The True Love Experiment

“Me?”

“You know, on set, mountain biking.” She pauses, shrugging causally. “With girlfriends.”

“And?” I lean against the counter at her side, smothering a smile. She is so bloody obvious. “What did you find?”

One side of her mouth turns down into a frown and carves a small dimple in her left cheek. “Nothing. Your Instagram name is a bunch of random letters and numbers that I was only able to track down because I know Jess who knows Natalia who happened to tag you in something, like, five years ago. You have four followers and two posts. It was both a relief and disappointing.”

“We’re supposed to be focusing on your love life, Fizzy.”

“Just feels unfair,” she says, and her smile is easy but her eyes are tight when she looks at me, “now that we’re becoming friends, that we’re only focused on finding someone for me and not you.”

I look out to where the show is winding down and Wonderland is saying their final goodbyes. Nothing good can come from this. We both know it and yet we keep ending up here. “Well, I’d be surprised if there are photos of me with women anywhere. I don’t date much these days.”

“Have you ever tried DNADuo?”

“Me? Definitely not,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not that I don’t believe it or anything, I just… if I had a match, I’d want to take it seriously, and I just can’t right now.”

“Jess was the same way. With Juno,” she says, clarifying. “She wasn’t interested in getting involved with anyone until Juno was in college.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I’ll tell you what I told her: that makes for a boring fucking book.”

“Well, maybe one day,” I say. “I tried dating a few times when Stevie was younger, but any woman worth pursuing wants more than the occasional weeknight together. Plus, whoever I’m involved with gets me, Stevie, and Nat.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Stevie was two.”

“Oh wow. She was so little.”

There was a time when a comment like this—no matter how well-meaning—would have sent me down a rabbit hole of guilt. Stevie was young and going through the divorce was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do, either. “She was.”

“But you and Nat are close now? I’ve heard Stevie talk about her a few times, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her at the school during pickup. She’s hot.”

I laugh. “She is. And she has a very young, also very hot boyfriend whom I expect to propose to her any day now.”

“How nice for her.” The moment stretches out, tense and knowing. I expect her to look away; she doesn’t. Instead, she clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Too bad for you you’re no good at compartmentalizing.”

I decide to stop dancing around it. “Specifically, I’m not good with casual sex.”

The word sex flares out between us like a flamethrower and she grins. “Yes, actually I meant too bad for me that you’re no good at compartmentalizing.”

I laugh at this. “You are an honest-to-God menace, Felicity.”

“You like it.”

I pretend to think about it, and she comes right up on tiptoes, growling in my face.

Finally, I relent. “You are tolerable.”

She sets back down on her feet and leans against the counter beside me. “Delightful,” she says.

“Bearable.”

“Gifted and charismatic.”

“Pushy and opinionated.”

“Your new best friend. Say it.”

Her hand rests near mine. My pinky twitches, brushing against hers. If I move away now, I could pretend it was an accident. But I can’t, and instead shift my finger so it rests on top of hers.

She curls her finger around mine. Heat spears through me, and the urge to turn into her, to press her against the counter, lift her up, step between her legs, and—

I pull in a slow, deep breath. “My new best friend.”





nineteen FIZZY




Juno is no longer a tiny child.

Which means when we pull up outside Jess and River’s house, and both girls are passed out like sacks of flour in the back seat, there is no way I can carry Juno to the doorstep.

Truthfully, I’m not even sure I could get myself to the door right now. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve written sexual tension that could peel wallpaper, and none of it comes close to the last twenty minutes in the car with Connor.

“I’ve got her.” Connor ducks around me, bending to unbuckle Juno’s seat belt.

His thighs flex beneath his jeans and his shoulders strain against the soft cotton of his new T-shirt as he easily lifts the floppy kid from his back seat. “I really don’t think my ovaries can take any more,” I mumble.

He turns, adjusting her weight over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

I cough delicately into a fist. “Clear night, don’t think there’s rain in store.”

Connor looks skeptical, but seems to trust that if I’m filtering myself, it’s probably a good thing. He turns and heads up when I gesture that he should lead the way.

The door opens as we approach. Jess stands in the frame, backlit by a warm, golden glow, and seems to entirely miss the mental flare gun I repeatedly fire into the air. River comes up behind her, reaching to take Juno from Connor, who murmurs a soft “Got her?” as he passes her off.

My heart launches itself out a tenth-story window.

The little girl reveals her level of consciousness by snaking her arms around her dad’s neck and mumbling, “Thank you, Mr. Prince.”

I get it together enough to frown in feigned offense. “Hey, what about me? Ticket hookup, hello?”

Her response is a sleepy grunt as she’s carried down the hall to her room.

With Juno situated and Stevie asleep in the back seat, Connor jogs down a couple of front steps, and then looks back at me expectantly. “Ready?”

I start to follow, propelled like there’s a silken rope connecting us, but hesitate. I think about the warmth of the car and the soothing mood of the music. I think about Connor’s big hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gripping it like it was a vine tethering him to the top of a cliff. I think about his forearms that are corded with veins and muscle, and how when he’s two steps below me we’re finally at eye level. I think about how his eyes lit up with joy tonight watching his daughter in her element, and I think about how his shoulders felt beneath my legs earlier when he lifted me. I think about the defeated growl of his My new best friend and I think about being in the front seat beside him for one second longer and I’m not sure I can do it. I am but a mortal woman after all, and once again I want Connor Prince III to crush me beneath him like a delicate flower under a fallen tree.

But sexily.

“I think I’ll crash here tonight,” I tell him.

“It’s not out of my way,” he assures me. “Really.”

“It’s not that.”

His eyes narrow. He gets it: I am very specifically not going with him because it’s not the kind of ride I want him to offer.

Instead, I am going to go inside and tell my best friend all about this suffocating chemistry between us.

“If you’re sure…” he says, smirking.

“Oh,” I say, “I’m sure.”

With the smirk still in his eyes, he says good night to Jess and then jogs his hot body back down the front steps.

We watch him, rapt, like it’s the final few moments of Squid Game, and then I exhale fifteen metric tons of air from my lungs. “Jesus.”

“You’re doomed.”

I follow her inside, kicking off my shoes. “I am not doomed. I’m awakened. I’m revitalized.”

“Sure.”

“Jessica, hear my words: Connor is a catalyst. A spark. An amuse-bouche for the libido. Aren’t you glad? I’ve been an emotional robot. That doesn’t make for interesting television.”

Jess collapses on the couch. “Do you remember when I fake-dated River?”

“Of course I remember. Every time he walked into Twiggs you looked like you were going to eat his face.”

“And still, I swore I wasn’t into him.”

I see where this is going, but I disagree with the parallel. “Yes, but you were delusional. You were already halfway in love with him.”