Where's the Straight Guy?

On my first day at the villa, the production team hands me a mission card. I read it. "Welcome to 'Where's the Straight Guy?', a reality show where 12 male contestants will be living together for one month. Only one of them is straight, while the others are gay. Every week, two people will be voted out. If the hidden straight guy makes it to the end, he'll win ten million dollars." I'm at a loss for words for a few seconds after I finish reading. Then, I look up at the director. "Your team does know what the words 'male contestant' mean, right?" The director looks me over—my short hair, black hoodie, chest hidden under a sports bra, and my five-foot-nine height—then checks the application form. He rattles off, "Alex Callahan, male. A 26-year-old freelancer." I'm rendered speechless again. Lovely. I see the problem now. Chapter 1 My name was Alexis Callahan, and my brother was Alexander Callahan. He went by Alex, and I went by Lexi. He'd signed up for this reality show, but the day before filming started, he broke his leg wrestling with someone at a bar and ended up in the hospital. So he shoved his ID, suitcase, and application materials into my arms. "Lexi, you've gotta save my life here," he said. I shot back, "Are you out of your mind?" "You get ten million." "Have I ever told you you're the best brother a girl could ask for?" And that was literally all it took. I'd thought I was just showing up to fill in for him. I would lay low the first week, get eliminated, and go home with 50 grand in appearance fees. But ten minutes after walking through the door, I realized something was very wrong. The first male contestant was Wyatt Jamison. He was six-foot-three with a buzz cut, and he looked totally ripped. He looked into the camera and said, "I'm gay." Then he turned around, saw the female producer in the kitchen, and his ears turned red. The second male contestant, Ethan Vaughn, wore gold-rimmed glasses and had that "clean-cut on the outside, trouble on the inside" kind of look. He said, "I've played for the other team for years." The next second, his phone screen lit up. The caller ID said, "Ex-Girlfriend, Stop Calling Me." The third male contestant was even more ridiculous. He introduced himself with, "I'm a bottom." I glanced at the tattoo on his wrist. It said, "All My Exes Are Evil Witches." I was speechless. Seriously? Did the casting team just close their eyes and sweep people in with a broom? All 12 of us sat down in the living room. The director, Phil Smith, told us to introduce, in order, our sexual orientation, job, and ideal type. When it was my turn, I looked at the 11 pairs of eyes focused on me, all bright and innocent like a bunch of kids on the first day of school, and slowly said, "I'm Alex Callahan. I'm a freelancer. My ideal type is…" I paused. Everyone stared at me. I finished, "Whoever can give me ten million." Behind the camera, Phil let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like a pig squealing. The live comments flew by. [LOL this dude is so real!] [He looks real cocky.] [Send help. Alex totally gives 'silent but could punch someone through a wall' vibes!] [My money's on him being gay. No straight guy dresses that well.] I looked down at the black hoodie I'd bought online for 20 bucks with free shipping. Hey, being broke was also a fashion statement, wasn't it? … That first night, production set up an icebreaker game. The rules were simple—everyone drew a question card and had to answer. The first question went to Wyatt. It read, "When was the last time your heart skipped a beat?" He was quiet at first. His gaze drifted toward the kitchen, where the female producer was slicing fruit. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he said, "Just now." Everyone went, "Whoa!" Whoa, my ass. This guy was straighter than the telephone pole outside my apartment. The second question went to Ethan. The card read, "If your crush confessed to you, what would you do?" He pushed up his glasses. "It depends." Phil pressed, "Depends on what?" Ethan said, "On whether she's serious." The room went quiet for a beat. He scrambled to fix his blunder. "He. I mean, he." I looked at him, and he looked at me. The air was thick with the kind of awkwardness that made us both want to call 911. When it was my turn, my card read, "Who do you think is the most likely secret straight guy in the house?" I looked up and did a slow sweep around the room. The other 11 contestants all sat up straight at the same time. I wasn't even joking—for a second, it was like watching 11 dogs that had stolen food off the table pretend to be innocent the moment their owner walked through the door. I said, "Honestly, everyone looks pretty straight." Phil's eyes lit up. "Why do you think that?" "Because they're all trying way too hard." Everyone laughed, except Wyatt. He just stared at me, a knowing look in his eyes. Crap. Had he figured out I was a woman? But all he did was lean in, drop his voice, and ask, "You, too?" "Me what?" "Straight." I looked into his earnest eyes. Suddenly, I realized something even worse. Out of the 12 of us, aside from me, every single one of them probably thought they were the only hidden straight guy. And I was the only one who knew they were all straight. But… I was a woman! Chapter 2 On the second day of filming, the production team dropped the first mission. It was called "Blind Match". All 12 of us went into separate booths. Using voice changers, each person chatted with