For Real(28)

“That’s not—” I sputter. “What I meant was—”

“Don’t be embarrassed. I wouldn’t mind.”

If my face gets any redder, I’m pretty sure it’s going to catch on fire. I look down so my hair swings in front of my cheeks and take a couple deep breaths of my own. “And next question. Um … if you could only eat food beginning with one letter of the alphabet for the rest of your life, which letter would you choose?”

“Ooh, good one.” He thinks about it for a minute, and I take that time to concentrate on banishing my blush. “I’d choose P. I’d be able to have pizza and pasta and pad Thai and peanut butter. And pie, obviously.”

“What would you put the peanut butter on?”

“Pumpernickel. With peach preserves.”

I laugh. “Nice.”

“What would you pick?”

“Maybe S. I’d have tons of variety if I could eat soup and salad.”

He snorts. “That’s cheating, unless all your ingredients start with S.”

“Oh, yeah, and pizza isn’t cheating at all. ’Cause ‘cheese’ and ‘tomato sauce’ totally start with P.”

He grins at me. “Pomodoro and parmesan?”

The Question Game stretches on for hours—turns out we’re in no danger of running out of things to say. Since we’re flying west, it doesn’t get any darker as night approaches, and the flight attendants eventually pull down our window shades and pass out eye masks to mimic night. But I’m too high on adrenaline to rest, and Will doesn’t seem tired either, so we lower our voices to whispers and huddle closer together under our Cathay Pacific blankets. Our arms are barely touching, but every time he shifts and the sleeve of his T-shirt brushes my skin, shivery electric sparks fly all over my body. The other passengers drift off to sleep, and eventually it feels like Will and I are the only people awake in the world, alone together in the clouds.

When it’s his turn for a question, he whispers, “Tell me a secret.”

“What kind of secret?”

“Something nobody else knows.”

Ordinarily, I’d never reveal anything personal to someone I’d just met. But there’s something about Will that makes me want to tell him everything. I want him to know me inside and out.

I take a deep breath. “I’m scared,” I tell him.

“Don’t be. I’m not going to judge you.”

“No, that’s the secret. I’m scared.”

He shifts a little closer, so his arm presses against mine all the way from shoulder to wrist. It’s like he’s saying I’m here, you’re safe without any words. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

“Just … the race in general, I guess. I mean, I was nervous enough when it was a normal race around the world—I’m not really one of those people who can jump into stuff without thinking about it, you know? I like to plan everything out in advance, and you can’t do that here. And a dating show is, like, a thousand times worse. How am I supposed to do ‘steamy challenges,’ Will? I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.”

“No you’re not. Why would you say that?”

“I don’t exactly get to practice a lot—I’m from this tiny town, and there’s nobody good to date there. And now millions of people are going to get to see how insanely awkward I am in … those kinds of situations.” My embarrassment makes me feel overheated, and I pull my blanket down around my waist, but then I feel too exposed and pull it back up.

Will turns so he can look me straight in the eyes. “Claire … you know there’s nothing actually real about reality TV, right?”

“Yeah, of course I know that. The producers manipulate the story and fabricate drama, and things are filmed out of order, and—”

“No, I mean, everything. You don’t have to be yourself when the cameras are on. People come on these shows, and they get characterized as the nerds, or the daredevils, or the bimbos, but that isn’t necessarily who they really are, it’s just who they’ve become for the producers and the viewers. You can be anyone you want.”

This probably should’ve occurred to me before now; maybe I’m not the reality TV expert I thought I was. But even if playing a character is an option, I’m skeptical I could ever pull it off convincingly. “I can’t just become someone else like that. I don’t have acting training like you do.”

“You don’t need acting training. All you have to do is play a version of yourself who isn’t afraid. When the producers put you in a situation that makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to let them know they’ve shaken you up. Let Claire take a break, and let your fearless alter ego take over.”

“You really think that would work?”

“Totally. You should name her. What’s the strongest name you can think of?”

I picture a cartoon version of myself: taller than Janine, with glossier hair, dressed in giant, ass-kicking boots and wielding an enormous sword. That girl never lets anyone intimidate her. She eats steamy challenges for a snack.

“Dominique,” I tell Will.

“Great. I love her already. When you get scared, let Dominique take the reins. She can handle anything. She’ll do the whole race for you, if you want.”