The True Love Experiment

I glare down at her. “Can we at least endeavor to go about this with sincerity?”

Rory calls that we’re two minutes from rolling, and Fizzy does some sort of scout gesture.

“I am endeavoring, I promise. Besties only. But may I say one more thing before you go?”

“Of course.”

She points to her mic. “We’re sure this thing is off?”

I eye her warily and reach for the cord hanging limply from her open collar and show her. “It’s disconnected.”

“I promise you that I will do my very best today. You don’t have to worry about my commitment to this project.” A tiny, seductive smile curves her lips. “But let me just say—” Her eyes drift lazily down my body, lingering at my zipper, and then slowly back up. “Well done.”

She pats my chest chummily, smiles, and walks toward her spot as I’m left staring after her.

I think… did she just compliment my dick?

It’s crazy that my face can suddenly feel hot when I know for a fact that most of my blood has just been diverted in the opposite direction. Discombobulated, I take a moment to deposit my cup in the dish bin, where a barista cheerfully retrieves it. As shocking as Fizzy can be, it’s refreshing to have someone simply say what they think. Things are weird? Let’s talk about it. We’d like to fuck but can’t? Let’s admit it and both move on. I’ve never met anyone like her.

As Rory shouts directions, gives Fizzy a pep talk, and shows her her marks, a flurry of activity erupts. Makeup and hair rush in to do final touch-ups, Fizzy’s mic is in fact tested once more, and background actors get into position. There is a vibration in the room, a pulsing thrum of excitement. It’s all going to work. The show is going to succeed, I feel it in my marrow. It will be hard to move on from Fizzy, but I will manage.

I feel self-possessed, in control, creatively alive. Taking in a deep breath, I give myself a moment to appreciate that hard work has landed us here and to be proud that I stepped up to this challenge. Everything feels pretty fucking good.

And then the café door opens and Fizzy’s first Hero walks in.





twenty-three FIZZY




I am very skilled in the art of denial. For example, I am consistently surprised when it’s time to pay quarterly taxes. I sing karaoke with Jess and Juno and am convinced that I sound exactly like Adele. I am confident that if I walk four blocks to get my morning coffee, I have also earned a cookie.

And today, too. I’ve known this show was coming for so long now, but it isn’t until the makeup artist, Liz, comes in for touch-ups and the light warms my skin and everyone’s chatter simmers down to a hushed hum throughout the room that I realize, Oh shit, I might actually look terrible on TV. I might not have my mojo back. I might be awkward or boring or too old for this.

Liz steps back, examining the makeup she applied earlier with such care and quantity that I started to feel like I was a wall being spackled. Just beyond her, I see Connor in the background, his attention fixed on one of the cameras as he quietly talks to the director. He looks so calm, so ready. He’s probably been thinking about this moment, strategizing this entire shoot for weeks, and here I am, only now fully realizing that I am about to be on TV.

“Are we actually doing this?” I ask Liz, perched before me with a set of brushes fanned between her fingers. “This show? Today?”

“Y-yes?”

“Okay,” I say numbly. “Cool cool cool.”

I feel her studying me while I stare at the very interesting pattern of grain in the wood floor. “Are you okay, Fizzy?”

“No.” I look up at her terrified face and realize what I just said. “Yes! I mean yes. I am great.”

She disappears, unconvinced. Oh my God, I’m going to be on television. Why didn’t I put on a sheet mask last night? Why did I let them put me in such tight pants? Why did I kiss Connor? Why am I looking at Connor right now? Cameras are aimed at me, preparing for my reaction to the first Hero to walk through that door. I should be breathless with anticipation, but my eyes are fixed on Connor’s profile, fascinated by how hot he looks when he’s concentrating.

Oh my God, this is going to end in a flaming disaster. Focus, Fizzy.

The director calls to me from her chair next to one of the larger cameras. I’ve already met Rory several times, but here, surrounded by cameras and lights, I’m struck again by how young she looks. She can’t be more than thirty, and with her ripped jeans, Black Keys T-shirt, and long, dark curls covered by a faded baseball cap, she has the Hollywood laid-back vibe down perfectly. But my favorite thing about her—and the thing that seems to vex Connor the most—is the way she continually calls him bro without any intentional humor whatsoever.

“Okay, Fizzy,” she says. “Just do what you’d normally do on a first date, and you’ll be great.”

Wild horses couldn’t keep me from checking Connor’s reaction to this potentially scandalous piece of advice, and just as I expected, he’s biting back a knowing smile. He speaks into his mic: “Take that advice with a grain of salt.”

My bursting laugh lands just before a hush falls over the set, and it echoes a few beats before everything goes silent. I’m sitting at a table for two in the middle of the room, primped and ready for the first of three dates today. Portable lights are set up just out of shot, and the heat is already suffocating, heightened under the pressure of everyone’s expectations. I mean, listen, I’ve been the center of attention before. Usually, I thrive on it. I’ve delivered keynotes and been on panels at countless conventions, I’ve done small morning shows and spoken in front of readers all over the world. But this is different. This is glossy, big-scale, big-money fantasy television. This is the show where the pettiest among us will watch and critique and judge and think, Why her? I’ve taken on a huge responsibility, and sitting here when it’s way too late to back out… I suddenly don’t feel prepared.

With effort, I turn my face to the café entrance as a beautiful Asian man pulls the door open, stepping in with a heart-stopping smile. His eyes meet mine and that smile dials up, turning real at the corners.

He’s dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms and several winding up his neck from beneath his collar. When he gets closer, I can make out what’s written on his name tag:





DAX: TATTOOED BAD BOY


I swallow the laugh, but the smile stretches wide across my face. It takes intense focus not to turn to Connor, to let him see in my face how much this delights me and to see, in turn, how proud he must be of getting this right. Connor worked so hard for this. He really listened.

But speaking of listening, Dax is here, and so I stand, greeting him with a half hug, receiving his gentle peck on my cheek.

With an understandable touch of self-consciousness, we settle into our seats across the table from each other and reach for our waters at the same time. Ice clinks against glass as we lift and take a sip. Hyperaware now of the cameras and crews and lights and complete unnatural spectacle of this all, Dax and I laugh into our drinks.

I didn’t want any of this scripted, but now I’m wishing I’d practiced something—literally anything—to open this first date. Come Saturday, millions of people will sit down in their living rooms and watch me fumble my way through this moment.

But if there is an expert in dating anywhere, it’s Fizzy Chen. So I shove this tiny, terrified instinct back into its dusty corner and look Dax right in the eye. “We’re setting the bar high, I see.”

He laughs and gives me a playful once-over. “I’ll say.”

I reach my hand across the table. “Nice to meet you, Dax.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Felicity.”