Page 21 of The True Love Experiment

Oh.

The power in her posture, the shine in her eyes—both of those things have dimmed without me noticing. I sort through the words in my head. “I completely understand that you’d want to do right by this technology, given your personal connection to it, and I wouldn’t expect you to do all the heavy lifting here. But even knowing you just the tiny bit that I do, I know you will absolutely delight the viewers. You have a magical quality that is rare, Fizzy. I’m sure you know that—it translates in your writing, and it translates in person, too.”

“Well, thank you. But no.” She reaches up, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I used to be fun. I used to have a million ideas. I used to be spontaneous and playful and sexy and inspired. I haven’t felt any of those things in ages.”

My pulse slows and then rocket-launches up my throat. “So—what are you saying?”

Did I really go through all of this for her to back out now?

“Joy,” she says behind her hands, and then drops them onto her lap.

“What?”

Fizzy takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly. “I’ll sign the contract on your desk under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“In the two months we have before this show starts filming, you and I get out of this office, away from our keyboards, and rediscover joy.”

tenFIZZY

So much for joy. I tug off a black-and-gray-striped sweater and hurl it with just a touch of rage onto the mountain of clothes forming on my bed.

“I must be insane.” I’m headed to my first book signing in months. I’m not feeling myself, I’m worried my mojo has permanently abandoned ship, I’m going to have to face my readers and be as perky and excited about the next (still nonexistent) book as I can be, and in a moment of weakness, I invited Hot Brit DILF along on some impulsive quest to find our joy. Like we’re buddies.

“God. Tell me why I told this television executive to come pick me up for my signing tonight instead of just driving myself.”

In my bedroom doorway, my little sister shoves another handful of chips into her mouth and crunches loudly through them before answering. “Because you seek out power struggles with men to avoid being vulnerable?”

“Wow, drag me, Alice.” I reach for a sheer-sleeved black dress in my closet.

“Am I wrong?”

My answer comes out muffled as I wrestle my way into the dress. “No.”

“Also, Amaya called again while you were in the shower.”

Grimacing, I brace myself. “Did you pick up?”

“No way. I don’t want to get yelled at.”

I duck back into my closet to dig for shoes. “She’s cool with me doing the show, and we got an extension on the manuscript, but I need to give her some more concrete timelines and I just don’t have them figured out.”

“You’re really going through with this reality show?” Alice asks, badly feigning a totally chill vibe. My pregnant, overachieving sister had been told to cut back on work and take it easy, and is already painfully bored. This explains why she’s following me around my house instead of relaxing with her feet up in her own. I suspect she cares less about this dating show being successful than she does about it being the greatest rubbernecking opportunity of her lifetime.

“I signed the contract, so yeah.”

“Do Mom and Dad know abou—”

I emerge in time to cut her off. “No, and let me tell them.”

My gut immediately clenches at the thought of that conversation. Thirty-seven years old and I still stress about disappointing my parents. They emigrated from Hong Kong in the early eighties and have obviously lived here long enough to have grown comfortable with many Western ideals. But given how my mother still considers my romance novels to be training wheels for the literary masterpiece she’s sure is yet to come, I can’t really imagine how she’ll react to the news that I’ll soon be dating eight men on reality television. Pointing to the bed, I remind Alice, “You promised to relax.”

She finds an empty sliver of mattress and settles down. “Isn’t Dad going tonight?”

I pause, struggling to find the zipper pull and realizing that’s why I haven’t worn this dress in so long. “Oh, good point.”

“So get this producer guy to tell Dad,” she says, “and let Dad tell Mom.”

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