Honestly,” Jess says across the table from me at Twiggs, “if I was this nose-deep into something on my phone, you’d tell me to share the porn or put it away.”
In ye olden times, it was our routine to meet up at Twiggs coffee shop a few days a week to work. I would write like a madwoman and Jess would do numbersy things. We were (usually) very productive. These days our work sessions are more ceremonial: Jess is taking the summer off, and I’d be more likely to grow a third ear than write a compelling kissing scene. But even though the vibe is more casual than business, Jess’s words are my cue to slide my device into my purse and return to bestie time. Sadly, even if Oscar Isaac were standing tableside naked, I’m not sure I could look up from this text exchange. It’s like watching Connor Prince III’s slow spiral into insanity.
Darcy? he texts. I don’t even know what that means.
I smother a laugh with a hand, typing, Think taciturn.
“Felicity.”
Shaking my head, I tell Jess, “I don’t think you want to know what I’m doing.” My phone vibrates again.
“Phone sex?”
“Better.”
What’s a hot nerd?
Do you really need me to explain that one to you?
Fine. Silver fox?
Daddy kink.
Vampire?
A laugh rips out of me and a few of the other regulars toss a dirty look my way. I’d forgotten that gem. But this time I’ve come so close to spraying a mouthful of coffee across the table at Jess that she finally tries to reach for my phone and I have to dodge her grasping fingers to finish typing my reply.
Be creative.
Gingerly, I put my phone down. “Hello, friend.”
“Are we not even pretending to work today?”
I look at the chair to my right where I set all my things when I came in a half hour ago. I haven’t even bothered to unpack my laptop. No wonder I can’t get anything done. Grinning at her, I say, “I promise this is work related.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jess knows I’ve been avoiding social media and work emails like the plague, so she’s understandably skeptical. I elaborate: “My terms for the show landed in Hot Brit’s inbox this afternoon, and he’s got some questions.”
Jess frowns. “What did you do?”
“What do you mean what did I do? Why am I immediately the bad guy?”
“Let’s see,” Jess says, cupping her hands around her flat white and leaning closer. “There was the time you talked me into going to the nude beach for your birthday before realizing we were walking around naked on private property.”
“Blame GPS, not me.”
“You handcuffed me to the bed for research and then realized the key was back at your house.”
“You were only alone for, like, a half hour, and I made sure you had plenty of water!”
“Okay, how about when you set me up with the guy who was out on parole?”
“For tax fraud! It’s not like he killed anybody.”
“Really, Fizzy?”
“Well, it sounds bad when you say it all together!”
She waits patiently.
Finally, I nod because: fair. “I’m just trying to make a good show here.” The skepticism deepens and I remind her, “You didn’t want to hear about the TV show because you didn’t want information you’d have to keep from River.” Who, predictably, flipped out when I mentioned over burgers a couple of weeks ago that I’d been approached to star in a reality dating show based on his very serious scientific research. There was some intense staring down at his plate followed by some agitated pacing. I’d assured him that there was no way North Star Media would ever agree to my terms once they saw them, and River had been slightly mollified. But he’d also requested to hear no more about it.
Which means I can’t tell Jess anything, either, or she’ll internally combust over having to keep anything from her husband. And which is why she’s pretending to be uninterested.
The thing is, if you ask Jessica Marie Davis Peña what her favorite TV show of all time is, she’ll say Breaking Bad or Downton Abbey, because those are socially appropriate answers. No one says their favorite show is Married at First Sight, just like nobody says their favorite restaurant is McDonald’s. But somebody’s buying those 550 million Big Macs a year. Jess eats those shows up, feeling smugly entertained with a globe of red wine in her hand on her giant sectional in the living room. No matter what River wants to happen, Jess is intrigued by this. Dare I say she is secretly thrilled.
Which means I can count down to the moment when she breaks.
In three… two…
“I’m almost afraid to ask what your terms are,” she says, tapping a casual finger on the side of her laptop. “Knowing you, they’re insane.”
I lift my drink to my lips and realize it’s gone lukewarm. “Is this you asking?”
She adjusts her computer glasses. “No.”
“Okay.”
I glance down at my phone to find a new string of texts.
You want at least 2 of the heroes to have experience knitting?
I don’t understand the exclusion term re: poets.
Felicity, my understanding was that you would enter this negotiation in good faith.
Are you free to talk?
I giggle, typing as gleefully as if I’m sexting.
Sorry. I’m slammed at the moment.
When is a good time?
That depends. Are you in or are you giving up?
A plastic clatter echoes across the table as Jess tosses down her glasses in defeat. “Just tell me everything.”
“But it’s about the dating show. River might not like it.”
“He can cry into his giant bags of money.”
“You’re right,” I say in a burst. “Well, in case you didn’t realize this already: I am a genius.”
“And so admirably grounded.”
“Listen,” I tell her. “The more I get into this idea, the more I like it. The Hot Brit executive wanted me to do a dating show, right? Put me and twelve dudes in a house, roll me out in a push-up bra, and let the audience decide each week who should be eliminated.”
“Right,” Jess says, nodding.
