“You can’t possibly have answered everything thoughtfully,” I said, blinking at question 186:Do you ever feel emotions you cannot name?
He shrugged. “There was a question that asked if I feel like I’m being watched. We were literally on Zoom yesterday. What do they expect?”
“They expect you to understand nuance!”
Ray raised his brows. “Oh, sorry, I must’ve clickedstrongly agreeto that one.”
I groaned. “You’re going to get us flagged as unstable.”
He winked. “Unpredictable. It’s good TV.”
The next phase brought us to the glamorous world of blood work, cholesterol panels, vaccination updates, and detailed personal histories. While I fretted over whether my mild needle phobia would be visible on camera, Ray got a warning about elevated cholesterol and immediately declared war on cheese.
“We’re running the race, not survivingNaked and Afraid,” I muttered as he swapped our sharp cheddar for something plant-based and vaguely rubbery.
Still, we jumped through every hoop: fingerprinting, release forms, waivers. The final packet included questions so personal I joked about writingThe Big Race: The Colonoscopy Cut.
We were poked, prodded, and processed—emotionally and physically.
And then, two weeks later, while I was debugging a stubborn checkout cart error, my phone rang again.
“Congratulations!” Miranda Harris said. “You and your husband have been selected to compete in our upcoming season.”
The world seemed to tilt slightly. After weeks of uncertainty, the test I’d proposed for our marriage was suddenly, irrevocably real.
“Are you there, Mr. Morgan?”
“Yes, sorry. That’s... that’s amazing news.”
“I’ll need to email you a packet of information and forms. The race begins filming in six weeks in Miami. Can I confirm your email address?”
I did and then hung up the phone, staring into space. It was all too hard to comprehend.
This time I waited until Ray got home to tell him. I motioned him to the bench beside me, “We’re in.” I took a deep breath. “Out of ten thousand applicants.”
He nudged me with his shoulder. “Leo’s video was that good.”
I nodded, but the truth was catching up with me. “Ray, this is probably the stupidest thing we’ve ever done as a couple.”
He tilted his head. “Says the man who let me install our own kitchen backsplash with nothing but YouTube and hubris.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “We’re going to try to fix our broken marriage on reality TV. In public. With cameras and timed challenges and international customs lines. It’s insane.”
Ray was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah. It is. But I’m willing to try stupid if it might get us to a better place.”
That stopped me.
“I mean, what’s the alternative?” he continued. “More polite dinners and measured therapy sessions while we wait for one of us to say it’s over? This may be crazy, but at least we’ll bedoingsomething.”
“And if it makes things worse?”
He looked me in the eye. “Then at least we’ll know. And we’ll have earned the answer.”
I rubbed my hands over my face. “God help us.”
Ray grinned. “That’s what the producers are for.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
