“I’d like to stay with Martin,” she says. “This partnership is obviously working for us. Don’t mess with success, right?”
Martin lets out his breath in a rush, revealing how nervous he was that he might have to race with someone else. “Definitely,” he says, nodding hard. When Zora reaches out and takes his hand, he goes red all the way to the tips of his ears.
“Next up is Tawny,” Isis says. “Who would you like to spend the next leg of the race with?”
“I’d like to race with Troy,” she says, shooting Samir a dirty look. “It’ll be a relief to race with someone who actually respects me as a human being.”
Troy waggles his eyebrows. “Ooooh, baby, I will respect you like you’ve never been respected before.” He moves to stand next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, and Tawny giggles like a twelve-year-old. I’ve got to hand it to Troy—he is really good at staying in character.
Samir is next, and when Isis asks who he’d like to race with, he smiles at her, the kind of smile that says I know something you don’t know. “I’d like to race with Miranda,” he says.
Oh no.
I feel my sister tense beside me, and I instinctively reach for her hand, but she’s not paying any attention to me—she’s staring at Isis with her mouth hanging open. “No,” she finally sputters. “I, um, I reject Samir’s proposal.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda,” Isis says, “but you don’t have the option of rejecting him. Samir arrived at the Cupid’s Nest before you.”
My sister looks totally bewildered. “But … I can’t race with him.”
“Those are the rules, I’m afraid. Your only other option is to withdraw from the race. You don’t want to do that, do you?”
“No, I don’t want to do that.” Miranda’s voice is quiet, but there’s an undercurrent of fury that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. She whirls around to face Samir. “What are you doing? Did they tell you to pick me?”
He blinks innocently. “I’m sorry, who’s they?”
“I don’t know, the network. The producers. You can’t seriously want to be my partner.”
Samir shrugs. “Why not? You broke up with me, Miranda. I never had a problem with you. I’m not the one who wanted our relationship to end.”
“If you didn’t want our relationship to end, you should’ve stayed out of her pants!” Miranda stabs a finger in Janine’s direction. All around the circle, people start murmuring, and I realize it’s still not common knowledge that Miranda and Samir used to be together. I wonder if the producers really did tell him to pick her. If I were the story editor, that’s probably what I would have done.
“Nobody told me to do anything,” Samir says. “I never even got to talk to you after that night you ran out of the graduation party. You didn’t return any of my calls. So when you showed up on the race, I thought, hey, maybe this’ll be a good opportunity to get some closure.” He sounds so genuine that I suddenly see why a bunch of agents came to see him act at Middlebury. He’s really, really good.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Miranda mutters. She presses her fingertips to her temples and closes her eyes.
“Miranda, please stand next to Samir,” Isis says.
For a second, I consider asking whether I can take Samir instead. But Miranda wouldn’t want me to rescue her. She’d hate it if I implied she wasn’t strong enough to handle this herself. She would want me to stay on task, concentrate on the race, and do everything I can to move to the front of the pack. As long as one of us is ahead of Samir, we’ll be winning. So I just whisper, “I’m so sorry, Mira. Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice cracks a little, and I can tell she’s working hard to keep it together. As she moves across the circle, her hands ball into fists, and she stands as far away from Samir as she possibly can.
Steve chooses to race with Janine, and then Isis says, “Claire, you’re up next. Who would you like to spend the next leg of the race with?”
“I’d like to race with Will Divine, please,” I tell her.
As soon as Will moves away from Philadelphia and takes his place beside me, I feel stronger, more capable. This is how things are supposed to be. With Will supporting me and cheering me on, I’ll be the fastest, most efficient racer I can be. Not to mention that the steamy challenges will be way more fun.
“Hey there, Dominique,” he says. “I’m so happy to have you back.”
It feels like my chest is going to shatter into a million joyful pieces, but I try to keep my smile in check. It feels cruel to be happy when my sister’s so upset. But I do allow myself one quick glance into his gorgeous blue eyes as I whisper, “Me too.”
Philadelphia is left with Aidan—it takes about twenty seconds before she has her hands twined in his hair—and we’re done for the night. We pile into the show vans, which sweep us through the dark Delhi streets and drop us off at a modest-looking hotel. As I’m waiting for the producer to hand over my room key, Will nudges me with his shoulder.
“Hey,” he says quietly. Then he pulls a tiny notebook out of his bag and starts writing something down, like I’m not even here.
“What are you—” I start, but he puts his finger to his lips and gestures to his microphone—the cameras aren’t on right now, but we’re still wired for our interviews. When Will holds up the notebook, it says, Want to hang out later and strategize? Room 217.
There’s no possible way to strategize when we don’t even know what country we’ll be in tomorrow, and my mind automatically starts making a list of other things we could do alone in Will’s room. I take the notebook from him and write, Won’t we get in trouble?
I won’t tell if you won’t.
I smile, trying not to look like I care too much, and give him a little nod. He grins, slings his bag over his shoulder, and heads toward the stairs.
