The True Love Experiment

“You sound thrilled.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Let me ask you something. Weeks ago, I asked her to do this thing. I offered—she could have turned it down but didn’t. Isn’t it weird that she still seems to be… sort of… questioning my commitment a bit?”

With a little laugh, Nat takes a bite and pokes at her bowl with a spoon. “I don’t know that much about her in real life—I mean, she shows us what she wants us to see. She seems playful and funny and adventurous, but a reality show doesn’t seem like something she’d do. There must be a reason she’s considering it, and if she called you out for seeming less than enthusiastic, you’d better get your attitude squared away.” Natalia looks at me straight on. “You’re a wonderful guy, Conn, but you’ve been acting a little snobby, like this is beneath you.”

I turn back to the puzzle. “How is it snobby if it’s accurate? I would never do this if Blaine wasn’t forcing me to.”

I know it’s a mistake as soon as the last word is out of my mouth. Even Stevie pushes a somber whistle through her teeth.

Natalia stares at me. “Connor, do you think I’m dumb?”

“What?” I say, horrified. “Of course not. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Well, I watch reality TV. I read romance. And when you say stuff like that, it’s belittling.” She tilts her head toward Stevie, and the unspoken Especially when you do it in front of our daughter lands like a mallet.

“I just meant that it’s not my bag. Of course it’s cool if it’s yours.”

Her eyes go round. “Wow. Thank you.”

“That is not at all—”

She waves this off. “Have you watched any dating shows or read any of her books since you agreed to take this project on?”

“I ordered them.”

She looks unimpressed.

“And,” I continue proudly, “I had Brenna do write-ups on Felicity’s five top sellers.”

Stevie shakes her head again. Natalia gives me a disappointed frown.

“Okay, I hear how that sounded,” I say. “I’m the arsehole executive pawning my work off onto my assistant, that was shitty. But, Nat, the show isn’t even about Felicity’s books. It’s about her. About how charismatic she is, how good she is in front of people. It’s about the audience rooting for her.”

“Are you really so thick not to see that her audience roots for her because of what she gives us in her books?”

Before I can answer, she continues. “If you told me you didn’t like Wonderland’s music, I’d say, ‘Fine, to each their own.’ You’ve heard all their songs at least a hundred times, so you would be making an informed opinion. But you’ve never even read a romance novel or watched a reality show and have formed this opinion based on what you think they are.”

I slip another piece into place, bridging a large elephant ear to its head. “C’mon, Nat, you’ve got to admit romance novels are a touch predictable.”

“Why? Because the couple ends up together?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s a rule of the genre, Connor,” she says. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to even google it.”

I wave her on, hearing the way she’s frothing up over this. “Go on. Get it all out.”

“You describe them as my ‘guilty pleasure.’ Do you have any idea how condescending that is?”

“Well, don’t they bring you pleasure?” I ask, confused. “How is that condescending?”

“Yes, but why should I feel guilty for reading something that makes me happy?”

I open my mouth to respond, and she pins me with a look so clear in its meaning it might as well be a warning shot fired overhead.

“You treat the things I love as if they’re silly or something to be indulged,” she says. “My point, Conn, is this: You asked me if it was weird that she’s questioning your attitude. But if I see your condescension—and I’m someone who knows what a good man you are in a million other ways—what do you think she saw, when she doesn’t know you at all and her entire career is centered around something you believe is beneath you?”

I close my eyes as this one settles in. I worked on a project once where an expert said intolerance is a failure of curiosity, and it’s always stuck with me. Am I being quick to judge things I know next to nothing about? “Okay. Yeah.”

“Read one of her books.” Nat picks up her spoon again. “Keep an open mind and you might even like it.”

I know that she’s right, and I’m about to tell her so when my phone buzzes on the table with an incoming email. I open it, and immediately my brain locks up. “What the fuck?”

“Dad.” Stevie glares at me.

“Sorry, but—” I gesture to the phone. “It’s the list of Felicity’s conditions.” I do a quick scan of the text. “She wants to keep shooting to four days a week.” I look up. “I thought it was standard to keep people sequestered or something on these shows. To keep the results hidden.”

“They are on The Bachelor,” Stevie offers.

Nat reaches to adjust Stevie’s tiara. “It’s almost like knowing how these shows work would make his job easier.”

Stevie giggles.

“Okay, you,” I say, and continue scrolling through the email. Looking at all this I immediately know it’d be easier to cast someone who’s only concerned with fame and exposure. But if I’m stuck doing this, I’d rather do it with someone who has something to say.

I realize I expected her terms to read like a rider—requests for time away from the cameras, a list of dietary demands, marketing money, or specific stylists, as much promo of her books as possible—but there’s none of that. Her list of conditions reads strangely like a dare. “She’s given me a very specific casting list.” I look up at Nat. “What the hell does ‘cinnamon roll’ have to do with casting?”

“Oh,” Natalia says with quiet thrill. “Oh, Fizzy Chen, you are my goddamn hero.”

“Mom. Language.”

I frown down at my phone. “Himbo? Is that a typo?”

Nat doubles over, absolutely howling in laughter.

“And it’s going to take forever to get clarification. I’m supposed to go through her ag—” I break off when I reach the end of the scanned PDF and spot a handwritten note from Felicity near the bottom:

Text me if you have questions. Good luck! I suspect you’ll need it.





eight FIZZY




Honestly,” Jess says across the table from me at Twiggs, “if I was this nose-deep into something on my phone, you’d tell me to share the porn or put it away.”

In ye olden times, it was our routine to meet up at Twiggs coffee shop a few days a week to work. I would write like a madwoman and Jess would do numbersy things. We were (usually) very productive. These days our work sessions are more ceremonial: Jess is taking the summer off, and I’d be more likely to grow a third ear than write a compelling kissing scene. But even though the vibe is more casual than business, Jess’s words are my cue to slide my device into my purse and return to bestie time. Sadly, even if Oscar Isaac were standing tableside naked, I’m not sure I could look up from this text exchange. It’s like watching Connor Prince III’s slow spiral into insanity.

Darcy? he texts. I don’t even know what that means.

I smother a laugh with a hand, typing, Think taciturn.

“Felicity.”

Shaking my head, I tell Jess, “I don’t think you want to know what I’m doing.” My phone vibrates again.

“Phone sex?”

“Better.”

What’s a hot nerd?



Do you really need me to explain that one to you?



Fine. Silver fox?



Daddy kink.



Vampire?



A laugh rips out of me and a few of the other regulars toss a dirty look my way. I’d forgotten that gem. But this time I’ve come so close to spraying a mouthful of coffee across the table at Jess that she finally tries to reach for my phone and I have to dodge her grasping fingers to finish typing my reply.

Be creative.



Gingerly, I put my phone down. “Hello, friend.”