Still, one glance at my Instagram account, and someone would think that I was living the ultimate travel journalist’s dream.

Perfectly curated shots of me standing in front of the best theaters, sipping the best teas, and admiring the best artwork, was all a heavily filtered lie.

The program seemed like a bit of a scam—a way for the writers to gain “exposure,” while being nothing more than glorified interns who begged for scraps.

The only amazing things in my life were all the same: Wednesdays with Kyle.

As promised, he called me every week like clockwork, my nine in the morning, to his four, and we caught up with each other and ignored the giant elephant that stomped around the room.

Why can’t we be together?

The question had always been there, hanging in the room without making itself known.

The wonder lurked under the surface of every conversation, hid itself between the words we did and didn’t say.

We tiptoed around the subject here and there, but we never opened the door on a relationship.

We set silent boundaries when we spoke, never mentioning if we were dating someone, never addressing the possibility of someone else.

Of course, sometimes I caught pictures of him in gossip magazines and via the sports version of TMZ, and my heart would drop to the floor. I’d spend an entire day in sleuth-mode, searching for every shred of information on whoever his latest was, but it never got me anywhere.

They never lasted past one story, and he never mentioned any of them to me.

He insisted that his main goal—until I returned to the States—was football.

Two more seasons, Court. Two more seasons…

Kyle: Then

Boston, Massachusetts

Third Season

* * *

 

Kyle Stanton Fumbles Ball in Final Seconds, Falcons Lose Super Bowl Game

* * *

 

Kyle Stanton Seen Partying After Loss, Angers Fans

* * *

 

Do We Need Kyle Stanton?

* * *

 

Me: Court, I know it’s not “Wednesday,” but can you call me? I haven’t heard from you since before the game …

Me: Court?

Me: Court, I don’t feel like emailing and I keep getting your voicemail when I call … I need to talk to you.

Courtney: Then

London, England

Third Season

 

 

Ring! Ring! Ring!

My alarm clock sounded at the crack of dawn, bringing me into another day that I was sure to hate.

I was three years into the program without a single job offer or extended-stay scholarship, and I was anxiously anticipating the fourth and final season.

Getting out of bed, I took a shower and checked my mail slot. There was no sign of scholarship news, no sign of anything.

Only a student loan bill.

I grabbed my bag and headed to the door, finding myself face to face with a red-faced Kyle.

What the …

Blinking a few times, I took a step back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stared at me.

“Kyle, we had an agreement …”

“Fuck the agreement.” He pressed his lips against mine, kissing me long and hard. He gripped my waist, pushing me back into the room and shutting the door behind us.

Without a word, he stared into my eyes and pushed me onto the bed.

I moaned against his mouth as his hand went under my dress and pushed my panties to the side, as he slid two thick fingers inside of me.

“Court?” he said, kissing me harder.

“Yes?”

“Stop fucking with me.”

“What—” I gasped as he bit down hard on my bottom lip. “What are you talking about?”

He unbuckled his pants and unwrapped a condom, handing it to me so I could slide it over his length.

“Why aren’t you texting me?” He slid into me all at once, forcing me to claw at his back. “Why?”

I moaned, digging my nails into his skin a bit deeper.

He fucked me without asking any more questions. I didn’t offer to give any more answers.

I screamed his name as I came, and he held me taut against him, as he found his own release.

Panting and entwined, our mouths found each other again and again.

“Why haven’t you texted me back this week, Court?” he whispered.

“I lost my phone last week,” I said. “I sent you an email when I ordered a new one, but I also figured you’d want some time to yourself after …”

“Losing my first Super Bowl?”

“Yes.”

He sighed and slowly pulled out of me. Throwing the condom in the trash, he slid an arm under my back.

“My career has nothing to do with our friendship, Court,” he said. “And that won’t be my last Super Bowl. Are you seeing anyone?”

“You have the audacity to ask this after we have sex?”

He smiled. “I won’t tell him, if you don’t.”

“There is no one else,” I said. “Unless you count your limited edition bobblehead on my dresser.”

He looked over at it and laughed. “No, he doesn’t count.”

“Are you seeing someone?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Not unless you count the woman I’m currently looking at.” He smiled, and I blushed.

Silence filled the room for several minutes.

“How’s the program going?” he asked.

I shrugged, and he looked into my eyes.

“They didn’t pick you for the first round of scholarships, did they?” he asked.

“They said my writing was good, but not good enough.”

“Hmmm.” He tilted my head up with his fingertips. “So, you’ll try again, right? One more season?”

“Yeah.” I buried my head in his chest. “One more season.”

Courtney: Then

London, England

Fourth Season

Please let my name be on the list this time. Please let my name be on the list …

I stood outside the auditorium and waited for the results to be posted. If I made the cut, I could get on a plane next month and get the hell out of here.

If I didn’t, I’d try again for the next one and work even harder.

As I checked my watch, one of the program’s interns moved in front of me and taped a bright pink poster on the glass.

The other attendees and I waited until she walked around the corner before rushing to the wall to see our fate.

“Oh my god, yes!” “What the fuck?” “Seriously?”

I squinted and read every name on the list. Then I read it backwards.

My name wasn’t there.

“Oh my god! I made the cut!” My suite-mate Ashley—the second sucky-ass one the universe had bestowed upon me—tapped my shoulder. “I’m so glad that you didn’t.”