Chapter 5: Farmhouse Frenzy

I’d binge-watched every season of “Fixer Upper” and “The Simple Life” and fantasized about my own farm adventure.

Mason saw I was in, so he signed on too.

He texted me a thumbs-up and a chicken emoji. Classic Mason.

With two stars locked in, the production team went into hype overdrive.

They sent us gift baskets full of homemade jam, plaid shirts, and even a little toy tractor. They were really leaning into the aesthetic.

Grant and Marissa’s PR teams weren’t slouches, either.

They started dropping cryptic teasers online, posting blurry behind-the-scenes shots that sent fans into a frenzy.

If they played their cards right, they could ride this nostalgia wave all the way back to the top, so both signed on without a second thought.

The group chat was suddenly popping—full of inside jokes, playful jabs, and just a touch of competitive energy.

From the official announcement, trending hashtags started popping up everywhere.

People planned viewing parties. Someone started a countdown thread on Reddit, complete with gifs and memes.

#OurAmericanLifeOfficialAnnouncement#

#TenYearReunion#

#GrantMasonChloeBackTogether#

#OurYouthReturns#

Fans started sharing their favorite scenes, flooding every platform with nostalgia.

“Our American Life” became a sensation before a single episode aired, instantly the most anticipated reality show of the year.

A streaming service even crashed under the pre-sale demand. My publicist called it “the event of the decade.”

“My youth is back! I can’t wait!”

One fan posted a TikTok of themselves doing a happy dance in their kitchen.

“My idol and queen on a show together—I’m losing my mind!”

Someone else posted fanart of Mason and me in overalls, holding pitchforks like we were in American Gothic.

“Is this really happening in my lifetime?”

There were TikToks of people screaming at their phones in disbelief.

“Please, production team, hurry up! I bought this year’s streaming membership just for this!”

Someone posted a screenshot of their subscription receipt, circled in red.

The internet was buzzing, but I was so anxious I was checking my hair for gray strands every morning.

I caught myself staring in the mirror, hands shaking every time I got an email from the producers.

Because of all the hype, the production team decided to go all-in with a live broadcast format.

No retakes, no edits—just pure, unfiltered chaos. My stomach did a full somersault at the thought.

And since Mason and I were the newlyweds, we were expected to show off our love on camera to boost ratings.

The producers sent us a list of “suggested couple activities”—everything from cooking together to romantic sunset walks.

Even though we’re pros in front of the camera, the idea of constant surveillance made me nervous. What if I forgot my own storyline?

Seeing how jittery I was, Mason decided we needed to rehearse being a loving couple ahead of time.

He showed up at my place with a stack of marriage advice books and a playlist of every iconic rom-com. If nothing else, he was thorough.

But the way he put it made me suspicious.

He grinned, waggling his eyebrows like he was about to prank me.

He said, “Rule number one: loving couples have to kiss every day.”

I nearly spit out my coffee. “Mason, you trying to get us banned from streaming?”

No way.

I shook my head, holding up my hands like a ref at a football game. “Not happening on camera, dude.”

Doing that in public isn’t just awkward—it could get the live stream yanked.

I reminded him about last year’s infamous “reality show kiss incident.” No way was I going viral for that. The memes would outlive us all.

Then we wouldn’t be able to show our faces in LA for three years!

I’d have to change my name and move to Vermont.

Mason pouted: “Fine, second rule: loving couples share chores, like cooking together.”

He flipped through one of his books, reading off tips like a game show host. I snorted.

With our kitchen skills, we’d probably end up on the local news—“Hollywood Couple Burns Down Farmhouse.”

I flashed back to the last time we tried pancakes—smoke alarm blaring, ruined skillet, neighbors knocking on the door.

Loving, maybe, but mostly just a hot mess.

I just stared at him: “Where did you even get this stuff? It’s so forced.”

I tossed a pillow at his head. He ducked, laughing.

Mason flipped the book around to show me the cover: “How to Make Your Marriage Better.”