For Real(59)

Someday, I hope it will be.

A waiter glides by, lithe as a shadow, and puts a glass of red wine into my hand like I’m just another guest. I don’t really like wine, but I hold on to the crystal goblet anyway—it makes me feel more sophisticated, more like I’m part of things. I know I’m an impostor here, among all these elegant Greek women and laughing men in expensive suits. But at this moment, with the candlelight dancing on my face and my fingers twined with Will’s, I feel like I could belong anywhere.





We return to the beach just in time to see the sky brighten into a mural of pastel colors over the ocean. As the rest of the teams begin to pack up their sleeping bags, I lean against the wooden gate next to Will and stare out at the waves, happier than I’ve ever been. Though I know it’s a cliché to watch the sun rise over the ocean with someone you’ve just kissed, that doesn’t make it any less romantic. I wish he’d kiss me again now, but I understand why he’d be more hesitant in front of the cameras and the other teams. So I press my shoulder against his, knowing I’m starting my day right where I should be, and wait for that first perfect sliver of sun to slip over the horizon and bathe us in gold.

But it doesn’t come. The sky is pretty light now, and I finally say, “So … where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The sun.”

Will stares at me. “Seriously? We’re facing west, genius.”

So much for romance. I try to think of a snappy comeback so he’ll think I was kidding, but before I can, a Greek man with a droopy mustache arrives along with two producers. I’m grateful for the distraction, and we move away from the gate so he can unlock it. When he pulls a stack of pink envelopes out of his back pocket, all twelve of us pour out onto the sand and surround him like puppies eager for our breakfast. Miranda’s standing near me, and I try to catch her eye, but she avoids my gaze like I’m not even here.

Well, fine. If that’s how today is going to be, I’ll ignore her right back. If she wants self-sufficient Claire, that’s what she’ll get. I turn my back to her as I rip open our instructions, just to make a point.

Before a Greek wedding, it is traditional for a bride to pull a teenage boy into her lap and bite a biscuit ring hanging around his neck. In this challenge, the male competitor must wear a pastry ring around his neck, and the female competitor must eat it off of him without using her hands. You must complete this challenge while riding double on a horse. Proceed five hundred meters north along the beach, where you will find your pastries and mounts.

For a second, I stand there considering the summer I was supposed to have, serving soy chai lattes to the yuppies of Braeburn. In my wildest, weirdest dreams, I could never have imagined that I’d end up on horseback on television, licking pastry crumbs off Will Divine. I so wish I could press pause and call Natalie.

“Do you think these bizarre wedding traditions are even real, or is the network just inventing stuff to make us look stupid?” Will asks as we head up the beach.

I automatically reach for my phone so I can look it up before I realize it’s in New York, not in my back pocket. “I miss the Internet,” I say.

“In any case, this is totally unfair. How come I don’t get any pastry? I’m starving.”

“They must know you’re watching your girlish figure,” I say, and he sticks out his tongue at me. It’s amazing how relaxed I feel right now—four days ago, I would have been dying of embarrassment at the thought of this challenge. Maybe I still would be if I were paired with someone else. But things are different with Will, who has welcomed my closeness even off camera. Now that he’s shown how much he genuinely likes me, this doesn’t seem scary at all.

Will and I choose a brown horse with a white star on its nose, and he stays with its handler while I retrieve our pastry ring. I’m not sure what to expect, but they turn out to look like necklaces sculpted from glazed pretzel dough. There’s some confusion as the producers distribute them—apparently, Tawny needs a special gluten-free ring—but I finally return to Will with the pastry. It’s still warm and dripping with honey, and it smells amazing. “So, I guess I should just … put this on you,” I say. “You might want to take your hat off.”

Will tucks the lucky hat into his pocket, then pokes at the dough to test its consistency. “Oh God, this is really sticky.”

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I suddenly want to see how far I can push things between us. “Maybe you should take your shirt off, too,” I say.

If Will is surprised by my boldness, he doesn’t show it. He just smiles and says, “You’re in charge,” then peels off his shirt and tosses it onto his pack. The other day at the pool, I was careful to look away before he caught me staring. But this time, I unabashedly drink in the sight of his bare torso, which glows in the early-morning sun. He’s so gorgeous I can barely stand it. I slip the ring over his head and settle it against his collarbones, letting my hands linger against his skin a little longer than necessary.

A couple other teams are already up on their horses, the girls behind the guys. Janine’s having no trouble taking bites out of Steve’s pastry necklace, since she’s eighty feet tall, but Zora is much shorter than Martin, and she can’t even reach his neck unless he leans way back in the saddle. They barely seem to be staying on their horse as their handler leads them down the beach at a slow walk. “I think I should go in front and face you,” I say.