“The gimmicky piece is, of course, that they’d use the DNADuo to find a range of matches for me,” I say.
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Three weeks ago, you didn’t even want to date one man. Now you’re going to live with twelve?”
“Twelve prime-of-their-life dongs just walking around looking for a Fizzy to hide in? I am only human, Jess. How do I say no to that?”
She shakes her head at me over the top of her coffee cup. “Do you hear the things you say? Like, at all?”
I ignore this. “Real talk here: Twelve might be too many. Even for me.” I pause. “I can’t believe I’m saying that. But I am. So, I’m going to suggest cutting it to eight. I also don’t like the idea of being totally sequestered in a house with these guys for the duration of the shoot, so I told Hot Brit I’d give him four days a week to shoot, and during those days the Heroes and I will just… date. Each week audiences will eliminate a couple of them, and I’ll go on new, more elaborate dates with the ones who remain. We’ll get to know each other the way we would in real life, with the rest of life happening around us.”
Jess frowns. “Will they go for that? Isn’t the point of these shows for it to be this intense, forced-proximity experience, and if you’re let back to your real lives you might talk to your families about the show and get tips and feedback?”
“Yes, but that’s how dating works! If I went out with one of them in the real world, we’d go home after and talk to our people about how it went. Especially if it went well, we’d want to talk it out and include our community in the excitement. I’m tired of these portrayals of romance in a vacuum, making people think once you find that special person, you don’t need anything else. That isn’t a healthy take on love! I want to date the guy who has the support of his family and friends the entire time, not the one who tells his loved ones they have to accept this new person they know nothing about who he swears he’s in love with after three weeks. Haven’t these people ever read a romance novel? A supportive community is, like, half of the happily ever after!”
“Oh my God, Fizzy, take a breath.”
I pause and take a calming sip of my tepid vanilla latte. “But that—the dating structure is easy. Do you want to hear the best part?”
“No, of course not. Boring details only, please.”
“I sent over a list of romance hero archetypes that Hot Brit has to cast if he wants me.”
Her expression flattens. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I sent him a list of twenty archetypes—hot nerd, professor, rock star, Navy SEAL, et cetera. He’ll cast eight Heroes that fit those categories.” Off her dubious look, I add, “It’s not that hard.”
Jess waves her fingers for me to hand it over. “Let me see the list.”
I pull it up on my phone and pass it across the table. Jessica’s blue eyes scan the screen, widen, and then she starts again from the top, reading some of them aloud. “A prince?”
“Or royalty more generally,” I say, casually examining a fingernail. “I’m not fussy.”
A pause, then she snorts. “Scottish rogue. Fizzy, my God.”
“Keep going.”
“The One That Got Away?” She laughs. “Talk about casting a wide net. You sure you want that?”
“Frankly, I didn’t want any of it, but if they managed to pull this together it would be amazing. I can’t write a damn word lately, which means the ‘Coming Soon’ page of my website is getting about as many visitors as my vagina. But if I can reach a romance audience with this, it would make my readers—and Amaya—happy.” My literary agent, Amaya Ellis, is a badass worth more than her weight in gold and absolutely does not deserve the headache I have been for the last year.
“Amaya thinks this is a good idea?” Jess asks, skeptical.
“I don’t know if I’d go that far, but both she and my film agent think it could be great exposure. And since I have literally nothing else going on, I was ‘strongly encouraged to consider it.’ She also reminded me that the whole reason I did the DNADuo in the first place was for research and I should go into it with that mindset.”
She briefly looks up. “And, you know, the whole possible soulmate thing…”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” I say, watching her absorb the list and work to keep her shit together. “So, what do you think? I put some real thought into it.”
“That much is clear.” Her gaze snags. “Vampire? You expect them to cast a vampire?”
“Hot Brit tripped on that one, too. How they do it isn’t my problem, is it?”
Her eyebrow points skyward and she looks over the top of my phone at me. “Dom?”
“Gotta respect the genre.”
She reads some more, smothering her smile with a hand. “Twenty percent or more need to have gone to therapy, thirty percent are required to have a female friend they have never had sex with? Fizzy, you’re such a troll.” She shrieks briefly: “No poets.”
“This might be the greatest idea I’ve ever had. Unfortunately, it’s never going to happen.”
She tilts her head side to side, a maybe, maybe not gesture. “What do you do if he agrees to your terms?”
I wave this off. “I won’t get my hopes up. And even if he did, I’d really have to wrangle my shit into order and bring my A game.” That truth sinks in. I hadn’t actually imagined a situation where Hot Brit would agree to these preposterous terms. There’s been safety in my outlandish demands; literally any other woman on planet Earth would make this show easier than what I’ve just requested. To think, even briefly, that I might end up doing this makes my stomach clench. I’d have to be funny, and engaging, and—shit—convincingly fake being open to love.
“There’s absolutely no way he wants me bad enough to say yes to all of this.”
“I’d tend to agree with you.” Jess hands me back my phone, nodding to the screen where a text has landed from my new contact labeled British McHotpants. “Except I think he just did.”
