The penultimate episode of The True Love Experiment rakes in the highest prime-time rating for any reality show in nearly a decade. At an early meeting with the entire crew, it’s clear that the numbers defy comprehension. If we had champagne in the office at nine in the morning, it would be popping.
As we walk back to my office, Brenna jogs behind me, excitedly telling me about the TikTok trends, the viral edits and reels—and she sends me a few, but I think by now she knows that seeing evidence of the true hysteria online will make the pressure to execute this live finale too intense. It doesn’t help that the furor over Smash Course hasn’t died down. Today’s twenty-four-hour news cycle means the public’s memory is often short for these sorts of things, but it seems every day a new detail emerges to get people riled up again. It all hits close enough to the situation with Fizzy that one might think it would reassure me that I’m doing the right thing, and make being away from her easier to bear. One would be wrong.
When he arrives just after ten, Blaine is an overstimulated hound, circling continually, making laps around the offices. He’s crowing about the little guys showing Hollywood how it’s done, about knowing he chose wisely putting me on this and how I should trust him next time. The adulation is bittersweet: Of course I’m thrilled that Fizzy and I managed to create something that has resonated with so many viewers, but the obvious conflict of falling for her is a shadow that lurks behind my celebratory mood. My failed marriage would have been the easiest relationship to maintain—without passion, but convenient and amiable—and yet building something with the one woman I’m truly lost for has proven to be impossible.
Maybe in a few months, I think, after the spotlight has turned away and the world has moved on to the next shiny thing, we can make a go of it. But that isn’t how love works. No matter what poetry tells us, love isn’t always patient; it is urgent and hungry, eating up all of the blank space in my head.
I escape to the editing room, hoping to drown everything else out and spend the day helping put together the retrospective clips of all the Heroes for the recap portion of the live finale this weekend. But it is in this quiet retreat that Blaine finds me and slaps a piece of paper down on the mixing board.
“Blaine—”
“Contingent on you not shitting the bed,” he says, ignoring that he’s just inadvertently deleted the clip we were working on, “here’s a contract for you to produce and host season two of The True Love Experiment.”
Sensing the storm brewing, Pat, our editorial producer, pushes back from his computer and makes his escape. “Think I’ll go grab a cup of coffee.”
The door closes behind him and I peer down at the paper.
I knew it was coming—frankly it would be stupid of us to not green-light a second season—but seeing it in black and white stuns me silent for a moment anyway. I am sure, with the structure we’ve built, the crew and I could do it again with another Heroine or Hero at the center, and even if it’s half as successful as this first season has been, it would be a financial success for the company. And for me.
I just can’t imagine doing it with anyone but Fizzy beside me. Not to mention another season keeps me in the public eye and pushes a possible relationship between us even further out of reach.
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
“Think about it?” Blaine pokes the third paragraph with an insistent finger, pressing a bunch of buttons underneath it. “Kid, do you see what we’re offering you? We’re talking more money, more time, more staff, and a bigger production budget.”
I do see. What they’re offering me is part of the reason I want to consider this carefully.
Gingerly, I guide his hand away and swivel in my seat to face him. “I see the financial incentive, and I know we could do the show again quite easily. But, for as crazy as this might sound—because I know we are absolutely the biggest thing on television right now—money is not the only thing I care about. I enjoyed what I was doing before. I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon the documentary world quite yet.”
He waves this off. “Fine. We’ll give you the $40K for your ocean thing. You can do one of those and one of these a year. Is that what it will take for you to sign?”
“This wasn’t our agreement, Blaine.”
“I’m offering you a huge opportunity. You’re a natural in this space.”
“I just need a moment,” I tell him. “It’s not a no or a yes, it’s a ‘let’s talk about this after the final episode.’ ”
Blaine lets out a short laugh and narrows his eyes at me. “I see. Okay. You’re angling for more, and I respect that.”
“It isn’t that. I—”
He winks and slaps my shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”
It takes active focus to shove the thoughts of money and pressure and Blaine and my career and my family and—most of all—Fizzy out of my mind and simply focus on the task in front of me. Between the various cameras, there are over two hundred hours of footage to go through for all the clips and retrospectives we’ll need for the finale. It’s pretty much an all-hands-on-deck situation. We want to share moments of each Hero being unguarded, unfiltered, and as appealing as each of them is in real life. I feel like we’ve captured the essence of a handful of truly amazing people—without irony or mockery in our tone—and that feels monumental. Maybe it’s this element that has resonated with so many people, the authenticity of it all. I want this last, full episode to be emotional and funny, genuine and inspiring.
But given that we’re editing clips of Fizzy or about Fizzy, there’s no escape from her. Worse, in front of me are hours and hours of unfiltered proof that she meant what she said: she doesn’t want any of these other men. By now I know her smiles, and she gives them ones that are bright and sincere but ultimately platonic. I know her laughs and those, too, are genuine, but the Heroes don’t get the one that comes from the depths of her, the round, joyful belly laugh of Fizzy being absolutely lost in the moment. I know her touch, too—fuck, do I know her touch—and while she gives them friendly affection, never is there heat in her fingertips or her gaze. There is nothing overtly sexual about any of it.
We need to edit this reel together, but shit, all I can see is her falling for me. Her eyes flicker to the cameras constantly—looking for my reaction, anticipating some quiet inside joke, or seemingly of their own volition as if when her mind wanders, it wanders to me. But that’s only what I want to see.
I can’t help with this. I’m not objective anymore.
Pulling my headphones off, I toss them down to the mixing board just as Rory steps in.
“All good here?”
I scrub my hands over my face and then nod. “I’ve lost all fucking objectivity. We’ve edited the Arjun, Jude, Tex, Colby, and Dax segments for the retrospective. Those are fine. But I’m stalling out on Nick, Isaac, and Evan. Honestly, Ror, I’m having a hard time imagining how we pull this off at the end. Fizzy is great, but am I insane? There’s no actual love story here.”
Rory stares down at me for a long beat. “You’re not seeing it?”
“No.”
She looks past me to the frozen image of Isaac laughing on-screen. “Don’t worry, bro, it’s all there.”
“I just don’t want to arse it right at the end.”
She laughs. “There is no fucking way.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident.”
“I think right now you’re just too close to it.”
Well, Rory, no shit.
