The True Love Experiment

twenty-nine FIZZY




I get into my car, turn it on, and then sit idling at the curb, staring out at the dark street. This feeling I have right now—the jittery, hyper-adrenaline, restless feeling—most people would have this reaction to seeing themselves on a dating show, to witnessing how the masterful editing made the entire episode sing, and then, at the end of the night, getting the call that the show is on track to being the biggest reality show debut in a decade.

But I know myself and know that the reason I get these kinds of heart flutters is the same reason I became an author in the first place: I love romance. I love the swooping in my chest when I read a good kiss, the choking of my lungs when I get to the angst, the shaken-carbonated blast of joy reading the happily ever after. I just watched eight perfect men vying for my heart, and they’re not even why I have the flutters. I have them because I got to see my new favorite person tonight.

Stretching, I find my reflection in the rearview mirror and glare at that harlot. “Listen up,” I tell her forcefully. “It’s a relief that things didn’t go very, very wrong because you had sex with your producer. Be grateful you can be attracted to someone again. You did it to get it out of your system. Now get your act together and stop thinking about his eyes and his smile and his dick.”

Satisfied, I put the car in gear and drive home.



* * *



I don’t care how confident you are, nobody wants to run into someone when they’re braless, wearing pajama pants, and buying single-serving canned wine at CVS. But as I step out of the booze and spirits aisle at the respectable hour of noon on Sunday, I collide face-first with the center of a very, very solid chest.

“I am so sorry,” I say, quickly dropping to the floor to retrieve my scattered armload of canned rosé.

“Fizzy?”

I glance up, eyes traveling over miles of toned leg—momentarily bummed by the obstruction of black running shorts—until my eyes skip up to one of the best smiles I’ve ever seen. “Isaac?”

He kneels to help me retrieve my spilled treasures and it’s a little embarrassing how many there are. I’m not sure how I managed to balance all of these in the first place.

“Stocking up for hibernation,” I joke as we stand. Even I can appreciate the shame in wasting such soaring specimens of men on pocket-sized me, but who am I to question the universe?

Isaac grins adorably. “Rosé: the perfect winter wine.” He carefully balances my last can on top of the teetering pyramid. “What are the odds of running into each other here?”

“I’m sure you could calculate them, Hot Nerd.”

“Touché.” He laughs and eyes my haul. “Grabbing some quality refreshments for what looks like some day-drinking fun?”

I eye the single Gatorade in his left hand. “We all choose to hydrate in our own way.” He laughs again, and I add, “And it looks like you aren’t suffering similarly, but I felt so mentally drained after the episode aired last night. I’ve been useless all day.”

Isaac nods. “Yeah, I felt the same. I finally went for a run just to get away from every relative within fifty miles who showed up at my house this morning to talk about the show.”

I groan. “My mom has been calling me nonstop since last night. Conveniently forgetting my phone at home while also procuring wine felt like killing two birds with one stone.”

He laughs again, but this time it has a quiet huskiness, the tenor of an inside joke. The sound sends a heated thrill down into my stomach and… what’s that? Pants feelings? For someone who isn’t Connor? Right here in the middle of CVS? Holy shit, baby. I am back!

“While this has been the absolute highlight of a very weird day,” he says, grimacing, “I’m pretty sure we’re breaking at least half a dozen rules by seeing each other outside the show.”

“Oh shit, you’re right.” I quickly glance down the nearby aisles. As contestants, we all signed contracts that, among other things, expressly forbid us from fraternizing outside of the show. We could be fined, fired, or even sued. And yet you don’t see me going anywhere. “I half expect an alarm to go off and for Connor to come out with one of those cartoon nets.”

“I could escape,” Isaac says with a grin and a single backward step. “I’ve got better running shoes on.”

“Don’t discount me,” I tell him. “I’m surprisingly agile.”

“I bet.” He gives me a very long once-over. “Does it give me an advantage with you that we frequent the same CVS?”

“I don’t get to decide, remember?”

He snaps his fingers. “Shoot. All right, well, I’m gonna get out of here.” With a sexy little wink, he turns and waves over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I watch Isaac until he’s out of sight, my pants still aflutter down below. “As a professional writer,” I mumble to his very nice retreating backside, “I must say I would absolutely verb the adjective noun out of him.”

“Are you Felicity Chen?”

My entire body jerks around at the voice to my left, where two older teen girls stand holding snacks and Red Bulls. I clutch my collection of wine to my chest, willing my heart to slow. I’ve been recognized before, but it’s usually in the context of something bookish, such as browsing in the aisles of my local indie, not when I’m dressed like a writer on imminent deadline and carrying enough wine for an entire football team.

And then it occurs to me. Did they see me talking to myself? Do I look like a horny hobo?

A more startling thought lands: Did they see me talking to Isaac? Shit.

“That’s me!” I finally manage to say.

They look at each other in shared excitement, then back to me, eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. “Oh my God,” they say in unison, and one adds a high-pitched “You were so good last night!”

The girl who spoke is taller, with an emerald-green hijab and makeup so flawless that it transforms her black-and-white tracksuit and sneakers into high fashion.

“Do you know if they’re going to make all the episodes available to stream?” she asks. “I’ve already watched the first one twice and might die if I have to wait a week.”

“Just the one episode a week,” I say, not relishing being the person who pierces their joy bubble. “We’re shooting it as we go.”

She groans playfully, but her friend in a UCSD sweatshirt pushes on. “I love your books and legit lost it when I saw you were doing this. I’ve read Base Paired four times.” Before I can say anything, she quickly adds, “Can we ask you something? I know you’re super busy.”

“Was it the pajamas or the armload of canned rosé that gave away my hectic schedule? Go for it.”

She laughs, turning her phone to face me, and points at the screen. “Do you know if this is Connor Prince’s Instagram?”



* * *



Connor comes up repeatedly that day: in the afternoon when my mom drags me along to H Mart and a woman recognizes me in the frozen food aisle, praising me for a moment before asking whether Connor has starred in anything else, and again in the evening, when another parent completely loses her mind in front of me and Jess at Juno’s ballet recital. Both times I find myself wanting to text him to gloat about how smart I am.

I resist. I do check his Instagram, though. By Monday morning, his follower count has ballooned from his mom, Nat, Ash, and some random dude, to twenty-two thousand. I’d bet my entire canned rosé collection that it hasn’t even occurred to him to look.

After hair and makeup on Monday, I am led into an industrial kitchen at the Hilton Bayfront hotel. We do the bad news first: As predicted, Arjun and Tex have been eliminated by the voting audience. But then, the remaining six—Dax, Isaac, Evan, Jude, Colby, and Nick—are called out one by one, dressed casually and wearing wide smiles as matching accessories.