The True Love Experiment

For the first twenty minutes after I arrive at Jess’s on Friday night, I breathlessly download every detail I can remember about the eight dates. The Heroes’ faces, clothes, voices, jobs, whether I liked them, what we talked about, what kinds of jokes they made.

When I describe the hilarious moment my ex walked into the café, a knowing grin painted on his pretty face—and an even bigger grin painted on Connor’s—Jess nods in recognition.

“Is Evan the one with the tattoo you hated?” she asks. “Has that great laugh?”

“Update, he was the guy with the tattoo. He got it removed. And yeah, Chinese American, played softball with my brother. I put his name on the list because my dating past is littered with land mines, and Evan is a good guy, if not the sexual savior I need. But now I’m thanking past me for including him,” I tell her. “He’s great, and if all of these other men turn out to be duds, at least Evan and I can take a fun vacation together to Fiji.”

“Or maybe things will be different this time without Bart Simpson standing between you.”

“Maybe.”

“So give me a rating, who’s the top pick so far?”

“Probably Isaac. He was…” I pause for dramatic effect and give my head a shake to clear it. “He was so hot, Jess. And so interesting.”

“I seeeeeeeee.” She leans forward, eating this up. “And were there sparks? Fireworks? Bells ringing in the background?”

“Who knows. That’s up to the audience to decide, I guess.” If Jess senses the subtext there—that even after only the first round of dates I’m already considering I might not fall for one of these objectively fantastic Heroes because I can’t stop looking over their heads at the executive producer in the background—she doesn’t show it. She’s too busy living vicariously through my crazy dating adventures. Just like old times.

“So are we watching the first episode together tomorrow?”

“I just need to make sure that Connor wasn’t planning that I would watch it with him, but otherwise, yes.”

Jess’s eyes narrow. “Like, just the two of you?”

“No,” I say, but the word sounds uncertain, like I might really mean Maybe.

“Fizz,” she says in low warning.

“Well, maybe he was planning a thing!”

“Why would he plan to watch it just with you?”

“No, no, like—” I exhale, wincing. “Okay, I have something to tell you, but you absolutely cannot get mad at me.”

“With that kind of lead-up I make no such promises.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

We stare at each other in a silent standoff until I blink away, casually inspecting my nail polish. Usually, the odds of us each giving in are evenly split, but given that I’m the one with the juicy information—and I know she’s spent the last eight hours doggedly running statistics on an enormous numbers thing—I’m confident I can win this one.

The silence of the room seems to hum with phantom sound. That spreadsheet must’ve been a doozy because she breaks much faster than I would have expected. “God, fine, just tell me.”

“Sunday night,” I say, leaning in, “the night before shooting started, Connor and I had our last joy excursion.”

“Date.”

“Excursion. We went to Torrey Pines to watch the bioluminescent waves.”

Her hmmm is suspicious. She knows exactly where this is going.

“Well, spoiler alert, we ended up kissing.”

Jess face-palms. “Fizzy.”

I point an accusatory finger. “The agreed-upon terms stated that you can’t get mad!” She drags her hand down her face, revealing a fake smile. “As I was saying, the kissing turned into making out and I was on his lap and—” I widen my eyes at her and lower my voice. “Jessica Marie, I am not positive because I did not see it, but I think Connor might have the biggest penis of any man I’ve ever touched.”

Silence. Her expression flattens.

“Wait. I need wine for this.” She disappears for a minute and then returns, setting two glasses of red wine down on the low coffee table and sitting across from me. “I don’t want to encourage this, or for you to think I am somehow condoning it, but how big are we talking?”

I look behind me to make sure there are no impressionable ten-year-old ears listening in.

Jess quickly swallows a sip, shaking her head. “Juno’s at Nana and Pops’s house.”

Reassured we’re alone, I hold my index fingers an impressive—yet accurate—distance apart and then make a circle with the fingers of both hands to approximate girth. “Probably like this?”

She whistles. “Fizz, that’s the diameter of your wrist.”

“It is fact!” I smack a hand on the table. “It would be like fisting myself!”

Jess drops her head into a hand, sighing, and only then do I realize that River had just entered the room holding a tray of snacks for us. He makes a U-turn without pausing and silently exits.

“Wait, I need to talk to you,” I shout at his retreating form. “His timing really is amazing.”

“Well, good luck getting him back now.”

“Oh please, like I can shock him anymore. Remember when he had to undress me?” On our group trip to Scotland, Jess was about to get into the shower, and in response to my panicked Help me text, she sent River, not realizing my emergency was being stuck in my dress. To his credit, River came in, tugged the offending garment up and off without hesitation, and walked right back out again. The man is unflappable. “Anyway,” I continue. “As you can imagine, I will be unable to think about anything else until I touch it again.”

She’s already protesting. “You’re actively on the show now!”

“Yes, but it doesn’t have to affect the show! This isn’t about feelings, it’s a distraction. I have a taste for him now.” I sigh. “I am a hunter.”

She nods in understanding. “Like James in Twilight.”

“Exactly like James in Twilight,” I confirm.

“Except how Alice popped his head off.”

I slap the table. “Why do you always intentionally miss my point!”

“The point is that this is going to end in disaster.”

“I really don’t think so. This is purely sexual. It’s not like he and I are going to fall in love. I am a loud, romance-writing, adventure-seeking, opinionated woman. And he is a tall, sporty white man named Connor Prince III. I think we can all agree it’s just a matter of time before I do something too shocking, or he’ll do something to annoy and/or bore me.”

My phone buzzes on the table between us. Connor’s face lights up the screen and Jess sees it before I can flip it over and pretend it’s my brother calling.

“You even put his picture in his contact info?” Her disgust is totally feigned. Under that baggy sweatshirt and sensible shoes, Jess is a giant drama queen. She is living for this excitement.

With a bright smile, I answer. “Hey, boss!”

“Hey, you. You have a few minutes for a postmortem?”

“That depends. Am I the dead body?” Across from me, Jess gives me a disapproving frown. I tap my forehead to remind her that face will give her wrinkles. I’m such a good friend and she never thanks me for these things.

Connor’s laugh is a low vibrating tickle to my lady parts. “It’s just a saying, Fizzy.”

I hit Mute and whisper to Jess: “His voice is so deep. Did I always know his voice was this deep?” Returning to the call, I say, “I know, I’m only joking. Yes, I am free to examine a proverbial dead body.”

He laughs again. “Cool. You home? I can come to you.”

“I can be home in ten.”

With a quiet “Great,” he hangs up.

And shit. If we eliminate the possibility that I am excited to see Connor, there is no remaining explanation for the way I bolt up to gather my things.

Jess follows me to the door. “What are you doing?”

“He’s meeting me at my house to do a debrief.” I tuck my phone into my purse.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Is it a good idea to discuss the work we are doing together?” I pretend to ponder it. “I think so.”

“Discussing it at your house,” she says.

I open the door, stepping into my shoes. “Guess we’ll find out.” When her frown intensifies, I add, “Fine. I promise we’ll stay out of the bedroom.”

“As if you need a bedroom,” she says.

I pause with my hand on the knob. “That is a great point. Okay, gotta go!”

“Wrist diameter!” she calls to me as I jog down the stairs.

“I don’t need to walk tomorrow!”

“How’s the writing going, Felicity?”

“This is research!” I call back.

I can practically hear her aggrieved groan as she waves from the front door.