The True Love Experiment

I wake up before sunrise on Tuesday and get a brief shot of professional bliss before dread hits me like a shadow chaser. Yesterday’s shoot was good—brilliant, really—but if I thought watching Fizzy flirt with a bunch of gorgeous, interesting men right in front of me would be difficult, I was only partially right. It was unbearable. And we’ve only just begun.

The truth is, if we thought we were onto something with the guys during the casting call, that awareness was amplified tenfold seeing them on camera with Fizzy. There were a handful of awkward moments, and not everyone clicked, but her chemistry with a couple of them was off the charts, palpable enough to feel all the way in video village, where some of the bigwigs were watching on the monitors. They congratulated me at the end of the day with dollar signs in their eyes, already feeling the tendrils of something great. I should be ecstatic, buoyed by their enthusiasm and plotting how to capitalize on it. And I am.

But I’m also a touch lovesick.

No better way to get my mind off things than exercise. And it’s early enough that I have time to kill even after my run. I call Stevie and test her a bit and wish her good luck on her state capitals test. I’ve just hung up and am walking out the door when my phone rings. Thinking it’s Stevie again, I answer without thinking.

It’s not Stevie.

“Hey, Dad.” I jog down the stairs. “I’m on my way to work. Can I call you back?”

“I just need a minute.”

At the driveway I pause, taking a calming breath. It’s always the same shit: my time isn’t important; his call is urgent. And I know what’s coming. I climb in, the phone connects to Bluetooth, and my father’s voice fills the car. “I talked to Stefania last week, and she mentioned you’re doing reality TV now? That right?” I swear I don’t have to tell anyone anything anymore, because my daughter will always do it for me. I’m also not sure if I’m more annoyed that he’s been stewing about this for a week and is just now asking, or that the last time I talked to him was more than four months ago. I’m glad he has a better relationship with Stevie than he had with me—marginally—but everything with him comes with a cost. “When we spoke you said you were working on another conservation project.”

This isn’t a conversation I want to have with my dad on any morning, certainly not today. “The company is trying out a few new things this year. I’m a part of that.”

“LA has plenty of better shops, Connor.”

I stare out the windshield. “Dad, come off it. I don’t want to live in LA. I’d see Stevie once a month, if that.”

“Kids are adaptable,” he says, and when I don’t say anything in response, he continues. “Listen, you know how I feel. You could have easily come to work for me, C-suite from the get-go, seven-figure salary, but fine. You were doing important work.” I hear his air quotes and swallow down an expletive. Getting into it with him is never worth it. “Now I have to stomach that my son spent a couple hundred grand on school so he could film a bunch of housewives?”

I bite back the rant on the tip of my tongue, knowing it won’t make a bit of difference anyway. “It’s not housewives, Dad. Anyway, this is a one-off. The company needed opportunities for product placement, and they asked me to take it on. It’s a huge budget and they’ve already given me the green light to do my next doc when this show wraps.”

I wince at the boast I can hear in my own voice, the pathetic attempt to earn his approval.

“And then what? You continue to be their cuck the next time they—”

“Dad. Enough.”

He immediately falls silent. I rarely raise my voice to him.

Not long after he’d had his holiday fling with my mum, he’d married a woman he’d dated off and on in college, and they had a couple of kids. When I moved to the States, I lived with them for two years. My father is a multimillionaire who owns one of the largest real estate development firms in the States, and to me, a teenager raised by a poor single mum, money was power. He was intimidating and strict; Dad and I never butted heads because, like my two half siblings, I never dared talk back to him. He’d lecture us all while we sat there silently poking at our overcooked pasta. I moved out the second I could, got a partial scholarship to UCLA, and worked as a waiter to pay the rest of my tuition and to pay my way through film school at USC.

I thought that when Stevie was born, he might see this perfect little girl and magically turn into a decent human, but of course he didn’t. He loves his granddaughter as much as he’s capable of loving anything, but the only time he’s ever told me I did a good job was when Nat and I split up, and apparently, I undid all of that by following her to San Diego. In his words: What kind of a man does that?

“All right,” he says. “What’s the show? The Bachelor version ten-point-oh?”

Does Fizzy get this when people find out she’s a romance writer? The instant comparison to the one big property everyone is familiar with? “Yeah, Dad. Something like that. Listen, I’ve got to ring off. I’m about to head into the dead spot in Mission Hi—”

I end the call, letting him believe it’s been dropped.

By the time I walk on set, my blood pressure is as close to normal as it’s likely to get today. And I’m surprised that I feel my pulse settling further by association: Fizzy can be found here.

It would be an understatement to say the set is similar to yesterday, because it is in fact exactly the same. We want it to look like the dates are taking place on the same day, so the pastries in the case have been replicated, the stacks of cups arranged just so, and the actors are in the same seats as when we called cut at the end of the day. Even Fizzy is in the same outfit, the soft silk top and tight black pants, looking—if possible—even more beautiful.

Despite the way my morning started, I am only mildly overcaffeinated when our first Hero enters.

