twenty-five of America’s most eligible bachelors. And then, the party gets started and the romance begins. It’s all coming up tonight on the exciting season premiere of The Bachelorette.”
As Chris Harrison’s familiar voice came through the television, my throat tightened. I’d never been on television before, so I was excited to see how I looked and what the producers selected to broadcast, and—mainly—how I would react when I saw Emily interacting with the other guys in ways I didn’t see while going through it. Before this moment, Chris Harrison had only existed within the context of my relationship with Emily. Now I was sitting in Dallas with my friends, watching him appear on Stephanie’s television screen. It felt odd and jarring, like a kid running into his teacher at the grocery store.
“There you are,” Laura said the first time I appeared on-screen as the room erupted with laughter and cheers.
“He’s as red as a beet,” Stephanie said.
“Look at how you strutted up the stairs,” Murrey said.
“Emily looks amaaazzzing,” they agreed.
During the moment, I had felt like I had blacked out—I didn’t remember one syllable of our introduction. It was like an out-of-body experience to watch myself do something I barely remembered.
As soon as that scene ended, the room erupted and
my phone lit up with texts.
I just saw you on The Bachelorette!
Was that you on The Bachelorette?
I just saw a guy who looked just like you on The Bachelorette!
Most people had no idea that I went on the show, and I got a kick out of all the shocked messages.
During the commercial breaks, my friends peppered me with questions.
What is Chris Harrison like?
Was the guy holding the egg actually nuts?
Could you tell who Emily liked?
It was such a relief to be home and felt so good to be around people I loved, but I couldn’t shake the feeling Emily had made a grave mistake.
After the first episode aired, I received an e-mail from Jeremy Anderson, a Texas attorney who had appeared on The Bachelorette season 4, starring DeAnna Pappas. He had made it all the way to the third position before being unceremoniously sent packing, making him one of the few people on the planet who could empathize with my situation.
“If you just want to talk about things and grab a beer,” he wrote after getting my information through mutual friends, “I’d love to talk to you.”
I was glad I took him up on it. We had a lot in common, and it felt good to talk to someone who knew what I’d been through.
“I actually met Emily once at a charity event,” he said, sipping his beer. “I can see why you’d fall so hard for her.”
“You did?” It seemed so odd to meet someone who knew her in the real world.
“Do you have her phone number?” I blurted out.
In normal relationships, the first way you connect with a person is to exchange phone numbers and e-mail addresses. But in the context-free world of The Bachelorette, you can propose to a woman without ever knowing her number or address.
“Actually,” he said, scrolling through his phone contacts, “I think I did get it.”
He wrote it on a piece of paper and slipped it across the table. Taking it felt like some sort of treasonous act. Because only one episode had aired, I had no idea if she ended up with Jef, Arie, or neither. In my heart, I assumed she ended up alone. It was inconceivable to me that either Jef or Arie would’ve been her soul mate.
I put her phone number in my wallet, right behind my credit card, and tried not to think of it. For about five or six days, I successfully fought the temptation to call. I couldn’t stop wondering how she was doing and whether she was happily engaged.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove to my apartment, shut the door, and sat on my couch with nothing but my phone and that slip of paper.
If she didn’t answer and didn’t call me back, I’d know she had gotten engaged and wanted me to leave her alone. I wasn’t going to be the crazy person who calls repeatedly.
I promised myself I’d make one call.
If she called me back, fine. If not, I’d throw away her number forever.
My heart raced as I pressed her number into my phone and lifted it to my face.
One ring. Two. Three. Voice mail.
“Emily, this is Sean,” I said, wishing I’d planned the voice-mail message a bit more. “The show was very rough for me. I don’t know how it was for you, but I was just hoping to catch up with you for a second.”
When I hung up, I felt some sort of release. At least I’d tried. If she wanted to contact me, she now had my phone number. I put the phone on my coffee table and wondered if she was listening to my message.
My phone never rang.
Absent any communication with her, I still had the chance to see her every Monday night. The episodes turned out to be very therapeutic. As I watched our lives unfold on-screen, I got to see her interact with the other guys. When I watched her have one-on-one dates with Jef and Arie, in particular, it eased my heartbreak. It was obvious they had a connection. Oddly, seeing her become so infatuated with those guys helped me heal faster, because it became clear she hadn’t made a mistake. She simply liked the other guys better. Every Monday night, we met at Stephanie’s, passed out the pizza, and watched—literally—an episode of my life pass before my eyes.
With each passing week, I got more airtime, and I couldn’t wait until someone in public recognized me. It took three weeks. After the third episode, I was at a restaurant when someone came up to me and said, “Are you the guy from the show? Sean?”
It gave me such a jolt.
