The True Love Experiment

Fizzy must sense my hesitation because she pats the mattress. “Get over here,” she says. “Let’s watch this.”


I sit down, leaving as much distance as possible between us—which is not much, considering that she’s set herself in the direct center. With a playful gleam in her eyes, she hands me the champagne. I feel like I’m being hunted. I take a long drink.

The bubbles warm my stomach as Fizzy presses Play and the show opens. The theme music is catchy, an awful earworm if I’m being honest, but that works in our favor. It’s been added to countless videos and memes on social media—as far as Brenna tells me, that is. Fizzy bounces in place a little when Lanelle enters. “I fucking love her.”

“She’s great.” God, I love this energy. Just the two of us, watching this thing we created together.

Lanelle gives a brief recap of where we are in the show progression, and we get quick cuts of the previous, now-eliminated contestants. There’s a smooth transition to Fizzy and the remaining Heroes meeting in the industrial kitchen. Lanelle explains what the week’s activities will be, and the view closes in on Fizzy choosing which Hero will join her for which date. She’s playful and sexy and oozes charisma.

“You really were made for television.”

“It’s so hard not to get caught up in critiquing myself,” she says.

“I can see that.” Before I can offer further reassurance, Colby appears, tying on his apron for the cooking activity. It was clear from the start that whatever chemistry he and Fizzy had during their first date didn’t translate to their second, but we do a great job of making their time together look less painful than it was in person.

We cut to an ad, and Fizzy takes the bottle from me, swigging. “What do you think the reaction would be if I’d just punched Colby in his mansplainy face?”

“As your producer, I would advise against it.”

“And as my friend?”

I take the bottle back and smile as I bring it to my lips. “I’d tell you to go at him again.”

She laughs, shifting so that she’s lying on her stomach with her feet at the head of the bed. I stare down at the view of her completely bare legs. I am well and truly fucked if I have to watch her go on dates with other men on television with the perky curve of her ass cheek right in front of me, peeking out the bottom of her tiny shorts.

Shifting, I lie beside her, mimicking her posture. “Bet Colby doesn’t survive the week.”

“Or Jude.” She lifts her chin when he comes on-screen, walking toward her in the park where they’ll plant trees. “I’m honestly impressed with how good you are at your job.”

“How so?”

“This date,” she says, nodding to the television. “It looks so intimate, like we’re in this gorgeous park, completely alone. You’ve captured my expressions in a way that makes it seem like I’m swooning over him. And Jude—look at him. What is that filter? I need it in front of my face at all times. He looks so hot and not at all derpy here.” She laughs. “In reality, it was eighty-nine degrees, humid, and crowded.” She points. “Was I looking at him there or you? I swear that entire date I kept looking at you.”

“We might have to work on that a little,” I say with a nudge to her shoulder. “I appreciate the boost to my ego, but audiences need to imagine you falling in love with any one of them.”

Fizzy rolls her eyes at the TV. “Nobody will believe I’m into someone who unironically used the phrase legitimate vampire literature.”

“Any true vampire expert would have understood your Volterra joke.”

Fizzy sits up and turns to face me. “I knew you’d get that!”

“The movies alone made over three billion dollars worldwide. And Nat dragged our entire uni crew to see New Moon.”

Fizzy settles back as the show continues, and I can’t help but wonder what the audience is feeling after watching Jude fizzle out almost as much as Colby. But then Isaac is on-screen.

I’d missed most of their date in real time, so I was surprised when I sat in the editing booth and watched it unroll in front of me. Even unedited, the footage of them together is brimming with sexual tension. When Fizzy loses her shoe somewhere along the bike path, it turns hilariously slapstick as they try to retrieve it without getting off the tandem bike, laughing the entire way. In every shot of Isaac listening to her speak, he looks smitten. Fizzy, too, seems to be enjoying herself, and it didn’t take creative editing to do it. She’s fun and funny and looks like she’s genuinely trying to impress him. It hits me like a slap that I’ve never seen Fizzy try to impress anyone before.

“You two look good together,” I say.

“I like him.”

I bristle at the note of fondness in her voice. Of course she likes him, he’s objectively wonderful, interested in her, and available. I should be encouraging it, not wanting to yell, “Cut!” each time he makes her smile.

I startle when she jabs me in the side with an index finger. “You look a little broody over there.”

“Not at all. Just calmly watching this very well edited episode.”

“Uh-huh.”

My gaze snares on the way her lips come away wet from a drag of champagne and she swipes them clean with the back of her hand. I’m infatuated with the blast of her laugh when she does something newly embarrassing on-screen. Her complete lack of self-consciousness or pretense wrecks me. As does the absent way she kicks her feet behind us, her bare legs sliding against one another, so visibly soft and supple.

Fizzy does a double take when she glances at me. “You’re staring.”

“Because you’re hogging the champagne.” I know I should take it easy, but, truthfully, that ship has sailed. “Hand it over.”

She passes it to me with a smirk and then adjusts her position, flattening down to rest her chin on her folded hands as she watches Isaac’s confessional moment with me toward the end of the show where he admits that Fizzy intimidates him, but he thinks that’s a good thing for a man to feel when he really likes a woman. “He’s a good guy.”

The fire reignites in my rib cage. “He is.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “Wow, you really choked on that admission, didn’t you?”

I point to my throat. “Champagne. I was swallowing a sip.”

“Why is it so hot when you lie?”

I ignore this and she rolls to her back, staring up at me with the light from the television illuminating her face. “Who do you think will win?”

“No idea.”

“You must have some idea. We’ll be down to four next week.”

“I think Isaac has a pretty good shot. Brenna tells me the Internet loves him.”

“Brenna tells you? Don’t you go online at all?”

“I’m online frequently. But I don’t go on social media if it can be helped.”

“This tracks.” She takes the bottle again. “I stalked your Insta. You have a picture of Stevie’s tiny feet on bike pedals and then a picture of a dog from, like, four years ago. That’s it.”

I laugh. “I don’t need the world to know what I’m doing every second.”

“Hot.” She studies me. “But as the producer, don’t you need to know what’s trending?”

“We need some of us to watch the show as its own thing, in isolation, so the story arc about finding you an actual soulmate stays consistent and true.” Her brows go up like I’ve just confessed to being a principled vegan. “Fizzy, I’m not altruistic. Others on the team track the voting. I just get the final numbers. It’s really a giant mess until the window closes and I don’t relish watching it in real time.”

She rolls up to her side facing me. “So you want Isaac to win?”

There’s no good way to reply to this honestly without sounding possessive or jealous or delusional. “I think he’s the best remaining contestant.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“Too bad, because it’s the only one I’m going to give.”

“Are there any you wish hadn’t been eliminated?”

“Jude—assuming he’s ousted this week—and purely for the comedic factor.” I tap her nose. “Colby because I like it when you’re scrappy.”