I’ve been in this trailer a dozen times over the past few weeks, and until today it has been my favorite hunting ground. It’s small but comfortably furnished, with cameras secured in consistent places that make it easy to film these interviews no matter where the set takes us every day. There are two couches: one for Connor, one for whoever he’s interviewing. The shades are pulled, the lighting soft and designed to feel private and intimate. Bottled water (labels facing out!) and a box of tissues are helpfully within arm’s reach. This is where I give my thoughts on how things are going, how I’m feeling, my impressions of the Heroes. It’s also the only time each episode where viewers get to see Connor as he walks us through each of the dates. I don’t follow the show hashtags, because I’m not a masochist (and also, it’s in the honor code that I don’t track how the voting is going), but Jess mentioned again the other day that Juno told her that Stevie said people are loving him. Our little gang is like the Pony Express, but with gossip.
I don’t blame these Internet women. Who could see this man on their TV and not fall for him? Hopefully it shows Blaine what a valuable asset Connor is, and it puts the ball in Connor’s court for a change.
I’ve settled on the couch when the small trailer door opens and Connor ducks inside. His presence shrink-wraps the space, sucking up all of the oxygen.
No hi or hello. Just a quiet “Test your mic, please.”
So we aren’t going to be friends today. Noted.
Connor makes his way to his seat and slides a hand down the thigh of his dress pants. It really is taking a Herculean effort to not launch myself facedown into his lap. “One, two. One, two. Down with the patriarchy, up with romance, let women love who and what they love.”
A pause while he waits for confirmation in his earbud. “You’re good.”
It takes him a moment to meet my eyes and arrange his face into a suitably pleasant—though not too pleasant—expression. “How are you feeling today heading into your last date?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about last night?”
He pauses, clearing his throat. “Yes. Right. Let’s start over with that. How was last night for you?”
“It was hard,” I say.
He waits uneasily for me to say more, like he knows I’m a live bomb. I should wax on about the date yesterday; that’s my job, to talk. But everything goes blank inside.
Finally: “Hard, why?”
I want to laugh at this. Hello, Connor, last night was hard because you barely looked at me and I want this show to be amazing so that your career takes off and you fall back in love with me. But sadness is an ache I feel I need to continually swallow around, and turns out, sadness also makes it hard to laugh.
I reach for the water off to the side and twist off the cap, taking a sip. Count to ten, one more sip, and do your damn job, Fizzy.
“Last night was hard because I realize it might have been the last date ever with Isaac.”
There. Just there. A tiny tic in his jaw. “Unless he wins, which it seems your parents would like very much.” He’s making his voice warm and amiable, leaning into his accent and that honeyed charm, but I know him. I see the tightness in his expression.
We do know each other, he’d said. Getting to know each other has been our singular focus for months.
I try to put on a natural grin. “Yes, my parents loved him.”
He swallows. “We had a long conversation last night about why Isaac would be perfect for you.”
“Is that right?”
Connor reaches for his own water, strangling down some unreadable expression. “They’ve met Evan before, right?” I am genuinely impressed—and annoyed—with how quickly he reined that in. I’m trash for his jealousy. I want to eat it slathered on toast.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s my brother’s friend.”
“And what did they think?”
“I don’t think he made much of an impression at the time. But he is objectively amazing. And hot.”
“Well, as producer and part of the team who cast him, I’ll take that compliment,” Connor says smoothly, the little gleam in his eye telling me he sees exactly what I’m doing. “As our One That Got Away, he’ll be having dinner with your best friend, Jessica, and her husband, River Peña, who also happens to be the inventor of the DNADuo technology.”
“That’s right. Make sure to mention that a lot. River loves attention.”
Connor laughs, shoulders relaxing. “You’re going to be in top form tonight, I see.”
“It’s my last date night. How disappointed would everyone be if I was tame and well behaved?”
“We would all be devastated.” The heat of his smile warms me to my marrow. How can he not see how good we are together? “How are you feeling entering this final date?”
“Relieved.”
“Relieved why?”
“Because it means soon I can stop pretending I want someone other than you.”
