Page 7 of The True Love Experiment

Waiting for me on the front step is Stevie’s chocolate-brown labradoodle, Baxter. We are absolutely those parents who got their kid a consolation divorce dog. He barks cheerily to alert the house that an intruder has entered the premises and, tail still wagging, promptly rolls over for belly rubs.

“All that money for puppy camp and you are still a terrible guard dog,” I say, bending to pet him. “Where is everybody? Where’s Stevie? Can you go fetch her?”

The door is slightly open and Baxter nudges it with his nose and goes up the stairs.

“Hello?” I call out. It’s cool and quiet inside. Stevie’s homeworkis spread out on the coffee table and a basket of folded laundry sits on the couch. The walls are filled with photographs, some of Stevie and Natalia, a few with me. We’ve taken photos of Stevie in the same location and in the same pose on her birthday every year, and seeing them grouped together is like a time lapse of her childhood. She’s tall for a ten-year-old, and rail thin. She has her mum’s olive complexion and dark hair, but her eyes—my eyes—are as green as they’ve ever been.

Footsteps pound on the stairs and a second later, a body collides into mine, skinny arms wrapping around my waist. Baxter is right behind her. “Finally,” Stevie says into my stomach.

I bend, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Sorry, boss. Meeting ran late. Did you have fun with your mum?”

She flops onto the couch dramatically. “We droveeverywhere. We went to the dry cleaners and to drop some things off at the post office for Abuelita and then to Mom’s nail appointment. I forgot my book, so she let me watch videos on my phone and we ordered Chinese food.”

Guilt—my constant weekend-only-parent companion—raises its ugly head.

“I’m sorry, Sass.”

“It’s okay. I got my nails painted.” She holds up a hand and wiggles her pink-tipped fingers. Stevie will pick pink everything if given the opportunity. “And I know you’re super important at your job.”

I sit on the coffee table facing her. “There were some things that couldn’t wait until Monday.”

“I bet they were a really big deal,” she says slyly. “You have thebestideas and make thebestdocumentaries.”

I’m suspicious. Much like her mother, Stevie is a master negotiator. The problem is that I rarely know we’re negotiating until I’ve already agreed to something. “What’s the angle?”

“No angle. You’re just really cool, that’s all.” She pauses. “But I almost forgot!” She sits up, miraculously rejuvenated. “Wonderland is coming here!”

Wonderland, Stevie’s current obsession, is a pop group that’s taken over every chart and award show in the country. For birthdays, Christmas, and every minor holiday involving a basket, treat, or wrapped parcel, Stevie has asked for Wonderland merchandise. The members’ faces are on so many of her T-shirts I could spot them in a crowd without any trouble.

“Coming here as in for a concert?”

“Yes! Could we go? Please?” She takes both my hands in hers and makes her eyes as wide as moons. “It could be for my birthday.”

“Your birthday was in January. It’s May.”

“Hmm,” she says, recalibrating. “If I get straight A’s?”

“You already get straight A’s.”

Her wry expression says it clearly:Exactly. A sucker, I am. I pull out my phone. “Okay. Where are they playing?”

Stevie’s vibrating intensity dials up. “The Open Air!”

“Calm down,” I say gently. “I’m only looking. Did you talk to your mum about this?”

“She said it’s fine if you take me.”

“Of course she did.” When the site loads, a giant banner fills the top of the page:WONDERLAND: THE FORBIDDEN GAME TOUR. “A title like ‘Forbidden Game’ leaves me with many questions.”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Dad.”

I scroll down to the San Diego dates and spot the redSOLD OUTflag over the buy link. I turn the screen to show her, and she immediately deflates.

“I’m sorry, Sass. Maybe next time round? Besides, it doesn’t even start till eight and you’re dead asleep by eight thirty.” Her bottom lip juts out and I bend to meet her eyes. “We’ll check if it’s streaming and maybe we can watch together.”

She’s disappointed, but rallies anyway. “Can we get tour shirts and order pizza?”

“Absolutely. Now go fetch your stuff so we can go.”

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