The True Love Experiment

He laughs. “You won’t.”

We fall quiet and it’s weird being with him all alone. Other than our CVS moment, we’ve never been alone; truthfully, we don’t even know each other that well. Other shows have the contestants living together, spending hours and hours in forced proximity. Some shows even give them privacy to sleep together. I love that this show has been different, love that it relies on personalities and energies in a way that matters in the real world, but I also think there are things about getting to know someone behind closed doors that bring out real chemistry. I wonder if Isaac and I would have worked had we met by chance.

He turns his head, resting his chin on his shoulder to look at me beside him. “I know why I’m out here, by the way.”

Mimicking his posture, I ask, “Do you?”

“Mm-hmm.” He smiles. “I want you to know, I’m cool with it.”

“With what?”

“This—us—not working out, even if I win.”

“Why do you think that’s what I’m going to say?”

He stands and turns so he’s leaning back against the railing, facing me. “Come on, Fizz. You’ve obviously been holding back.”

I allow this with a nod, studying him. “Why do I sense that you are, too?”

Isaac takes a deep breath and turns his face up to the sky. “About three days after we filmed the first date, I got a text from my high school girlfriend. She’d moved back to the area.”

Relief is warm and golden coursing through me. “Ah.”

“We haven’t seen each other yet. I’m not about to break the rules.” He laughs. “But we’ve been texting and, yeah. I feel like it could be something, you know?”

“That’s amazing, Isaac.”

“So, if I’m right, and you are holding back, I wanted to say that it’s okay.” I nod. “And if I’m wrong, and you’re feeling real things here, I wanted to be up front. Don’t need you getting hurt.” He reaches forward, sending his thumb gently along my cheekbone. “You’re honestly one of the coolest people I’ve ever met. This is probably the only woman alive who could keep me from going after you with everything I’ve got.”

He’s put it perfectly. I like Isaac so much. In a parallel universe where there was no Connor, Isaac might be perfect for me. “I totally get it,” I say.

“I know you do.”

“What’s happening, my homies?”

Isaac and I turn to see Evan walking out with three full pint glasses balanced in his hands. He passes one off to Isaac, one to me, and then lifts his in a toast. “To my very long shot of winning this thing, and to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever dated.”

We all laugh, clinking glasses, and take a sip. I swipe away the foam from my upper lip. “I think the two of you are probably neck and neck.”

“No way.” Evan quickly swallows a sip to disagree with me. “He’s gonna win, and I want you to know, it’s okay.”

“Evan—”

“No, really, Fizz. We had our shot and it didn’t work out. I’m glad I got you back in my life again. And that I lasered off that terrible tattoo. Goldschl?ger is the devil’s sauce,” he says by way of explanation, and lifts his beer for another toast. “Whatever happens, it’s been a crazy ride.”



* * *



Inside, Connor is easy to find because he’s a giant surrounded by a group of his adoring fans—I mean the crew, but let’s be honest, everyone is at least eighty percent in love with him. As if he senses that I’ve walked back inside, his eyes immediately meet mine across the room. I cannot ignore the way they go all soft and relieved, like he didn’t relish letting me out of his sight.

Or maybe that’s the hope talking.

I do my best to temper that hope. I hurt him, and even if Connor decides he can trust me with this again, rational Fizzy knows that doesn’t really change anything. If Connor was warned not to fuck things up, then that’s still going to be true tomorrow, and next week, and three months from now, because the magnifying glass we’re under due to the show’s popularity suggests no sign of letting up. In the end I must allow that maybe it’s for the best that we didn’t sleep together again, because I very likely would have figured out a way to drag him and his big ring finger and big dick all the way to Vegas to make it official.

Squaring my shoulders, I ready myself for what is probably a hard conversation, and tilt my head to the side so he knows I want to talk to him in private. With a little nod, he bends to say something to the two women he’s talking to, and tracks my movement across the room, into the far corner where an empty table sits in the shadows.

I sit with my back to the wall, watching him as he walks toward me. It’s so strange to have experienced these feelings only by writing them, never in reality. When I say that my heart aches and feels like it’s being stretched in opposite directions by two fists, I realize now that isn’t hyperbole. Love hurts.

He sits across from me, setting his half-finished beer down on the table. “Hi.”

I take a moment to reply with the same greeting because there are so many other words at the surface pushing forward. Finally, I go with a safe “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

I decide to cut to the chase: “I heard about Smash Course.”

His eyelid twitches, jaw ticks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Things must be stressful for everyone over at North Star.”

He nods, lifting his beer and frowning down at it. “It’s been rough, yeah, thanks.” Connor takes a long drink.

“Since we aren’t going to see each other like this anymore, and it would probably be unprofessional to call you after the show airs on Saturday, I had a few things I wanted to say.”

“Fizzy,” he says, leaning forward on his forearms.

But I hold up a hand. “I’m not asking you to change your mind. I get it. But I’ve never been able to deliver a romantic declaration before, and the last time I tried—at your house—it was interrupted by your rejection. So I just want to get it off my chest, because I think it will feel good.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Is that okay?”

He nods, swallowing heavily. It draws my focus to the long line of his neck, and I watch the flush crawl from beneath the collar of his shirt and up to his jaw.

“I love you,” I say to his neck, and finally manage to drag my gaze to his. His fresh-leaf eyes are in shadow; he’s backlit with the room behind him, but even so, I can see the way they flicker back and forth between mine, searching. “I have never, not once in my life, felt this way for anyone. When you were getting ready to cast the show, and you asked me what I wanted in a partner, I said I wanted someone who cares about the right things, who is good and works hard, who doesn’t take himself too seriously. You are all those things and more. You are kind, and hardworking. You are patient, and honest, and loyal. I admire you so much.”

He stares at me so intently, and I know him well enough to know that he won’t interrupt me, won’t crash across the table to kiss me senseless even if that’s secretly what I want. I love that he’s respectful even if I crave being disrespected by him, and only him.

“I also said I wanted someone that I was just fucking hot for,” I say, “and I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

He swallows again, only now breaking eye contact and staring down at his beer.

“I won’t detail that,” I tell him, “because we’re in public and I also realize that it’s not cool to have one-sided verbal sex with someone who has explicitly said that he does not want to be with me.”