Plus, this was when I got introduced to the wonderful world of Twitter. Because I’d never tweeted, I set up my own account and decided to participate in the fun. This was technically against the show’s rules, but I noticed a lot of the other guys were tweeting. Bachelor Nation is a vibrant online community that loves to interact with the people on the shows. After I sent out my first tweet, my feed went nuts. While Twitter is sometimes a horrifyingly brutal place, most tweets were positive and affirming, and it was exhilarating to read all the comments people were sending. Within minutes, my phone rang.
“Sean, this is Jonah,” I heard on the other end. “You gotta stop tweeting.”
“Why?” I asked. “Other guys are doing it.”
“Other guys didn’t get to the final three,” he said. “You gotta stop. You might accidentally give something away.”
And so I was no longer able to send out tweets, but I was able to search my name on Twitter—a fascinating and bizarre phenomenon because it allowed me to get real-time feedback from people all over the nation.
@EmilyMaynard, pick the hottie @SeanLowe09! #TheBachelorette
That Sean guy’s a tool with no personality #TheBachelorette
I don’t care who Emily picks, as long as #SeanLowe takes his shirt off again.
I found myself staying up until two in the morning, reading tweets from random people. During The Bachelorette, I gained twenty thousand followers every Monday night, which might translate into half a million tweets. My name trended nationally on Twitter. There I was, a normal guy sitting at home alone in my apartment, reading all this chatter about me. I also Googled my name and found many blog posts.
What is going on? I wondered. I wasn’t prepared for the celebrity that came along with the show. Celebrity isn’t the right word, because I certainly am not one. To me, a celebrity is someone like Brad Pitt (a guy with immense acting ability), Kevin Durant (a guy with dazzling athletic skill), or John Mayer (a guy with a smooth voice). Yet, every Monday, people loved live-tweeting The Bachelorette—even honest-to-goodness celebrities tweeted about my fate. It sucked me in. Whoa, this celebrity knows my name. What?
With each passing episode, I started getting more and more recognition.
“Hey, that’s Sean from The Bachelorette,” I began to hear in hushed tones when I was at a restaurant or the post office. It was all new, fascinating, and bizarre. I had no idea what I was stepping into.
It was just a taste of what was to come.
Halfway through The Bachelorette season, I got a call from one of The Bachelor’s executive producers, Travis Wunderli, who’s married to Mary Kate, the producer assigned to Emily.
“Did you see someone on the Internet has already spoiled the fact that Roberto is the next Bachelor?”
“I saw someone wrote on a blog that Roberto’s contracts were already signed,” I said.
“Well, those are just rumors,” said Travis. “What do you think about being The Bachelor?”
“Me?”
“Of course you!”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let me think about it. Give me a few days.”
I didn’t want to make a hasty decision, but I was definitely intrigued. Frequently, people leave the show saying, “It’s contrived. You can’t fall in love on a television show. It’s all fake. It’s staged.”
While I understand their sentiment, I’d pushed my chips into the center of the table. I was all in.
Can you fall in love on a reality TV show?
I did. And so did Arie and Jef.
Even though it seemed incredibly unlikely that the producers of The Bachelor coul
d somehow put my future wife into the mix of potential mates, I still knew the possibility of love existed.
“Travis just asked me to be the next Bachelor, and I don’t know yet,” I told my parents.
To be honest, I felt bad for putting Mom and Dad through this wild-goose chase. When Shay and Andrew originally signed me up to go on the show, I never once considered I’d end up with a broken heart. My family had been supportive, kind, and encouraging, even through the worst moments.
But I assumed they looked back at the show as a generally negative experience. I’d tried to hold the snake by the tail and I’d gotten bitten. Because of what I’d put them through, I was hesitant even to bring it up. I valued their advice, though, so I braced myself for their reactions.
“You’d be crazy not to do it,” my dad said.
“Aren’t you skeptical?” I asked. “After the way everything unfolded?”
“This door has been opened for you, son,” my dad said. “Maybe you should walk through it.”
Even my mom—the original Bachelorette skeptic—was onboard. “You have to do it,” she said.
It seemed like an amazing opportunity, and I was honored that the producers would even consider me. I called Travis back at the end of the week.
“I’ll do it.”
This was yet another secret I had to keep while watching the show with my friends. With each passing week, things intensified on the show, and I was dreading the episode in which I snuck out of our hotel in Prague and secretly went looking for Emily after her date with John Wolfner. He was one of my closest friends on the show. I felt guilty I sabotaged his one-on-one date with Emily with an impromptu date of my own. The week our secret excursion was going to be broadcast on television, I called him.
“Wolf, don’t be mad at me, but I have something to tell you,” I said before explaining the whole story.
“I don’t care,” Wolf said in his typical easygoing way. “I didn’t like her anyway!”
This was no surprise. Throughout the show, it was obvious who was falling for Emily and who wasn’t. It wasn’t that some guys were inauthentic in their interactions with her. It was just that some people connected and others didn’t. Just like in real life.