Two minutes ago, the only question on my mind was How can I make Miranda feel better? But suddenly, that question is surrounded by a flock of other questions with brighter feathers, beating their wings and competing for my attention. What should I wear tonight? Do I have time for a shower? How soon can I go over to Will’s room? How late is too late to knock? What if someone sees me sneaking down the hall? How long will he let me stay?
And what will happen when that door swings closed behind us?
I barely have time to drop off my pack in my room before I’m called back out for my daily wrap-up interviews. As a producer leads me through the hotel lobby, I try to think of comforting things I can say to Miranda about the Samir situation. Should I remind her that at least she’ll be working with someone she already knows, so she’ll be able to compensate for his weaknesses? That she won’t have to suffer through any awkward getting-to-know-you small talk? That maybe she actually will come away from this with some closure about her relationship? None of that sounds remotely convincing. The truth is that being with Samir is going to suck, and there’s really nothing I can do about it except sympathize.
But when I reach the producer’s makeshift studio in the hotel’s outdoor restaurant, Miranda’s not even there; Troy’s waiting for me in the other chair. The redheaded producer from the banquet hall is interviewing us, and she introduces herself as Tessa. “Where’s my sister?” I ask her.
“Happy to see you, too,” Troy says, and I roll my eyes at him.
“We’d like to talk to you with Troy first,” Tessa says breezily. “Sit down and let’s chat about your day, okay?”
Troy and I spend half an hour recapping how we felt about the various challenges. I spend the whole time wondering if Miranda’s all right—not to mention what’s going to happen when I get to Will’s room—and I’m totally distracted and incoherent. When Troy finally leaves and my sister comes out to take his place, I jump up to hug her. “I’m so sorry, Miranda,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says automatically. But she doesn’t return my hug, just pats me quickly with one hand before she pulls away. A small k
not of uneasiness forms deep in my stomach—Miranda is a pretty huggy kind of person. She won’t look directly at me as she sits down, but I can tell she’s been crying.
“I wish I could do something to help,” I say.
When she finally meets my eyes, I’m shocked by how desperate she looks. “I wish you’d wanted that a couple hours ago,” she says.
What does that mean? What could I have done hours ago to prevent this? But before I can ask, Tessa says, “Let’s chat about what happened back in the ballroom today. Can you describe the situation for me, Claire?”
I don’t really want to rehash my meltdown—it’ll only help the producers personify me as incompetent. But maybe I can spin it so the focus is on our sisterly love, not my humiliation. “Miranda was amazing,” I say. “I have a pretty serious phobia of dancing in public—I always feel so stupid and self-conscious, even if nobody’s looking at me. And this time it was much worse, because everyone was looking at me, and I totally froze. But then Miranda got up onstage with me, and it was like the fear just melted away. When I concentrated on her, I was able to do the challenge. I actually kind of had fun. She’s my knight in shining armor.” I expect my sister to smile at least a little, but she doesn’t.
“What made you get up there and help Claire, Miranda?” asks Tessa.
I assume Miranda will repeat what she said on the plaza an hour ago—that we’re a team no matter what, that she’ll always be there for me, that we’ll make up our lost time tomorrow. But instead she says, “I mean, it’s not like this has never happened before—I’ve pretty much spent my whole life jumping in to help Claire when things get too overwhelming for her. And usually it’s fine, and I don’t mind doing it. But I guess everything’s different when you’re on a TV show, and I probably should have realized that helping her today could have serious consequences.”
I blink at her. “What are you talking about? What consequences?”
“ ‘What consequences’? Do you seriously not see this disaster of a situation I’m in?”
I don’t even understand what’s happening. Of course she’s pissed about the whole Samir thing—she has every reason to be—but none of that is my fault. “Why are you blaming me for this? I didn’t make Samir pick you!”
“No, but if I’d left the ballroom when I was done dancing instead of waiting for you, I might’ve beaten him to the check-in point, and then he wouldn’t have been able to pick me.” She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Whatever, it’s not your fault you needed help. I just wish it had worked out differently. This next leg of the race is going to suck.”
“Miranda, he was already ahead of you! Even if you hadn’t waited for me, he still would’ve gotten there first.”
“Maybe. But I gave up what little chance I had to beat him,” she says. “There’s a big difference between a three-minute lead and a six-minute one.”
I can’t believe that after all I’ve overcome today, Miranda’s still making me look helpless and weak, like all I ever do is drag other people down. I never even asked her to stay with me in that ballroom; that was her choice, and now she’s throwing it all back in my face.
“What happened to ‘It’s no big deal’?” I say. My voice cracks, and I hate how young I sound.
“I said that before the Proposal Ceremony. At that point, I didn’t know it was a big deal.”
“So now you regret helping me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I mean, I’m glad it made you feel better. Of course I don’t regret that. But maybe I’m not even helping you when I jump in like that. Maybe I’m just preventing you from learning to do things for yourself. It probably would’ve worked out better for both of us if I’d left you alone up there.”
It’s like she’s scouted out my body for weak spots and aimed a kick at the softest one. I’ve made so much progress on this race, and she’s dismissed it all with a couple of sentences. I open my mouth to defend myself, but I’m so stunned that I have no words.
