“Race you back to the dock?” Ray challenged, a familiar competitive gleam in his eye.
I snorted. “Not a chance. You’d leave me in your wake in about ten seconds.”
“I’d let you win,” he offered.
“You’ve never let me win anything in your life,” I retorted, but I smiled.
“True,” he admitted. “But I could start.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, digging my paddle into the water with renewed determination. “If I’m going to beat you, I want it to be fair and square.”
I didn’t beat him, of course. But I didn’t come in as far behind as I expected, and when Ray reached down to help me out of my kayak at the dock, his hand lingering in mine a moment longer than necessary, it felt like a different kind of victory.
Chapter 4
Million-Dollar Gamble
That evening, showered and pleasantly exhausted, we settled onto the couch together to watch the latest episode ofThe Big Race. Watching the show, which sent teams around the world, racing for a million dollars, was one of the few things we still did together.
The season finale was down to its final thirty minutes, and only three teams remained: the former college roommates, the newlyweds, and the divorced couple who’d remained friends.
“The roommates have this locked up,” Ray argued, settling deeper into his side of the couch. “They’ve won three legs already.”
“Yeah, but look at them.” I pointed with a popcorn kernel as the camera zoomed in on the two men arguing over how to assemble a traditional Vietnamese fishing trap. “Dusty is completely ignoring Coulter’s suggestions. They’ve been doing that all season—whoever thinks they’re right steamrolls over the other.”
Ray tilted his head, considering. “Fair point. What do you think about the newlyweds?”
“They’re going to lose,” I said, reaching for the bowl of popcorn without taking my eyes off the screen. “Look at how they’re arguing about the best way to assemble the reed boat.”
Ray nodded, his shoulder warm against mine. “No communication. She’s not listening, and he’s not explaining clearly.” He took a handful of popcorn. “Kind of like us on that hike in Colorado. Remember?”
I did remember—Ray forging ahead on the trail while I struggled behind, too proud to admit I was suffering from altitude sickness, him too focused on the summit to notice my distress until it was almost too late.
“We’ve gotten better since then,” I said. “At least a little.”
“Today felt good,” Ray said quietly. “Being on the water together. Finding our way through the mangroves.”
“It did,” I agreed. On screen, the newlyweds were falling further behind, their boat coming apart as they tried to paddle across a high mountain lake. “Maybe we’re not as hopeless as they are.”
“Which leaves the divorced couple,” Ray said.
“They’ve got nothing to prove to each other. No ego on the line.”
“Plus they’ve been doing the ‘slow and steady’ strategy all season,” Ray added. “Never first, rarely last, just consistently in the middle of the pack.”
“Classic tortoise and hare situation,” I agreed.
This felt good—familiar. We managed to set aside the tension that had permeated our home since the discovery of Ray’s affair. No careful navigation around sensitive topics, no awkward silences. Just the two of us, doing what we’d done for years: analyzing reality show contestants like it was an Olympic sport.
Dr. Lieber would probably call this progress—finding a way back to something we’d shared before the fractures in our marriage had become chasms. Of course, watching other peoplechallenge themselves wasn’t quite the same as taking her advice to do an activity together, but it was something.
Ray’s arm slipped around my shoulders, the gesture tentative at first, then more confident when I didn’t pull away.
As we watched the teams race toward the episode’s conclusion, I was more invested than usual in their struggles and triumphs. Each challenge they faced seemed to mirror some aspect of what Ray and I were working through—communication breakdowns, trust issues, the balance between leading and following.
“You guys are way too into this show,” Leo said, wandering into the living room with a plate of leftovers from dinner. At twenty-two, our son had shot up to six-foot-two, a perfect blend of his birth father’s height and his birth mother’s lean build. He’d come home from Florida State for the weekend, ostensibly to do laundry, though I suspected he also wanted to raid our well-stocked refrigerator.
“It’s quality entertainment,” I defended. “Not like those prank videos you’re always watching.”
