Page 73 of The True Love Experiment

Not me. It’s possible that the shine has been scrubbed off weddings in all my various experiences with them, but I think the wedding is the least romantic part of romance. Sure, there is splendor and catering and the opportunity to wear completely outlandish clothing. But there is also family politics and stress and the reality that many people spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house on a single day’s celebration. Love is not found in a four-foot-high floral centerpiece or a seven-tiered chocolate cake. Real romance is in the quieter details. Who proposes, and how. The way they look at each other across a room. The anticipation of what itmeans to be married, the nights spent side by side, shaping their forever. The first moment alone after the commitment is made. The day after, when they get to finally embark on the adventure. And, of course, all the banging.

But these are things one never considers about one’s brother. Yuck.

I blink away from Peter and over to his new wife, Kailey, just as she’s kissed by a grown-up version of the person who more than once held me down and farted on my face.

He pulls away, smiling, and there—right there—is what I came here to see: that unadulterated look of awe. That first beat of eye contact, the silently squealedWe’re really married?Peter can be a selfish ass and I will never forgive him for cutting my ponytail off when I was thirteen, but he loves Kailey. He’ll be good to her.

And hopefully he will knock her up soon and keep the focus off me and my continued single status.That is, I remind myself,unless I end up happily ever after with one of my Heroes.

The thought pings around in my mind, but it remains a tennis ball bouncing on empty walls. I look out to the cheering crowd of guests, my eyes zeroing in on Connor in the middle of the pack, standing like a skyscraper in the suburbs. And what do you know? He’s looking right back at me.

It takes ten minutes to make my way through the crowd to him, and in between catching up with family, being stopped for photos, and once directing someone to the closest restroom, I’m able to catch glimpses of him talking to people around him. God, I lovethat I can find him so easily, that he cleans up so well in a slim-fitting black tux, and that he left his hair soft and floppy instead of meticulously styled. But his looks aren’t even the most interesting thing about him anymore. He’s so personally warm, gives such sincere eye contact. I love the way he interacted with my mom, the way he was so excited to meet everyone who stopped us on our way out to the garden. The way he puts his whole self into whatever he does and lets himself be emotional when he talks about his daughter. Connor Prince III should be awarded a gold medal in the Active Listening event at the Romance Olympics. It’s hard to believe I looked at him months ago and saw a plastic hero archetype. He’s no longer Hot Millionaire Executive or Hot Brit or Soft Lumberjack or even DILF… he’s just Connor.

How did I once find him boring and unpleasant and cliché? Now I’m struggling to not think of him as soulmate material.

And it’s good that I’m succeeding, because by the time I reach him, he’s standing with one of Peter’s high school friends, a petite blonde named—I kid you not—Ashley Simpson. When I say Ashley is hanging on Connor’s arm, I mean this: imagine a giant rock, and then imagine a barnacle. I like Ashley well enough—even though she toyed with Peter’s heart for years when he believed looks were more important than brains, and then chased him relentlessly once he figured out that brains were more important than looks—but I step up behind them right as she asks Connor if she can steal him away for the first dance, and my gut fills with a shimmering, violent heat.

I jerk to a stop. He hasn’t seen me. He should accept. I won’t like it, but it would be a good way out of this weird, inappropriate,untenable thing we have going on. I’m supposed to like Isaac or Dax or Nick. (Maybe Jude. I think we can all agree Evan isn’t it. But Connor isdefinitelynot it.)

But then Connor says only a gentle “Sorry, tonight these dancing feet belong to Fizzy,” and my heart takes a gasping, free-falling tumble into my stomach.

At Jess’s bachelorette party, we were doing the drunk yet predictable swoon over all the big and small ways River is perfect for her. Given that everyone else was married, inevitably the topic turned to me, and the disaster of my love affair with Rob. The group was small—only about six of us—but everyone fell into overlapping reassurance that I’m amazing, that I deserve the best man alive, that whoever this magical human is, he’s still out there for me.

I didn’t believe it at the time, and despite doing this show, I’m not sure I totally believe it now. In the past couple of decades, I’ve dated a lot. I always assumed I wasn’t picky; I liked to brag that I didn’t have a type. I’ve had a thousand awesome first dates, and a handful of fun second dates. And then, that’s it. I’m attracted to a lot of people, but rarely do emotions get involved. In hindsight, my feelings for Rob benefitted from standing in the residual glow of Jess and River. But truthfully, the relationship was embarrassingly superficial. I didn’t know anything about his life (obviously), and he certainly never made me feel likethis.

Ohshit, that’s not bad. I open my clutch for my notebook but come up empty. Even if I had started carrying one consistently again, this clutch is the size of a Pop-Tart.

Standing behind Connor, watching him gently but firmly turn down an objectively gorgeous woman, knowing that he does notdo casual relationships and that he understands and admires me enough to put his entire professional career in my hands, and that if he feels even a fraction for me of what I feel for him, he’s putting his heart on the line to do this show with me, I realize that what I told him weeks ago is true, I don’t have atype.

But maybe I do actually have a one.

Have you ever been slapped? By yourself? This feels a little like that. I close my eyes, really squeeze them shut, willing the panic to subside. If I were writing this moment, I would describe the tunneling awareness that the feelings I’ve been ignoring have been here all along. I’d maybe make the heroine stagger to the side or reach for a half-empty glass of champagne and down it to take the edge off the sudden appearance of dizzying anxiety. But in reality, epiphanies just feel like your soul opening a gaping mouth and lamenting, “Oh, I amsucha dumbass.”

I come up to the pair, swallowing down the thick ball of emotion in my throat. “Hey, you two, what’s up?”

Connor turns, extracting his arm from Ashley’s grip and setting a warm palm on my lower back. His answering “Hey” is low and warm, carrying a thousand meanings. I look up into his eyes and I know I can’t be imagining it. That one word saysHey, there you are, andHey, did you hear that exchange just now, andHey, I missed you, andHey, remember when we had hard, fast sex and it was mind-blowing?

Ashley leans around from his other side, smiling at me. “Hi, Fizzy.”

I tear my gaze away from Connor’s. “Hi, Ashley. Thanks for coming.”

“Ohmygod, ofcourse. I was just meeting yourproducer. Do I get a dating show next, and canhebe on it?”

I smile tightly and look up at Connor likeWanna field this one?

He gazes down at me, sweetly amused. “I already told her I’m happier mostly behind the camera and you’re the one who made me do the interviews.”

Ashley rolls on. “It’s seriouslyunrealthat you are doing this, Fizzy. I heard about it, but I had no idea it was such a bigdeal. Connor said the second episode airs tonight.”

“It’s a big deal because Connor is doing an amazing job with it.”

“It’s so funny, though.” Her laugh trills like tiny, spiked bells. “A few of us were talking earlier about how you’re a romance author, like, shouldn’t you know all the ways and places to meet people? If you can’t meet someone the usual way, there is literally no hope for the rest of us, right?”

I sense the smile slipping from my face, and I can’t do anything about it. An uncomfortable laugh escapes. Usually, I see these backhanded digs coming from a mile away. Usually, a smart comeback is right there on the tip of my tongue.

How is an expert in romance like you still single?

Gotta keep up with market research, you know.

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