Page 25 of The True Love Experiment

Andstarving.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and feel him lean in. “You okay?”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I—Shit. I really, really like the smell of his Ice Zone Sports Hero Silver Blade deodorant.

“I’m great.” When I drop my hands, light pops into the periphery of my vision. The only tiny hit of adrenaline remaining is the one I get when I stare right up at him, towering over me, soft and lumberjacky and flashlight-eyed. “But I’m about to be even better.”

I tell myself not to be too interested in the way he flicks one curious eyebrow, saying, “Do tell.”

“If you trust me, then let’s go.”

twelveCONNOR

Iget the strong sense that the types of directions Fizzy gives are the ones we warn our children not to blindly follow: trust me, sign here, eat this. And yet, here I am, following her out of the bookstore and into my car, where she directs me twenty minutes south to a taco joint in San Ysidro, just on the Mexican border.

In an unremarkable parking lot in front of an unremarkable building, she climbs out, stretches long, happily groaning, and then grins wickedly at me. “Are you ready to have your world changed?”

“Uh, sure?”

As she moves with ease toward the building in her black dress and heels, there’s something thunderous about her. Objectively slight, Fizzy has the ability to take up space in a way I’ve never mastered. I was always relatively tall growing up, but having been raised by a single mother, I felt conscious not to appear imposing in any way. It was this tendency of mine that drove my father insane on the rare occasions when he would visit. He would lecture me about entering a room with power, about the importance of claiming space. By the time I’d turned fourteen and was well over six feet tall, and taking up space was a foregone conclusion, he turned to other things to criticize: my lack of ambition, my deference to others, my protectivenessof my mother. Later it was my career choice, my shotgun wedding, my job title.

But as much as my father exhausts me, I can’t help but think that admiring Fizzy would be one thing we’d have in common.

“I’m going to order for us,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m going to put joy in your mouth, Sexy Lumberjack. Trust me.”

“Is trust required?”

She ignores this, stepping up to order for us, and I look down at my outfit. From Brit to DILF to Sexy Lumberjack. I can’t know for sure if this transition in nickname signals a good wardrobe decision on my part, but I changed three times before picking her up today, prompting Stevie to ask me whether I was going on a date.

It’s not a date. I mean, of course it isn’t. But there’s something about being this close to Fizzy that makes me want to impress her in the same way.

As she orders, I hear the wordslengua, cabeza, buche, andtripaand am aware that I’m going to be eating some things I have never before put in my mouth. With a bulging paper bag in one hand, two drinks in a cardboard tray in the other, and a little nod for me to trust her yet again, we climb back into the car and drive a few minutes to a small road leading us to a coastal wildlife refuge.

At a weatherworn metal table overlooking an empty stretch of beach, Fizzy opens the bag and lays out an enormous selection of tacos. “Take your pick.” She points to each, describing what’s in it—from grilled beef and cactus, to pork belly, to tripe, to beef head, to tongue. And as I take my first bite of the pork belly, she watches me with anticipation, waiting for a reaction.

Letting out a low, involuntary groan, I feel my eyes drift closed.The sharp tang of fresh cotija and bright lime, with crisp bits of meat and a soft, handmade tortilla—this is easily the best taco I’ve had in my entire life.

It takes a minute for my senses to settle and I realize she’s still looking at me.

“You like?” she asks, smiling happily.

“Bloody lovely.” I wipe my mouth. “Are you just going to watch?”

She breaks her stare and blinks down at the selection in front of her, choosing what I think was the lengua. “I like seeing you like this. Outside of that office and that suit. This is a good vibe.” She motions to my clothes. “Still DILFy, but without the uptight CEO thing going on.”

“Not sure a coworker has ever called me a DILF before.”

She shrugs. “You didn’t bring me on because I lettered in propriety.”

“Fair.” I smile, taking a sip of my fountain drink. “But you seem awfully intent on pegging me.”

She barks out a laugh. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“Jesus Christ.” I flick my eyes upward in mock exasperation, and then finish the small taco. “You know what I meant.”

It’s a struggle not to stare at her while she eats. She hums happily as she chews, licks a tiny bit of salsa from the side of her mouth, and studies the food in her hand with pleasure-drunk eyes. So far in only this first outing alone I’ve seen two very different sides to Fizzy: effusive and public facing, and this more intimate, quietly playful version. Both charismatic, both sexy, both mesmerizing. First, I was resentful to be assigned this, then I was resigned. Now I feela flicker of excitement over the challenge of capturing her brand of magic on-screen.

You’re going to be setting her up with other men.

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