The True Love Experiment

“Like you right now with Connor.”

“Absolutely not,” I reply. “You were falling for River. I just want to ride the hot producer’s dick.”

Having just entered the room to join us, River makes a quick U-turn at this, disappearing back into the hall. “Good night,” he calls.

“Come back! I value your opinion!” The only response I get is the sound of his footsteps echoing away. I grin over at Jess. “Whoops.”

She shakes her head in exasperation. “Why do you always insist everything is just casual sex?”

“Because my last relationship was with a dirtbag, and for the past three years I’d rather eat a literal bag of dirt than risk breaking up someone’s marriage again?”

“You say it like you’re joking, but it’s true. Rob was a dirtbag. He was the monster. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

It is true. I know it, intellectually, even if it took all this time to really feel the truth of it in my gut. I’m finally over the fatal sting of his duplicity (even if there will always be a fiery asterisk beside his name). I sit down beside her on the sofa. “I know.”

“Not every guy is a Rob.”

“Well, I certainly hope so, because I’m supposed to be optimistic that my soulmate will appear beside me on camera soon.”

She stands, crossing the room to the ornate bar cart and pouring us each a small glass of whiskey. “So you’re confident that Connor’s team has done a good job casting?”

“Seems like it.” I take the tumbler with a smile and sip, letting the heat trail down my throat and settle gently in my stomach. “I get the sense that he’s been very, very picky.”

“That’s good.” She swirls her drink. “He seems like a thoughtful guy.” A long, quiet pause. “I wonder how this is for him. I got the sense tonight that maybe he’s into you, too.”

“I mean, I think he’s attracted to me.” I tilt the glass, letting the light catch the amber liquid. “He admitted earlier that he didn’t turn me down because he wasn’t interested.”

“Of course not, look at you.”

“Now that I’m in Connor-free air and can think clearly again, I sort of wish I didn’t know, though,” I admit. “Knowing he’s attracted to me, too, has made me into a demon. I want what’s in his pants.”

She shakes her head at me. “Focus on the show. When does filming start?”

“Five weeks.”

“And did you settle on a schedule?”

Nodding, I take another sip of my drink before answering. “He sent it over this morning to see if I had any notes. The first week is coffee dates. We all do testimonials about how it went, then the show airs and the audience votes to eliminate two based on who they think I vibed with most, and so on. The final two contestants will meet my family. I’m pretending that part isn’t happening.” Jess makes a sympathetic good luck with that face. “After that is the finale, where we find out if the audience picked my soulmate as predicted by DNADuo. The winner of the audience vote gets $100,000, and then I get to choose who goes with me on a trip to Fiji. So yay.”

“Funny, that doesn’t sound like excitement I’m hearing.”

I dig around in my head and my gut, searching for a convincing reply. “Sure, I’m excited.”

“Fizzy, this is such a cool thing you get to do! You get to have eight romance heroes compete for your heart!”

“I know,” I whine. “But Connor’s thighs could crush me like a grape. I want that, just once before I meet a different kind of prince.” Jess laughs as I lean my head back against the couch, sighing. “I swear, I just need to get him out of my system.”

“That is literally your least favorite romance trope.”

Lifting my head again, I lament, “Yes, but who knew it was a real thing!”

“No one!” she yells back. “Because it isn’t!” She throws up her hands. “Okay, seriously. No more of these dates with him.”

“They aren’t dates,” I argue. “They’re joy excursions.”

“Fizzy. Be serious.”

“What! I am being serious! He does ocean conservation documentaries. I wanted him to know this audience.”

“Do you feel like he does now?”

A shiver spreads through me, warm but still unsettling. “He does, and watching him not only open his eyes to this side of the industry but also enjoy it has been… I mean, it’s been really nice. It isn’t just that he’s hot. I like being around him. He’s fun. He’s funny. And maybe my favorite thing of all is how he isn’t cowed by my shit. I daresay he might like it.”

Gross. Feelings.

“That’s important for a producer, too,” Jess says.

Groaning, I fall sideways into the couch beside her. “If he would just fuck me, I’d be over this already.”

Jess runs her fingers into my hair, scratching gently. “Actually, I don’t think you would.”





twenty CONNOR




I should have foreseen that extremes are the norm with Fizzy, and that our time together would be the most fun I’ve ever had with someone but also the most torturous. Over several weeks, The True Love Experiment begins to take shape, and Fizzy and I skive off every Friday in our continued search for joy. We take the train to the Broad Museum and talk about quiet, introspective joy. We visit the Last Bookstore nearby, where she buys me a collector’s edition of ’Salem’s Lot, and I buy her a framed cover of one of her favorite romance novels. The following week, she treats the entire crew to tickets to a live showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I get home that night and drink more than I probably should, all in an effort to clear my head of the way her entire being lights up inside when she’s letting loose, how badly she sings and how much I adore that she does it with gusto anyway, how she takes the adoration from the crew and returns it to them, doubled, and how I’m beginning to abhor the prospect of her finding true love in only a handful of weeks.

Shooting officially begins tomorrow, but even knowing my workday will likely begin before dawn, I’ve got one more place I want to take her.

Fizzy and I blow down the freeway, windows open, wind whipping. The orange globe sun hangs heavy and seductive at the horizon. It’s our last joy outing—at least the last one we’ve planned, and I’m sure the plan I’ve made is actually quite daft. We will be alone, it will be dark, with the sounds of crashing waves all around us. I can already imagine Fizzy running barefoot on the sand, tackling me, pushing through the pathetic restraint I’m clinging to.

Torrey Pines is a four-and-a-half-mile stretch of coastline located between Del Mar and La Jolla. Traffic is uncharacteristically light, and we make it to the parking lot just as the sun is beginning to dip into the water. As I park and meet Fizzy at the front of the car, I’m unprepared all over again for the sight of her in simple jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers, and a fuzzy sweater tucked over one arm.

There is so much riding on the show, but there are moments like this when I look at her walking toward the sand and can’t remember what any of it is. When she talks about something she’s passionate about or bursts out laughing, when she hands someone their ass or lets her tiny fissures of vulnerability show, I find myself rationalizing the reasons I should just give in. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe nobody needs to know. Maybe I’m overthinking and it won’t ruin everything. We’re both adults; we’ve both had sex with people before and it was just sex. Maybe I can compartmentalize.

During the day, gliders and parasailers launch themselves from the red sandstone cliffs in the distance, and sunbathers, surfers, and swimmers crowd the beach. Tonight it’s mostly empty, with only a few stragglers along the shore or straddling their boards in the ocean, bobbing along with the incoming tide. The sky seems to change by the second, a melting canvas of blue to purple to red to orange.

“So.” Fizzy stretches, revealing a swath of skin between her shirt and the waist of her jeans. “The beach.”