Page 95 of The True Love Experiment

“Time is it?”

“Just after eight.”

I push to sit up in my too-bright room. I hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night, and sunlight streams in like there’s something to celebrate. “Shit.”

“What time do you have to be on set today?”

I squint at the wall, thinking. “Ten, I think.”

“You have plenty of time.”

“I know.” I reach up, rubbing my face. “I meantShit, I have to pretend to be fine again today.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What’s that?”

Jess whisper-squeals through the phone: “Who’s joining you for today’s date with Evan?”

With a relieved groan I collapse back onto the bed. “Ohthankgod, that’s right.” Despite the dark cloud following me everywhere, I giggle. The date with Evan was originally supposed to be with my brother and his new wife, before we realized during scheduling that they’d be on their honeymoon. My sister was the second obvious choice, but has been shifted from “taking it easy” to official bed rest. I have a pool of about a zillion aunties I could choose from, but that would honestly be a circus, and even with all of this self-loathing, I don’t hate myselfthatmuch.

“How’s River feeling about being on TV again?”

“Grouchy, but stoically resigned.”

“My favorite version of him.”

She laughs. “I’ll see you soon. Go get ’em, tiger.”

I give my most pathetic roar.

Of course, the first thing that happens when I go from the bright sunshine outside to the dim elegance of the restaurant is I collide directly with a wall of Connor. It is not unlike running face-first into brick—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

We do one of those terrible bursting, overlapping apology dances before abruptly turning in opposite directions: me, to hair and makeup in the back, and him to the row of cameras setting up for the day of shooting.

The restaurant is quiet; I’m the first to arrive. Up front, it is justConnor and Rory huddled around the cameras. I swear I hear every rumbling murmur of his voice, feel it like a vibration down my spine. Liz has to keep reminding me to tilt my chin up and turn my face to her, because I keep unintentionally turning my head toward the front of the restaurant, drawn to him in these unconscious, aching ways.

My entire life I’ve felt grounded in who I am and what I want, but lately… lately it feels like I have no identity anymore. I’m not a writer, I’m not a wild date, I’m not even a pesky best friend or bawdy aunt. And in all this quiet in my mind, thewho am I really?shouts the loudest. One of my favorite things about Connor was that he didn’t need me to be anything. I could be silly and loud or thoughtful and contemplative and it was all just… me. He told me that I was more than my playful, sexy, adventurous author persona. He said I had thoughtful depth and sensitive layers. It felt like he had a pocket Fizzy Decoder (and I am not just talking about his dick).

(Though the dick helped, too.)

Evan arrives in a suit and looks objectively hot. I’m so conflicted. On the one hand, I could choose him for the trip. It’s not going to happen with us—I think we both know that—and maybe a relaxing ex-to-friend trip together to Fiji is just what I need. But on the other hand, with the show’s popularity, I don’t want to do the public “breakup,” don’t want to have to pretend to have been in love and fallen out of it.

But if I choose Isaac, I’d be doing us both a disservice. Isaac is exactly who I would have expected to fall for, but in this reality, I now only feel very platonic things for him. Are his feelings genuinelyromantic? Would a trip with him be the most excruciating, awkward ten days? Could I maybe learn to like him?

I groan, and Liz gives my chin a gentle pinch, reminding me to hold still while she applies eyeliner.

“What’s with you?” she asks, her breath sweet and minty near my cheek. “You seem stressed.”

“I am.”

“Are you worried the audience won’t choose the one you want?”

Liz has never asked me anything about the show. I always assumed it was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of thing, but maybe it’s as simple as everyone not being a nosy asshole such as myself. A smart woman would say yes. A dumb one—me—says, “I don’t think I want either of them.”

She straightens, and her voice comes out in a whisper. “Which one do you want most?”

I go for broke: “The one who’s seven feet tall with the god-tier bone structure.”

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