“Good,” Tessa says. “Thanks, girls. We’ve got everything we need for today.”
I stumble out of the restaurant in a daze, still holding on to a slight hope that Miranda will apologize to me as soon as we’re out of range of the cameras. But she doesn’t, so I guess she really meant everything she said. Does she think I should be apologizing? I’m about to do it, just to get rid of this fog of resentment between us, but the words catch in my throat. I didn’t do anything wrong. Miranda has no right to blame me for the choices she makes.
When I turn down the hallway toward the stairs, she starts heading to the lobby instead. “Where are you going?” I say. “It’s three in the morning.”
“I need to walk around and clear my head.”
For a minute, I consider offering to go with her. Maybe I really do owe her for slowing her down today, and this would be a way to make amends. But it doesn’t seem fair that all the stuff she just said about self-sufficiency should apply only to me. If Miranda doesn’t have my back anymore, she can’t expect me to reach out to her, either. Waiting in room 217 is a boy who respects me and supports me and doesn’t see me as a child or a burden, and I’m not giving up my time alone with him. I’ve earned it. Miranda can deal with her own problems.
“I’m going to sleep,” I say.
“Fine. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I feel a little guilty as I head back to my room. But not that guilty.
I take a quick shower, trying to concentrate on the night ahead and let all my thoughts of Miranda fade away. When I get out, I blow-dry my hair—I tell myself it’s because I want it to look nice on camera tomorrow, but really I just want it to be shiny for Will. I wish I’d brought something cute and flirty to wear, but I don’t even own anything like that, so I pull on my shortest shorts and a plain pink tank top, which I tug down as low as I can to emphasize my minimal cleavage. I brush my teeth, just in case, rub on a little lip gloss, and pout at myself in the mirror. Not effortlessly sexy by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it’s a slight improvement.
Will’s room is on the same floor as mine, and it only takes about thirty seconds to find it, but I’m so nervous someone’s going to catch me sneaking down the hall that every tiny sound makes me jump. He answers the door in a clean T-shirt and a pair of low-riding basketball shorts, his hair damp and messy from the shower. I want to tangle my fingers in it like Philadelphia did to Aidan.
“Hey,” I say. I’m going for breathy, but I end up sounding like I’ve been jogging.
He breaks into a dimpled smile. “Hey! You came!”
I push into the room before he even has a chance to move out of the way, and my shoulder bangs into his. “Um, come on in,” he says, confused and laughing, as the door shuts behind me. “Are there wolves in the hall or something?”
“What?”
“You launched yourself in here like you were being chased. I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but …”
“I just didn’t want anyone to see me,” I say, pretty sure my cheeks are now the same color as my tank top.
He shakes his head. “Why do I always have to be everyone’s dirty little secret?”
I don’t love the implication that this isn’t his first secret tryst on the race, but I ignore it. “You’ve got nothing to complain about—I’m the one putting my million dollars at stake by wandering the halls.”
“I believe you mean my million dollars.” He grins at me. “Sit down.”
There’s a pile of clothes and a wet towel on the only chair in the room, so I perch on the edge of his bed. He flops down beside me and lies on his back, his head pillowed on his arms. “Oh my God, I’m so tired,” he says.
“How’d your interview go? How was the delightful Philly?” I put air quotes around her name with my voice.
Will rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
Just hearing him say those words rounds out all the sharp corners of the day. Will may have fli
rted with Philadelphia for the cameras, but he was just acting, like Troy. All my worrying was for nothing. I scoot farther onto the bed so I’m leaning against the headboard and try to suppress a silly grin.
“I don’t know how you even got through a whole leg of the race with her,” I say.
“Hey, it can’t have been much worse than your day with Troy the Beefcake.” He does some goofy muscleman poses, and I laugh. I kind of feel like I should defend Troy, but I don’t want to say anything positive about another guy in front of Will, in case he takes it the wrong way.
“Let’s just say I’m really glad to have you back,” I say.
“Likewise, Dominique.” He rolls over and grabs the remote off his nightstand. “You want to watch something?”
“Sure,” I say, and my heart leaps to attention. I’ve never snuck into a boy’s room before, but I’ve seen my fair share of romantic comedies, and it’s pretty obvious what’s going to happen next.
Will scrolls through a couple news channels until he finds a movie that involves a lot of things blowing up. There aren’t any subtitles, but it doesn’t matter—it’s not like we’re actually going to pay attention to the television. He switches off the lamp “so we can see the screen better,” stuffs a pillow under his head, and makes himself comfortable. I remember what I’ve learned from watching Speed Breed and try to make my body language as welcoming as possible: legs crossed in his direction, hand resting on the covers between us, head inclined toward him, lips slightly parted. I don’t think I could be any more obvious if I stood on the bed and screamed Kiss me! through a megaphone. I keep my eyes on the screen, not even registering the movie, and I wait.
But nothing happens.
And nothing happens.
And when I finally steal a glance at Will to see what’s taking so long, he’s asleep.
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