Connor goes silent, looking jerkily around at the cameras aimed at each of us. “Fizzy, you—you can’t say that.”
“Edit it out, then.”
He reaches forward and gently switches one camera off, then the other. We both reach up, turning off our mics. Connor removes his earpiece and lets out a long exhale. “Shit.”
“I miss you,” I say once I know we’re really alone. “I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for what I did. I know I said you aren’t the man I thought you were, but I was just scared.”
“I know.”
“You’re exactly who I need you to be.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the light catches the top of his hair when he bends to rest his head in his hands.
“I hate this,” I say. I suck in a deep breath. “I hate the thought of ending up with someone other than you. I’m fickle about everything but this, Connor. I’m sorry I hurt you. I meant what I sai—”
“I know.” His voice is calm, but resolute, and I realize what’s coming when he sits up and meets my gaze. He’s going to find a new way to let me down easy. How many times am I going to ask this man to reject me? “And I’m so sorry I’ve put you in this position,” he says. “I’m sorry that I’ve contributed to what you’re struggling with. I’m sorry you have to pretend to want one of these remaining Heroes. But you’re so good on this show, Fizz. Every day I feel like the smartest man alive for casting you.” We stare at each other for a long pause. I silently repeat over and over that I love him. I’m making up for a lifetime of never having said it, and even if he doesn’t feel the same, it feels so good to shout it with my gaze.
Finally, he exhales. “For what it’s worth, this is hard for me, too.”
Everything inside me goes strangely quiet. I don’t know why him saying that makes it possible for me to continue, but it does. “I really needed to hear that. You’ve seemed so composed. You seemed so… over me.”
“I’m not—” He breaks off. “I don’t feel composed.” Connor closes his eyes, swallows. “I’m not made of stone.” He reaches forward, hesitating before he turns the camera on, as if asking my permission.
So, I give it. “Go ahead. Sorry for the interruption. I’m ready.”
River’s surly face when he walks in and is approached with a makeup brush and fawning crew goes a long way toward pulling my mood up from the basement. When Brenna asks for River’s autograph on the palm of her hand, the laugh I let out at his horrified expression echoes through the room, lightening it all somehow. What does one do with an autographed hand? his face appears to silently wonder. Cast it? Tattoo it? Never wash it again? River isn’t down with any of these possibilities and instead scribbles his name on napkins and coasters and business cards for the background actors and crew while Jess and I play a one-minute game of whisper catch-up.
“We were just alone in the confessional trailer,” I say into her ear. “It was so perfect—just us together—and we started to relax and then I said I missed him, and that I hate having to be with someone other than him, and he admitted that it’s hard for him, too!”
She gasps. “What!”
“I know!” I whisper-yell. “He said, ‘I’m not made of stone.’ ”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “That’s hot.”
Unfortunately, we have no more time to process what this means because Brenna collects us, fetches Evan and River, and leads the four of us to a table in the center of the restaurant, in perfect lighting. What a weird feeling, to be at a standstill in every other aspect of my life and yet feel like everything is moving too quickly all around me.
When I meet my best friend’s eyes, I feel the tight knot of sadness and regret loosen.
I am here for you, her eyes say.
I know and I love you, mine say back.
I mean, hers say, I am here for you tonight for dinner, and you owe me.
Your husband is a riot.
Her gaze turns wry. He complained all day.
River complaining about being social! I do not believe you!
River clears his throat. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” Jess asks.
“That thing where you converse without words,” he mutters.
I go to throw my napkin at him when, from behind the cameras, Connor clears his throat in reminder. “We’re rolling.”
There’s some scripted conversation we’re required to have referring to River’s last appearance, about GeneticAlly, the technology, and reminders to viewers about River’s involvement in the inception of the entire thing. But then dinner devolves into something easy where we forget for small stretches that we’re being filmed, where we tell stories from our past that we may have told a hundred times or never heard before—it doesn’t matter because even if I’m not romantically interested in Evan, I like him. I know the cameras are catching the easy familiarity we have. It bodes well for Evan, which bodes well for Connor.
But, God, I wish it were Connor beside me.
