CHAPTER ONE
According to Flat Falls legend, the ladies in my family have always had a flair for being overly dramatic. If the genealogy websites gave out awards for top-notch drama queens, the Wells women would have rocked their sparkling crowns all the way down the genetic line.
When I was a child, my aunt Beverlee would draw me into her lap to recount stories about my great-grandmother, a bootlegger who spent her best days running from the law. She eventually served time for sideswiping a backwoods sheriff with a souped-up Ford filled with her prized moonshine. When she got out of prison, she married him.
“Every woman needs a spectacular story to tell about her life, Glory,” Beverlee would say, and we’d spend hours in the shade under a knotty live oak tree in her back yard dreaming of the ruckus I was going to make in the world.
It turns out I didn’t make much of a ruckus.
But even though I didn’t wind up as a famous news correspondent or an international spy, I did develop a fondness for other people’s drama, mostly in the form of an obsession with trashy TV. From the name-calling to the hair-yanking, if a show provided an evening of theatrical commotion, I was there for the whole dazzling spectacle.
“I can’t believe you’ve never watched Romance Revival,” I said to my neighbor Josie as I motioned toward the television with a brownie-smudged finger. “They plucked a cast of losers from those smutty grocery store tabloids and asked them to duke it out for half a million dollars and the chance to find true love.”
“There’s no such thing as true love.” Josie sniffed.
“Exactly!” I thrust my fist in the air triumphantly. “It’s tacky and ridiculous, and you’re going to love it.”
“I’ve never played dress-up to watch TV before,” Josie replied, tugging at a gauzy feathered hat Beverlee had found buried under a pile of leftover felt in her craft closet. “It’s kind of exciting.”
Beverlee and I had always treated reality television like other people treat the Academy Awards—with respect, fanfare, and a colossal buffet. Sometimes we even dressed up for the occasion, like when we teased our bangs and scavenged vintage evening gowns for the finale of a show about geeky millionaires who returned to their high schools for prom re-dos. We cheered and cried like we were the ones strolling into smelly gyms in Vera Wang gowns with diamond bracelets dripping from our wrists.
“You’re beautiful, dah-ling,” I said, reaching out to tap her plastic glass with mine before tossing a sparkly white scarf over my shoulder. I had picked it out from the clearance bin specifically for the show, its iridescent sequins both gaudy and mesmerizing. And like sports fans with their favorite jerseys, I had been wearing it for every episode since the series began.
Romance Revival provided matchmaking for screw-ups, and since Josie and I both identified with that designation, we were dressed to celebrate and armed with a table of snacks that rivaled a Super Bowl party. We both stood ready to binge on carbs and other people’s mistakes under the guise of planning a wedding for the winning contestants.
But unlike the other bawdy shows that captured our evenings, I was being paid to view Romance Revival.
It was like winning the lottery. I got to eat and watch television. For money.
