The True Love Experiment

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.”

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.”

“I’m not an actor,” he says.

“Neither am I.” I motion to him, from the top of his sexy head and all the way down the length of his solid bod. “And you’re fooling yourself if you think all of this wasn’t made to be in front of a camera.” I turn to Brenna. “What do you think? Imagine the female audience’s reaction.”

Not realizing she was called over to referee, Brenna looks like she’d rather go back to listening to Rory’s mosh pit escapades.

“I mean,” she says with a wince, “Fizzy isn’t wrong. You’re just as hot as any of the Heroes—in a totally objective, still-my-superior-at-work kind of way, of course. And you two have chemistry.”

I motion to her. “Give this woman a raise.”

“I—” Connor says, but I jump in again, going for the kill.

“You said yourself that you didn’t want the show to be overly produced. Wouldn’t that include editing interviews to look like I’m talking to someone when I’m not? Let’s talk it out for real! Viewers should see me hearing the questions and reacting in real time.”

Connor runs an exasperated hand down his face and then turns his green eyes on me. “All right then. I have my own request.”

“A quid pro quo. I respect it.”

“I was thinking how great it would be if you could talk River into appearing in the first episode. Have him walk the viewers through the science.”

I belt out a laugh. This poor, naive man. “You don’t know River Peña. He’d sooner die.”

“I assumed as much,” he says. “But I also know how persuasive you can be.”

There’s an awkward beat of silence.

“I’m just going to…” Brenna points behind her before heading in the other direction.

I look at Connor again. “River is pretending that none of this is happening. Nobody is that persuasive.”

“Based on personal experience, I disagree.”

Connor gives me a knowing smile, and while I’d like nothing more than to stand around and flirt with him all day, he has a point. “I’m not sure I can convince River to do anything, but a good idea is a good idea. No promises, but I’ll try.”

“Likewise about the confessionals. I can’t promise anything,” he says, and extends a hand for me to shake, “but I’ll try.”

Connor wraps his hand around mine and we shake once… twice… and reluctantly let go. He glances briefly over his shoulder, then back at me. “You good?”

I nod and watch him walk over to Rory to discuss something. Liz comes to find me to ask if there’s anything I need before we wrap for the day. I tell her nothing, but that’s not exactly true. What I need is for Connor Prince III to do something that makes me not want to be near him every second, and I need him to do it soon.