For Real(26)

“Man, that sucks,” Will says.

“What’s your deal?” Zora asks him, and only then do I realize I don’t even know why Will’s here. The one time we had an extended conversation, I was too distracted by his trivia game—and, let’s be honest, his face—to ask.

“Lou’s my half brother, and our dad’s the CEO of a pretty major company,” Will says. “Totally stereotypical bigwig, with the private jet and the expensive cigars and the country club membership and everything. He’s been grooming me to take over the family business my whole life, but the thing is, I have zero interest in business, and neither does Lou. When we told him we wanted to start an arts nonprofit instead, he threatened to cut us off. So … we’re here for the money.”

“Wow,” Zora says. “That’s rough.”

“My dad even has my future wife picked out, if you can believe it. She’s the CFO’s daughter. She’s gorgeous, but she’s literally the most boring person I’ve ever met. He’s always trying to shove us together at company Christmas parties and stuff. Last time I saw her, she spent an hour talking about the problems she was having with her maid. I wanted to puncture my eardrums with a prawn fork.”

I stare at Will, suddenly more intimidated by him than ever. I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this. I thought he was just a regular guy who went to NYU, and now it turns out he probably grew up vacationing on a private island. How could a childhood like that produce someone so normal? But now that I know what to look for, his backpack does look more high-tech than mine, and his jeans look more artfully distressed.

I try to picture myself on his arm at a black-tie company Christmas party, but the whole thing is too ridiculous for even my imagination. I’d probably trip in my high heels and fall in a chocolate fountain or something. The CFO’s daughter would never do that. She probably has impeccable table manners, speaks twenty languages, and uses some sort of billion-dollar yak’s-blood zit cream that makes her skin look like rose petals. How could I ever compete with someone like that, boring or not? I don’t even know what a prawn fork is. She probably has her own monogrammed set.

I tune back in as Martin asks, “Which company does your dad run?”

Will gestures toward the cameras, then lowers his eyes. “I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. He’s not a bad guy, and I don’t want to get him into trouble. That’s just not the kind of life I want, you know?” There’s an undercurrent of pain in his voice, and it makes me want to reach out and put my hand on his cheek. I manage to restrain myself.

The gate agent announces that preboarding is beginning for flight 372 to Hong Kong with continuing service to Surabaya. My heart is suddenly in my throat as we get in line—I’m about to sit next to Will for twenty-five hours. What if we run out of things to talk about right away and I have to deal with an entire day of awkward silence? What if I fall asleep and drool on his shoulder or exhale horrible plane breath in his face? Would it help if I went to sleep with gum in my mouth? Probably not—knowing me, it would end up in my hair. Just in case, I rummage around in my pack until I find a piece, which I tuck into the pocket of my hoodie for easy access.

Greg turns off his camera to board the plane, and as soon as his lens cap is on, Will’s friendly, easygoing demeanor disappears completely. He’s strangely quiet as we make our way down the jet bridge and onto the plane, and maybe it’s the horrible lighting, but I notice that he’s starting to look a little green. “You okay?” I ask as we reach our row. “You don’t look so hot.”

That’s a total lie. He still looks incredibly hot.

“I’m fine,” he says, shoving his backpack into the overhead compartment. “Do you mind if I take the aisle?”

“No, I like the window.” I scoot into my seat, and he plunks down beside me and stares straight ahead. When he doesn’t say anything for a good fifteen seconds, I try, “This must be really different from what you’re used to, huh?”

He looks confused. “What?”

“Flying coach.” When he still doesn’t react, I continue, “I’m sure this is nothing like your dad’s private jet.”

“Oh, ha. Right.” But he doesn’t elaborate. He just stares at the blank video screen on the back of the seat in front of him like he wants to be left alone.

As I turn toward the window and watch the waves of heat rising off the tarmac, it occurs to me that maybe Will was only acting sweet and flirty earlier because we were being filmed. After all, this show is centered on romance, so he probably knows he’ll get more screen time if he’s nice to me. Maybe he’s even angling for one of those special prizes Isis mentioned for getting close to your partner. But the cameras will probably stay off during the flight, and if he’s only pretending to like me, I’m in for an even more uncomfortable twenty-five hours than I’d feared. A knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach, and I start missing Miranda like crazy.

The moment the plane begins taxiing toward the runway, a weird noise starts up nearby, like someone’s taking quick, wheezy, gasping breaths. At first I think it’s a fussy baby, but when I turn to look, I realize the sound is coming from Will. His eyes are squeezed shut, his skin has a clammy, grayish pallor, and he’s digging his nails into the armrests so hard he’s making little dents in the rubberized plastic. There’s obviously something really wrong with him.