Page 33 of The True Love Experiment

Rory is still staring at the door Nick just walked through. “I had my doubts, but… we might actually pull this off.”

They’re right, I think. The pieces are coming together, and if my gut is correct, it could be good.

I got exactly what I wanted. And I have nobody to blame but myself.

fifteenFIZZY

Whether or not I ever have children of my own remains to be seen, but what can be stated without ambiguity is that I am the most embarrassing adult to ever attend a child’s soccer game.

Even Jess and River don’t want to be seen with me. They march ahead onto the field, lugging chairs, a cooler, and a sunshade to a point that seems like the farthest distance from where we parked. I know the marching can’t be because they’re grouchy that I’ve declared myself to beJUNO’S BIGGEST FANwith bold black letters on a fluorescent pink shirt, because it’s objectively true: only Juno’s biggest fan would wear this in public. But my sweet little dancer has decided to try something new, and even if she’s too mentally sturdy to tremble in fear, rumor has it she hasn’t been sleeping well in the nights leading up to her first soccer match. So if I can be a bigger idiot than anyone else out here, then maybe Juno won’t worry so much about whether she’ll mess up. I have pom-poms in my tote bag, but they’re a “break in case of emergency” kind of thing. Hopefully it won’t come to that.

But once we’re set up at the sideline, I think I might have overcompensated. This entire operation doesn’t seem that intense. Ofcourse there is the one kid in high-tech gear with shiny new cleats and ribbons in her hair that match the uniform. Her parents are easy to spot, too; they’re the ones taking a million pictures of warm-ups and shouting encouragement/instructions across the field. But this is, after all, a group of ten-year-olds, so there’s also the kid who’s obviously in her older sibling’s shorts, which are cinched tightly at the waist and balloon out past her knees, as well as the kid whose parents must be as sporty as I am because they’ve sent their daughter to a soccer game in jeans.

I spot Juno in a small group of girls gathered around a sequoia of a man who’s bent and drawing something on a clipboard. He’s too far away for me to ogle properly but has dark hair and upper arms that seem to test the physics of his T-shirt sleeves.

“Hello, sir.” I make binoculars out of my hands and pretend to zoom in. “Ahhwoooogah.”

I have been a mess since dinner with Connor. An absolute horndog. I haven’t mentioned it to Jess because I think she’s so unsettled by my admitted loss of sex drive and inspiration that she’ll be the worst enabler. It’s been hard enough not texting Connor a dailyHow about now?The last thing I need is Jess’s brand of ride-or-die yelling “You deserve good sex!” in my ear every day.

“That’s the coach,” Jess says, pushing up one of the arms of the shade tent and clicking it into place.

“Let me tell you, my kid would never miss a game.”

She laughs. “He’s one of the parents, actually. Stevie’s dad.”

Stevie is one of Juno’s newer friends, and although I’ve only met her a few times, the two of them are hysterical when together. Toosmart and cute for their own good and more fun than many of the adults I know. Who knew they were making kids so great these days?

I adjust my imaginary binoculars. “Well, Stevie’s dad is a hot piece.”

“He is, indeed.”

River ducks inside the sunshade with the three folding chairs in one big hand. “Who’s a hot piece?”

“You.” Jess stretches to kiss him. “And Connor.”

I think River gives this fair consideration. Ithinkhe says, “Stevie’s dad? I could see that.” But I’m not entirely sure because all motion in my brain has halted.

“Did you just say Connor?” I ask, stomach falling.

Jess is distracted by a folding chair that won’t open. “Yeah, Connor Prince? He’s the coach you’re checking out.”

“No.”

Jess slowly looks up at me, sensing danger. “Yes?”

“Absolutelynot.” I immediately shove my imaginary binoculars away.

“What’s wrong with you?” River asks me, laughing.

“That’s—that’sStevie’sdad out there?” I point in the distance at the giant whose shadow now, I admit, looks strikingly similar to the man I wanted to bend me over the kitchen counter the other night. “Adorable Stevie who told me the sad story about global warming and sea turtles, so I threw a bunch of money at the Oceanic Society?” Oh shit, that actually tracks.

I groan and sit in the chair Jess has just coaxed open.

“Have a seat,” she tells me wryly, opening another and sitting down beside me.

“This is a plot twist I should have expected,” I grumble. “Am I a writer or a block of wood?”

“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” River asks.

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