For Real(46)

“I’m a licensed massage therapist, Claire! You said you were sore, so I was trying to help you! But that was obviously a mistake. Don’t worry, I won’t make it again.” He puts his hands up in sarcastic surrender.

I stare at him. “You … what?”

“You don’t even believe me, do you? ’Cause someone who looks like me couldn’t possibly have a real career, right? I mean, how could I think actual thoughts when all my blood is being diverted to my giant pecs?”

“No, I just … you’re not screwing with me right now? You really went to school for massage therapy?”

“Want me to prove it? I can name every muscle in your body. Ready?” He grabs my forearm and starts pointing. “Brachioradialis. Extensor carpi ulnaris. Extensor pollicis longus. Extensor digitorum communis …”

I yank my arm away. “Okay, God, I believe you. But … wait, are you even really a stripper? Or did you make that up, too?”

“I strip to pay my student loans. Drunk bachelorettes tip really well, okay?”

This is becoming more fascinating by the second. “What about Blake? Is he a massage therapist, too?”

“Blake’s in business school.”

This totally explains the bizarre way Troy has been acting all day, trying to offset every smart idea with idiotic, testosterone-fueled behavior. His intelligence isn’t a fluke. He’s trying to cover it up. I try to think of something to say, but my mind is reeling, and all that comes out is an inarticulate “Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Hey,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I guess you couldn’t have known.” He stops pacing and plunks himself down on the pillow heap.

“I could have been less of a jerk, though,” I say, and he doesn’t argue.

We’re both quiet for a minute, and then I say, “You know they’re recording everything you tell me, right? So you’ve blown your cover now.”

“It doesn’t matter. They won’t air any of this, except maybe the part where you’re shrieking at me not to touch you. They want me to seem dumb and horny and uncomplicated.”

“Why do you have to act how they want? You’re already on the show, it’s not like they can do anything to you now.”

“Are you kidding? They’re still totally in charge. If they don’t like what I’m doing, they won’t give me any airtime, or they’ll manipulate things so I get eliminated earlier. Stuff like that happens all the time. And I want that million dollars. Prancing around in a G-string is starting to get really old.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” I take a strawberry and bite into it, then hold the bowl out to him. “Want one?”

“Sure. I’m starving.”

We pass the bowl back and forth until all the berries are gone, and neither of us says anything the whole time. I know I should be thinking deep thoughts about the mismatch between surface appearances and interiors, but the only thing running through my mind is I’m locked in a room in India, eating strawberries with a stripper masseur. How is this my life?

I finally ask, “Do you think anyone’s really going to hook up in here? Do you think anyone already has?”

This clearly hasn’t occurred to Troy, and his face changes. I laugh as I watch him struggle out of the pillow heap while trying not to touch anything with his bare hands. “Probably not. But … just to be safe.”

He sits back down in the chair across from mine, and we stare at each other awkwardly. “So, what now?” he asks.

It would be easy to sit here in silence for forty-five more minutes, listening to the porny music and reading magazines. But the producers have put us in this room to bond, so maybe we should just give in and get to know each other. After all the stupid assumptions I made about Troy, I kind of feel like I owe it to him. So I pour him a glass of sparkling cider and extend it like an olive branch. “Tell me,” I say. “If you could only eat foods starting with one letter for the rest of your life, which would you pick?”

And amazingly enough, the rest of our hour flies by.





The moment we’re released from the Love Shack, the producer sits us down for a quick interview in the main restaurant area while another guy sweeps into the back room to prepare for the next couple. “So, how did you enjoy your date?” our producer asks, totally deadpan.

“Our date was niiiice,” Troy says, waggling his eyebrows and slipping seamlessly back into the role of a meathead. “When things get hectic, it’s always good to take some time out with a lady friend, if you know what I mean. And Claire’s quite the little wildcat when you get her riled up.” I feel like I’ve actually made a friend over the last hour, and it’s sad to see him disappear again.

“Claire, did you learn anything about Troy that you didn’t know before?” the producer asks. “Aside from the obvious. We’d prefer you not talk about that.”

Troy nudges me as if to say, See?

“Troy has hidden depths,” I say, and I give my best mysterious smile.

“Good job,” the producer says. “Here are your next instructions.”

This is probably our last challenge for today, and I give a little sigh of relief. If I could get through an hour in the Love Shack, I can get through anything. Then it’ll be a brand-new leg of the race, and I’ll get a brand-new partner who isn’t actively trying to look like an idiot. Maybe I’ll even get Will back.