Page 7 of The Big Race
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T hree weeks after submitting our audition video, I’d nearly convinced myself we wouldn’t be selected.
The waiting had become a strange limbo, neither of us mentioning the possibility of being chosen, continuing our uncomfortable dance of politeness during therapy sessions and measured distance at home.
I was debugging a client’s e-commerce site when my phone buzzed. The caller ID read “Unknown,” and I almost let it go to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Is this Jeffrey Morgan?” The voice was cheerful, professional.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Miranda Harris from Departure Gate Productions. I’m calling about your application for The Big Race.”
My hand tightened on the phone. “Yes?”
“We’ve had over ten thousand applications this season, so you should be very proud. Your video was one of the most compelling our producers have seen.”
I thought of Leo’s careful editing, the way he’d managed to capture glimpses of the connection Ray and I once had, and the raw honesty of our conversation about Ray’s affair. “Our son made the video. He will be thrilled to hear that.”
There was a pause on the line, just long enough for my stomach to drop.
“Just to be clear,” Miranda said, “this isn’t a confirmation that you’ve been cast. You’ve made it to the next round of consideration, which includes a producer interview, a chemistry check, and some on-camera interaction.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound gracious and not like I’d just imagined us jumping into rice paddies in matching windbreakers.
“We’d like to schedule a Zoom with you and your husband sometime this week—preferably tomorrow if you’re available. It’ll be about twenty to thirty minutes. Very informal.”
“Sure,” I said automatically, even though the word informal filled me with dread. “What time?”
I collected the details mechanically, thanked her, and hung up. For a long moment, I just stared at my computer screen, the lines of code blurring before my eyes.
We were in contention for a spot on The Big Race. The theoretical last-ditch effort to save our marriage was now a lot closer to a concrete reality.
Ray was at the office. Should I call him? Text him? Wait until he got home? The uncertainty about how to communicate even this basic information underscored how far we’d drifted.
I settled for a text: Need to talk when you get home. Good news.
His response came almost immediately: The race?
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: Be home early.
Ray arrived at five-thirty, still in his sales attire—button-down shirt, slacks, his tie already loosened. He found me at the kitchen table with my laptop open to the email from Departure Gate Productions.
He scanned the subject line— Next Steps: The Big Race Application Process .
A grin spread across his face, the unguarded excitement reminding me of the Ray I’d fallen in love with. “I knew Leo’s video would do it.”
“Miranda Harris said it was compelling.”
“Miranda Harris? That’s so cool. I see her name on the credits every time.”
“We’re not in yet,” I said before he could say anything. “They want to do a producer Zoom interview. Tomorrow morning.”
Ray’s expression shifted—part grin, part game face. “We’re in the running. Like a callback.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But they’re watching now. Everything.”
“Guess I’d better iron a shirt and brush up on my charm.”
I closed the laptop. “You’ve never had a problem with that.”
By 10:55 the next morning, I had triple-checked the lighting, wiped the webcam twice, adjusted my chair for optimal posture, and told Ray not to wear anything with a visible logo.
He emerged from our bedroom in a snug T-shirt with “Florida Men Don’t Quit” across the chest.
“That’s the outfit you’re going with?” I asked, already sweating slightly.
“It’s aspirational,” he said, flashing a grin. “Besides, your button-down screams IRS audit.”
“Professionalism isn’t a crime.”
“And charm is an asset,” he shot back, settling next to me on the couch with theatrical ease. “Let me know when I should turn it on.”
“Please don’t turn anything on.”
The Zoom link popped up in my inbox at 10:58. I clicked it and prayed my audio wouldn’t cut out.
A chipper young associate named Zoe introduced herself, followed by Miranda, now revealed as a poised woman with cat-eye glasses and a background that looked suspiciously like an L.A. production office.
“Thanks for joining us, Jeffrey and Ray,” she said. “We loved your video—your son is incredibly talented.”
“We keep telling him he could go pro,” Ray said, flashing his dimples like he was already on camera.
“He’s a good egg,” I said, then immediately wondered if I sounded eighty.
Zoe grinned. “We just have a few follow-up questions, nothing too scary.”
“Unless you ask us to eat bugs,” I joked, trying to seem relaxed.
“Don’t tempt us,” Miranda said with a wry smile.
Ray leaned toward the webcam. “We’re ready for anything.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Let’s test that. How would you describe your communication style under pressure?”
“Evolving,” I said carefully.
“Explosive,” Ray said at the same time.
We looked at each other.
“See?” I added. “Still evolving.”
They both laughed.
“What’s something your partner does that drives you up the wall?” Zoe asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Ray said. “Jeffrey narrates everything he’s doing when he’s stressed. ‘I’m just going to move this file to the shared folder, even though Ray didn’t label it correctly.’”
“Because you never label it correctly!” I snapped.
“Which is why I leave it to you,” he said, smug as a cat.
I forced a smile for the camera. “Ray, on the other hand, leaves wet towels on the bed. Constantly. For twenty-five years.”
“Can’t confirm that’s true,” he said. “I dry off in the bathroom now.”
“One time does not make a trend.”
Zoe was scribbling furiously. Miranda nodded like she’d just spotted a prime conflict arc.
“Let’s shift gears,” Miranda said. “Tell us about a time you overcame a major challenge together.”
Ray and I hesitated. I glanced at him. This was the moment, the real test of what story we were choosing to tell.
“We became parents overnight,” I said. “My cousin and his wife died unexpectedly. Their son was five. We weren’t prepared, but we said yes anyway.”
“That’s beautiful,” Zoe said softly.
“We learned everything by doing it wrong at least once,” Ray added. “How to choose between a five-year-old’s side part and center part. How to make macaroni dinosaurs. How to talk about death without terrifying a kid.”
“Would you say raising a child prepared you for the challenges of the race?” Miranda asked.
Ray nodded. “If you’ve ever navigated TSA with a cranky kindergartner and a stuffed monkey named Pickles, you can do anything.”
I chuckled. “And at least on The Big Race , nobody throws up on you mid-leg.”
Miranda leaned in. “How about intimacy—has the strain of parenting, aging, and now this race impacted your emotional or physical closeness?”
My eyes widened slightly. Ray didn’t miss a beat.
“We still know how to push each other’s buttons,” he said smoothly.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” I muttered.
“You’d be surprised what a shared sleeping bag and a stressful customs line can reignite,” he added with a wink.
I wanted to die. Miranda and Zoe looked delighted.
“Final question,” Zoe said. “Why should we cast you over other couples?”
“Because we’ve already lost something, and we’re fighting to get it back,” I said. “We’re not perfect. But we’re honest. And we know how to show up for each other, even when it’s hard.”
Ray looked at me, then added, “We’re not just running the race for fun or fame. We’re running it to find out if we still belong on the same team.”
There was a beat of silence.
Miranda nodded. “Thank you, both. We’ll be in touch soon.”
As the Zoom window closed, I slumped back against the couch.
“I can’t believe you said ‘shared sleeping bag,’” I groaned.
Ray shrugged. “They loved it.”
“Yeah, because you flirted with them.”
“I flirted with you ,” he said. “They were just collateral.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. But the truth was, for thirty minutes, we had acted like a couple again—sniping, snarking, supporting. Maybe even surviving.