The True Love Experiment

He holds on to my hand for a prolonged, flirty beat. His voice is naturally low and a little raspy, his fingers coarse and dry, palm calloused. Everything about him is rough around the edges, and I like it. He’s a perfect balance of hot and sinful. Well done, Connor.

But do I tell Dax to call me Fizzy? I like the way Felicity sounds in his voice. It sounds dirty and playful, and that’s the role he’s been given, the one he’s been sent to embrace. And I think of the audience watching, how they won’t know my thoughts unless I say them aloud, and how I don’t want them to think keeping things formal is a measure of my interest.

“Everyone calls me Fizzy,” I tell him, releasing the handshake. “But I like the way you say Felicity.”

“Felicity it is, then.”

I smile in agreement. “So, Tattooed Bad Boy.”

He nods.

“The tattooed part is self-explanatory. But why bad boy?”

“Let’s see if you can guess.”

I lean in, humming, studying. There’s a sharpness to his gaze, an overt confidence. I think of his calloused hands. “Daredevil? I bet you’re into extreme sports.”

Dax laughs. “Skydiving, rock climbing, you name it, yeah.”

“Holy shit.” I smack the table. “I’m good.”

A production assistant waves a red card just behind Dax’s shoulder, a technique Connor set up to remind me not to swear like a sailor. It has the added effect of reminding me that Connor is right there watching, that his hands are enormous and warm, and of the way he sent one up under my sweater last night, cupping my breast, the pad of his thumb circling the tight peak as his kisses grew impatient and rough.

Focus, Fizzy.

“I want to know something,” I say, leaning in closer to block out the shape of Connor’s broad shoulders in the background.

Dax leans in, too, smiling coyly. “Anything.”

“What is your ugliest tattoo?”

When he throws his head back and laughs in surprise, the old Fizzy would notice Dax’s long throat, that masculine spike of an Adam’s apple, and about a hundred other things about him because he is gorgeous. Old Fizzy would be breaking the rules left and right, planning meetups with these contestants after hours. My trailer in the alley out back would do nicely.

Now, no matter how charismatic he is, no matter how much I appreciate his sex appeal, the idea of meeting up with Dax later leaves me feeling blank inside. All I can do is focus on not turning my eyes up to Connor in the background to gauge his expression while he watches us flirt.



* * *



But in the end, the date with Dax is objectively great. The glee he exhibits when he shows me a truly awful tattoo of a mermaid on his shoulder says so much about his sense of humor and willingness to be silly in front of the camera that I find myself genuinely enjoying talking to him. He’s third-generation Korean American, has won all kinds of BMX trick competitions (which I’m sure are very impressive to those who know anything at all about BMX), and turns out to be a surprise foodie, with friends in the restaurant business all over town.

The next Hero date, if possible, is even better.





ISAAC: HOT NERD


He walks into the café, a bespectacled six-foot-three Black man, and an appreciative hush falls over the room.

He sits across from me, his Hero name tag slapped over a pectoral I can see outlined beneath his plain white T-shirt, and manages to make artificial intelligence sound only moderately terrifying before turning every ounce of genuine focus on me. When I finally find my words again, we discuss books, oldest sibling woes, favorite memes, and our shared disdain for having to go into the bank or post office in person anymore. For the first time in over an hour, I forget there are cameras capturing every single expression that passes over my face. I like him, and at the end of our time together I’m genuinely disappointed to see him go.

The third date is the first real miss.





BENJI: COWBOY


Physically, Benji—who goes by Tex—is great, but the energy is all wrong. I can see Connor pacing in the background behind a wall of screens as we struggle and jerkily interrupt each other, trying to fill silences in unison. When he asks me what my dad thinks about his daughter writing romance for a living, I ask him in return what his mom thinks about him riding horses for a living and watch the confusion play across his features.

When I’m blessed with the end of our date and Tex leaves, I’m on autopilot. Without thinking, I make a beeline to Connor where he’s standing at a monitor, reviewing footage. He turns at the feeling of my hand on his arm, following me to a shadowed corner.

“What’s up?” he asks, concerned. He bends a little, coming eye to eye. “You okay?”

I realize I don’t need anything. I was just following an instinct to be near him, to feed this ghoul inside of me that is recharged in his presence. I want him to calm me down.

And this time I’m smart enough to turn off my mic. “Just wanted to say hi.”

He smiles. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says brightly. “Why?”

I see the lie in the tightness across his forehead, but maybe I’m reading too much into this and it isn’t about watching me on dates after our orbit-bending dry hump but the pressure of, you know, having his livelihood hanging in the balance of this entire project.

“Nothing. Good.” I look past him out the window of the café and to the street, where a few people loiter outside, clearly curious about what’s going on inside, what all these cameras are doing here. “You seemed stressed when things with Tex were stalling.”

Connor’s deep laugh sends vibrations down my arm. “It was getting a little awkward—which doesn’t make for good television. But you lecturing him about what BDSM really is circles us right back to great television.”

I preen as if he’s just paid me the greatest compliment. “So, I guess it’s good to have a few duds?”

“Absolutely. There’s no standout if you have chemistry with everyone.” He scratches his chin. “You seemed to really hit it off with Isaac.”

“Of course I did. Your casting skills are unmatched.”

He smiles tightly. “Cheers.”

“But,” I say, “you know what only occurred to me today?”

“What’s that?”

“You might know who my best DNADuo match is.”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Really?” I’m relieved. I would be relentless, pestering him constantly.

Connor laughs. “Really. I know the range, know there are some good ones in here, but only Rory knows whose score is the highest.” We both look over at the director, who seems to be using this break to talk Brenna’s ear off. Connor looks back at me. “But you’re welcome to speculate and think out loud in the confessionals.”

“When are we doing that?”

“We’ll shoot the first tomorrow night after the final date. Does that sound good?”

“Will you be interviewing me for these?”

“Me?” Adorably, he points to his chest. “Why?”

“Because you’re hot and have an accent. This might surprise you, but chicks dig both those things.”

“But I’m a producer.”

“Wait, what?” I ask with mock alarm.

He laughs. “You’ll be in the confessional trailer solo. You’ll just need to give a recap of each date. We’ll prompt you through an earpiece with questions, and—”

“You’re going to put me alone in a room with a camera and trust that the entire thing won’t go off the rails?”

Connor stills and pulls a deep breath in through his nose. He lifts a hand, waving it to Brenna, who jogs over immediately. “What do you think about having our host, Lanelle, interview Fizz—”

“I want you, Connor.” Glancing at Brenna, I quickly say, “That came out wrong. This is purely a professional want.”

“I have no idea what we’re talking about,” she says, “but you just pulled me away from hearing about the time Rory lost a contact in the mosh pit at a Social Distortion show and the entire mob stopped to help her find it. I’m just happy to be over here.”

Connor and I both give this the sympathetic moment of silence it deserves, and then he turns and offers an apologetic smile. “Fizzy, I can’t be on-screen. Have you met Lanelle yet?”

“I have, and she’s great. But I know you better. That will come across on-screen.”