another contestant for five minutes, then wrote down who they felt the strongest spark with. When I sat down in my booth, a deep male voice came through my headphones. "Hey." "Hey," I answered. He went quiet for a second. "Your voice is… pretty distinctive." I held the voice changer, listening to myself sound like a lifelong smoker with chronic bronchitis. I said, "Thanks. You sound like a tractor." He went silent. I'd planned to lay low and coast until I got eliminated, but my mouth clearly had its own career goals. He chuckled softly. It was like an ice cube dropping into a glass with a little clink. He asked, "Are you always this blunt?" "Depends on the person. You're lucky." "Lucky how?" "I haven't even started." He laughed again. In those five minutes, we covered the weather, breakfast, why the production team managed to make the coffee taste like some herbal concoction, and what we'd do with ten million bucks. "I'd open a boxing gym," he said. "I'd break my brother's legs," I responded. He faltered, then asked, "What did he do to deserve that?" "He made me come on this show." "You didn't wanna come?" I was honest. "I want the money." He said, "Then you've gotta win." "Are you gonna let me?" "Sure." I raised an eyebrow. "How generous." "Well, I wanna win, too." "Then what the hell are you letting me for?" There was that laugh again in my headphones. It was low and weirdly nice to listen to. I mentally slapped myself. Get a grip, Alexis. This guy was straight and doing his best to act like he was gay. Five minutes passed, and Phil told us to write down our crush pick. My answer was simple—the prize money. When a staff member took my card, he looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon slice. They announced the results at noon. I was the most popular contestant, which baffled me. Seriously? Of all people to crush on, these guys had picked me? Phil read the votes. "Wyatt Jamison picked Alex, Ethan Vaughn picked Alex, Mason Barrett picked Alex, Simon Hayes picked Alex…" By the time he finished, my brain felt numb. Out of the 11 other contestants, 9 had voted for me. The livestream chat went ballistic. [Alex is out here breaking hearts left and right!] [The colder he is, the hotter he gets.] [He's the type of top who'll tell you to get lost but still tuck you in at night.] [I'm calling it now—he's this season's ultimate dream guy.] I tightened my fingers around my water glass just a little. Tuck someone in? Nah. I'd just list the blanket online and sell it. At dinner, Wyatt sat down next to me. He was the voice from the booth that morning. I recognized him the second he started talking, and it was clear he recognized me, too. He pushed a plate of chicken breast over. "You barely ate at lunch." I stared at the chicken breast, pale and depressing, like rock bottom in food form. "You call this dinner?" He glanced down. "High protein." "I'm here for a competition, not a prison sentence." The corner of his mouth twitched. He took the plate back and then placed a honey-glazed pork rib on my plate. "How about this?" I was about to say no, but my nose betrayed me first. The glaze was glossy, and it smelled way too good for anything cooked in a production cafeteria. I picked it up and took a bite. It was tender and full of flavor. I looked at Wyatt. "Did you make this?" "Yeah." "I thought you ran a boxing gym." "Before that happened, I ran a small bistro for three years." His résumé sounded even shiftier than this reality show. Everyone else in the living room started giving us odd looks. Ethan adjusted his glasses. "Do you two know each other well?" "We've talked," Wyatt said calmly. Mason immediately scooted over. "During the blind match?" Simon slapped the table. "Aha! The winner of the blind match and Mr. Boxing already have a secret thing!" I almost choked on my pork rib. "A secret what?" Simon covered his mouth. "A secret… affair." I looked around at this room full of straight guys forcing themselves to use vocabulary they'd clearly learned from binge-watching soap operas, not knowing how to feel. Honestly, I kind of wanted to laugh. … Before the evening vote, the production team pulled me aside for a solo interview. "Alex, who do you think is the most likely to be the secret straight guy right now?" Phil asked. "Wyatt," I said. His eyes lit up again. "Why?" "Because he gave me pork ribs." "And that proves… what, exactly?" I stayed deadpan. "Straight guys tend to show affection in very literal ways." "Like?" "Like feeding you meat." Phil laughed himself silly. Once the show aired, that interview clip went straight to the trending list. #StraightMenShowAffectionbyFeedingMeat #AlexCallahanWalkingGaydar Alex texted me from his hospital bed. "Lexi, you've gone viral." I replied, "When's your leg gonna heal?" "Not for a while." "Great. Don't get too attached to the other one, either." Right after I sent that, someone knocked on my door. I opened it to see Wyatt standing there with a bottle of antacid. "You ate too fast tonight," he said. I stared at the bottle, then at him. He added, "Don't get the wrong idea." "The wrong idea about what?" He looked away. "I just don't want you to be too sick to film tomorrow." "Uh-huh." He shoved the bottle into my hand and turned to leave. I called out, "Wyatt." He stopped. I lowered my voice. "You're straight, aren't you?" The hallway light fell across his brow bone; his shadow stretched long over me, tall and close. He looked at me for a long moment, then asked, "Do you want me to be?"