EVAN: THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

If there’s one thing you can say about Felicity Chen, it’s that she does not disappoint. When Evan steps through the door, Fizzy’s eyes fall straight to his crotch before swinging wildly to me. I manage to contain a laugh, but Fizzy isn’t quite so lucky. She lets out what can only be described as a guffaw that literally stops Evan in his tracks. A murmur of laughter ripples through the crew as Fizzy claps a hand over her mouth. Rory looks back at me. Without words she’s asking whether we should reshoot Evan’s entrance, and I shake my head, confident that Fizzy can save this with a joke and a moment of levity. But it’s Evan who surprises me when he continues walking and stops in front of her table with an amused smile.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, and motions to his hip. “It’s gone. Bart Simpson is no more.”

She laughs. “It’s for the best, trust me.” Fizzy stands, rounding the table to embrace him. “There are probably a lot of confused people watching this right now,” she says once they’re sitting across from each other.

Evan smiles down at the table and blushes. A few feet behind me, one of the female crew members releases a breathy sigh.

Looking up again, he grins at Fizzy. “Then people should know that I had a rather unfortunate tattoo in a very unfortunate place, and Fizzy was the only person who was honest with me. In fact, I should thank her feedback for ninety percent of the sex I’ve had in the years since we broke up.”

Fizzy laughs into her hands. “I’m happy for everyone involved.”

“Speaking of happy for everyone…” He motions to the lights and cameras pointed at them. “How’s this whole celebrity thing treating you?”

“You know,” she says, “I get to sit here all professionally dolled up while scores of suitors are brought in one after another. I’ve been worse.” She smiles, more at ease now. I don’t sense any romantic sparks, but they already look comfortable together, which the audience will love. “What have you been up to lately?”

“After we dated and I picked up the pieces of my life,” he says with a sly smile, “I tried my hand as a part-time barista while continuing to better myself as a student at UCSD. I’ve been there for about eight years now.”

“Eight years is a lot of bettering yourself.”

“Lots of people go to school for eight years,” he says.

“And they have their own parking spaces at hospitals and the word doctor in front of their name.”

Evan leans in. “Have you been talking to my mother?”

The crew holds in their laughter, and I let out a long, steady exhale. Fizzy is a bloody star.

ARJUN: MR. DARCY

Date two of the day shows up in a custom Gucci suit and alligator oxfords that cost more than most people’s first car. Fizzy is visibly unimpressed. At the end of the date, she gives me a flat stare that, by now, I can correctly interpret as Mr. Darcy was grumpy but kind. That guy was an egomaniac.

Date number three is promising.

COLBY: NAVY SEAL

Colby is well over six feet tall and a wall of muscle. His black hair is cut short, his tan the combination of an olive complexion and early mornings spent battling the currents at Breakers Beach. When he takes a seat across from Fizzy, I have to tamp down a wave of pure jealous irritation over how good they look together. But their conversation is, well… frankly it’s boring. To her credit, Fizzy really tries to carry the tepid back-and-forth, but lets out an audible gasp when he admits he hasn’t read a real book since The Da Vinci Code was published in 2003.

The producer in me really needs this next one to hit it out of the park.

But the guy who kissed Fizzy two nights ago secretly hopes it all goes down in flames. Unfortunately for him, it doesn’t. Enter:

NICK: CINNAMON ROLL

Nick is everything he was in his audition, and when he walks in, he drags along with him an aura of affability and a haze of sexuality that seems to shimmer across the room. Fizzy begins to stand, seemingly without realizing it, the second she spots him. They greet each other with a lingering hug, and I’m hit with the sense that I’m seeing something immediate and intimate. It’s the kind of connection that makes me want to watch them have sex, and then my reflexes kick me in the mental balls for the thought.

The crew is spellbound. At some point Nick tells her about a litter of puppies they’re expecting at his office, and Fizzy makes him promise that he’ll keep her updated.

In an act of self-preservation, I manage to tune out the rest of their date.

Next, we get:

JUDE: VAMPIRE

I’m not sure what Fizzy was expecting when she put vampire on the list of archetypes, but I’m hoping Jude fits the bill. I think I might even surprise her. Jude walks through the door and crosses to Fizzy in a few strides. Beaming, she stands and greets him with a hug. His ears glitter with silver piercings, he has a lip ring and a nose ring, and he’s dressed in expensive monochromatic black from head to toe. He has the same cool edge about him that Fizzy does.

Jude pulls out Fizzy’s chair before moving to his own, and I am on tenterhooks waiting for the reveal.

“So, you’re my Vampire.” Fizzy gives him an appreciative once-over. One of the cameras is zoomed in close enough to catch the way she crosses her legs under the table, her high-heeled foot casually coming to rest against his leg. Great for ratings, terrible for my mental health.

“It would appear so,” he says with a smirk. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Fizzy. I was getting so nervous. I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more beautiful in person.”

There isn’t an ounce of insincerity detectable. Watching next to me, Brenna makes a tiny, infatuated squeak before quickly covering her mouth. On the outside I am completely impassive. Inside I am flipping off Vampire Jude.

He lifts his coffee in a toast. “Here’s to hoping this is the first date of many.”

Visibly charmed, Fizzy clinks her mug with his and they both drink.

“Tell me about yourself, Jude. What exactly does a vampire do for a living these days?”

“I’m a phlebotomist, actually,” he says with a knowing grin.

And there it is. God, I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Fizzy slaps her hand on the table with a loud, surprised laugh, her eyes shifting just to the left of Jude to meet mine across the café.

That laughter is just for me.