Page 5 of The True Love Experiment

Or did, until today, when my boss, one Blaine Harrison Byron—a man whose office decor includes a huge slab of graffitied concrete, a life-sized statue of a naked woman, and the newest addition, a gleaming saddle—told me the company was making a major pivot from socially conscious programming to reality television. Is it possible for a man named Blaine Harrison Byron to not be a giant, pretentious wanker?

(I see the fair point to be made—that a man named Connor Fredrick Prince III should not be so quick to cast stones—but I didn’t just sideswipe the lives of my entire staff on a whim, so I’m standing firm.)

“Let’s talk it out,” Ash says when a commercial for Jack in the Box comes on. “What’d your boss say, specifically?”

I close my eyes, working to recall Blaine’s exact wording. “He said we’re too small to be socially conscious.”

“Out loud?”

“Out loud,” I confirm. “He said that people don’t want to sit down after a hard day’s work and feel bad about the ziplocked sandwich they took for lunch, or how much water is wasted to make the electricity to charge their iPhone.”

Ash’s jaw drops. “Wow.”

“He said he wants me to go after the female demographic.” I sip my beer and set it down, staring at the table. “He said Bravo was the number one rated cable network in prime time among women ages eighteen to forty-nine because of their two top reality franchises,and that demographic spends the most. Ergo, the executives are going after premium ad revenue. They’ve already got one of my colleagues, Trent, working on some mash-up ofThe Amazing RaceandAmerican Gladiatorsthey’re callingSmash Course. And they want me to spearhead a reality dating show.”

“So, like, women competing to get some oiled-up hunk to choose them,” Ash says.

“Right.”

“Half-naked Gen Zers locked in a big house together trying to get laid.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hot women marrying some average dude they’ve never seen.”

“Ash, there is no bloody way I am doing that.”

He laughs. “Put your British manners away. Pretend you’re American.” When he sets his beer down again, I notice his shirt is misbuttoned. Ashkan Maleki can be counted on to be untied, unzipped, or otherwise disheveled at least fifty percent of the time. It’s endearing, but I have no idea how he survives in a room full of unfiltered six-year-olds every day. “Every job has downsides. We just have to keep at it.”

I met Ash when my daughter, Stevie, was in first grade and he took over her class halfway through the year. It also turned out we went to the same gym and kept running into each other. We immediately hit it off, but hanging out felt a little like secretly dating my kid’s teacher. Thankfully, when the school year ended, Stevie moved on to another grade and my friendship with Ash stuck.

“You love being a teacher,” I say.

“Most days. The kids are great,” he clarifies. “It’s their parents who are a mess.”

I give him a humorously dark look.

Ash grins as he pops a fry into his mouth. “Nah, you and Nat were fine. I got the usual kid gossip from Stevie but nothing too bad.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff kids tell me. Some of these parents are nuts. I had one physically threaten me when their son lost the school spelling bee. They were worried about his academic career.”

“What career? He’ssix.”

“The word wasthwart.”

“I can barely spell that now.”

“Exactly.” His attention is drawn to the TV again when the crowd around us collectively curses at something happening in the game, and my work malaise returns.

When Natalia and I divorced eight years ago, we agreed on shared custody of our daughter. This means Stevie, now ten years old, spends the weekdays at her mum’s place and the weekends and most school holidays at mine. It’s usually not a problem, but because of this evening’s disaster meeting with Blaine, I missed my pickup window. At some point, I’d done the Southern California mental calculation of:

(time of day) x (motorway construction)It’s Friday

and told Nat to just carry on the evening without me.

She had to take Stevie to run errands and wouldn’t be home for a few hours. Now not only is my career in the toilet, I’m missing out on time with my favorite girl, too.

Restless, I glance around the bar, my eyes wandering back to the two women I saw earlier. One of them’s got her back to me, but the other, the one I made eye contact with shortly after I got here, is so gorgeous I can’t stop stealing looks at her. Petite and willowy, with inky black hair that gleams in the light above their table, she’s in a formfitting black dress, legs crossed and one thin, spiked heel resting on the leg of her barstool. Everything about her screamscool, which is an odd way for a grown man to describe another adult but it’s true. She’s animated while she speaks, making her friend laugh often. I should stop staring, but it’s nice to be distracted by a beautiful woman rather than obsessing about work.

If I were wired differently, maybe I’d walk over and see if we could distract each other somewhere else for the night. But I’m jerked from my daydreaming when Ash’s hand absently paws at my collar in reaction to something on the screen.

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