“We should talk, Joey.”
She shakes her head and looks over my shoulder, pointing at the camera. I nod, understanding her meaning. Joey steps closer and places her hands on my hips. I like that she’s nearly my height.
“We can’t speak freely, at least not the way you want unless we’re in that room,” she whispers in my ear before resting her head on my shoulder. I know what she’s doing, and I follow her lead by wrapping my arms around her.
“You’re smart and I love it, but I don’t want to win this first competition. We already have my fans behind us. We don’t want to come off as greedy.”
Joey nods and starts swaying. I hold her a little tighter and pretend that I’m on the set of a movie; soon the scene will cut and we’ll move onto something else. Except the only thing we’re moving toward is somehow sleeping in the same bed without touching.
“Newlyweds, in twenty minutes please move into the backyard for your first competition.”
Rubbing Joey’s shoulders, I kiss the top of her head. I don’t know what possessed me to do that, but I enjoyed it.
“We should probably change.” I step back and look at our clothes. We’re still in our wedding attire, this being our reception. Maybe that’s why she was swaying earlier, giving us the wedding dance that we’ll never share. Last year’s couples didn’t make it. Two of them called it quits before the show was over and the last, shortly thereafter. Joey and I will be that statistic. We’ll be headline news for the next three months and the fairytale romance that we’ll build here will all come crashing down. My image will take a hit, but I can bounce back.
Joey and I opt to change in the bathroom, unaware of where the other couples are. Our bags were all lined up in the hall so it’s easy. When she steps out, she’s dressed in running shorts and a tank top. We look at each other and laugh. I should’ve known that the show would add to our wardrobes so that the couples matched. Now that Joey is out of her dress, I get a good look at her. I already knew her arms were toned, but so are her legs. My wife works out. I shouldn’t call her that. I need to be careful and refer to her, especially in my head, as Joey. When I’m talking out loud for game purposes, it’ll be okay to slip, but keeping myself separated from her in that way is what’s best.
“Do you like to workout?”
“Yes,” she answers without looking up from tying her shoes. “It helps me focus.” She stands, almost chest-to-chest with me. Stepping back, I put space between us. We should be able to win any endurance challenges we face as well. The more I think about our chances, the better I like them.
“We need to go outside,” she says, walking away from me. I groan as I watch her sashay out of the bathroom. The temptation is there and if she makes a move, I’ll be hard-pressed to deny her. I have to remind her—and myself—that this is a game, and we can’t cross that line because we aren’t going to be married once this show ends. All I can think of right now is, Why couldn’t we have met outside this show?
I follow her outside and start taking in everything around me. There are three stations set up, each with our names. Joey steps behind Joshua and Joey Wilson and my heart stops beating for a moment. Seeing my name like that, tied with hers, makes me anxious, in a good way. It also makes me nervous that I like seeing our names together. Marriage isn’t for me, at least it shouldn’t be. I don’t have any good examples to follow.
Joey slips an apron over my neck, and I stop her from tying it behind my back. I’m barely holding on to the resolve I have now. I don’t need an excuse to touch he
r. I’ll be making plenty of those later.
I step in behind Joey and she slightly steps back, erasing the gap between us. Her neck is at the right height, allowing me to get a good dose of her perfume. It’s stronger than I remember.
“When did you put on more perfume?”
“In the bathroom when I changed. I wanted to smell good.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“What?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “You smell nice, Joey.”
“Newlyweds, it’s time to play ‘Name That Pie’. I’m going to show you a series of ingredients for a certain pie and the first one to chime in with the correct answer scores a point. The first team to seven wins the master suite for the week. Are you ready to see how domesticated you are?”
“Yes, Patrick,” we say in unison.
“Remember, let someone win,” I remind Joey. She doesn’t acknowledge me, giving me the impression that she’s as stubborn as I am.
The first ingredient appears: Celery.
I cringe. “Who puts celery in pie?”
“Potpie, haven’t you ever had one?” she chides me.
“No, can’t say I have.”
“I’ll make you one.”
No, you won’t, I want to say, but my stomach growls, and now I’m really looking forward to having a potpie with Joey.