The True Love Experiment

Stevie has always been an exuberant child, driven by her emotions. She dances around the house, does cartwheels in the aisles at the grocery store, and was so overcome when we brought Baxter home that she held him and cried into his silky puppy fur for a full hour. I’m familiar with her squeals of delight when we get the back car on Big Thunder Mountain, and the nonstop giggles that come from her room during a sleepover. But I have never seen my kid like this.

The show hasn’t even started yet, and Stevie and Juno are already up on their feet, dancing and singing along to music videos with the rest of the audience. Fizzy wasn’t kidding when she said that she had an in. We are in a suite, high enough to see the arena, but still reasonably close to the stage. There is also complimentary food, drinks—booze—and our own private toilet. We may never leave.

And Fizzy… I can’t seem to keep my eyes off her. Logically I know it’s self-sabotage to entertain thoughts about how good she looks or how tempting her neck is with her hair pulled back like that, but my brain doesn’t seem to care.

When she climbed up on my shoulders outside the arena, it was like a pin being pulled from a grenade. I could feel the heat of her through her shorts; the strength of her thighs gripping my neck sent a sharp bolt of desire through my body, one I’d rather not experience in front of a few thousand people. I wanted to be alone with her, to run my fingers up the inside of her thighs, feel that heat pressed against my hand. I wanted to drop to my knees and show her with my mouth just how much I had regretted going home alone the other night. Job? Who needs a job?

But of course, we weren’t alone. It only took one glance at Stevie—her eyes locked on Fizzy and shining with absolute awe—for reality to come screeching back.

Thankfully, it’s the erupting screams that break me from my swimming thoughts, as the lights are snuffed out and the arena explodes into a blast of unbelievable sound. It’s nearly overwhelming. I know that sound doesn’t have color, but when I close my eyes, stars pop yellow and red on my lids. It is deafening, a tangible thunder that moves through my chest, rattling the ground beneath me. Stevie and Juno are jumping up and down, joining in a growing chant of the group’s name.

Fizzy pulls me close, her hand clutching my forearm. I see her lips move but can’t possibly hear her in the cacophony as she nods to the girls. When I shake my head, she stretches and I lean in, feeling her lips move against my ear: “I am so happy you’re here to see this.”

“I’d like to put a pedometer on them and see how many calories they burn by the end of this thing.”

“Just wait till it starts.”

She’s so close I wonder how I’ll be able to think about anything else, but when the first note rings through the dark, it easily yanks my attention away. I have never voluntarily listened to a Wonderland song, but it is impossible to be in the middle of all this and not be affected by the collective anticipation around us. This is the joy that Fizzy talked about. The shared adrenaline, everyone here for the same thing. Even the dads near us have decided to stand, some with arms folded across their chests as they observe, others shifting from foot to foot to get a better view, curious to see what all the fuss is about.

Fireworks erupt from the stage and the group emerges to a thunderous reaction. When the first song starts, Fizzy, Juno, and Stevie know every word. I’m surprised to realize I know most of them, too. The girls lose themselves to the music and the euphoria of the show. Fizzy dances where she stands, entirely unselfconscious. Somehow Stevie knows every beat of the show before it happens. She knows the set list, when the members will venture out into the audience, and at exactly what point they’ll pass right in front of us. I’m so caught up in it that when she attempts to hold up her small sign, I’m ready to take over and hold it up higher.

During the final intermission, sweaty and surprisingly exhausted, I walk from the balcony and through the suite to use the loo. When I step out again, Fizzy is making herself a drink. We can still see the girls, but the glass walls close us in, dulling the noise from the show.

I join Fizzy at the bar, refill my water bottle, and close my eyes as I take a long, cold drink.

When I open them again, she’s watching. “So.” She leans casually against the countertop. “What’s the verdict?”

“To be honest, I expected noise and traffic and two tired, cranky ten-year-old girls—which I’m sure we’ll still get—but I was also sure I would hate every minute. I was wrong. You may now gloat.”

“You were dancing,” she says with a grin.

“I was swaying.”

She lets this one slide. “I’m pretty picky about who I’ll bring to a concert, but you were a good sport, Hot DILF. I may invite you again if I find myself needing a concert buddy. But know there are usually fewer ten-year-olds, more booze, and the occasional bad tattoo at the end.”

“I look forward to it,” I say, and glance back at the girls, unexpectedly struck by Fizzy’s praise. The group launches into another song and Stevie looks over, searching for me. This one’s her favorite, the song that plays on my way to work every Monday morning because it was the last one Stevie played Sunday night. She excitedly points to the stage before turning back to watch.

“She totally adores you,” Fizzy says.

I don’t know why that word in particular stings the backs of my eyes. Most kids love their parents. I don’t like my dad, but I do love him in my own way. It’s a love tangled up with grief and hurt and a messy pile of other complicated emotions, but it’s there. To adore is to cherish, to treasure, and for Stevie to visibly feel that for me after all the ways I’ve fallen short fills me with so much pride it’s almost hard to breathe.

If Fizzy catches any of this, she’s polite enough not to say anything. “Thank you for bullying me into bringing her,” I say. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

Fizzy gazes at both the girls fondly. “She’s definitely in her element.”

“How did she know everything that was going to happen? The set list, even what they’d be wearing. Where’d she learn all that?”

“It’s what fangirls do,” Fizzy says with a shrug. “It’s the same way you know when a new Shimano derailleur is coming out for your fancy mountain bike.”

My attention snaps back to her and I grin. “Look at you talking about bike parts.”

She reaches for a cookie and breaks it in two, handing half to me. “Some might say I’m an expert at typing things into the Google search.” She studies her cookie. “Even went hunting for pics of you.”

“Me?”

“You know, on set, mountain biking.” She pauses, shrugging causally. “With girlfriends.”

“And?” I lean against the counter at her side, smothering a smile. She is so bloody obvious. “What did you find?”

One side of her mouth turns down into a frown and carves a small dimple in her left cheek. “Nothing. Your Instagram name is a bunch of random letters and numbers that I was only able to track down because I know Jess who knows Natalia who happened to tag you in something, like, five years ago. You have four followers and two posts. It was both a relief and disappointing.”

“We’re supposed to be focusing on your love life, Fizzy.”

“Just feels unfair,” she says, and her smile is easy but her eyes are tight when she looks at me, “now that we’re becoming friends, that we’re only focused on finding someone for me and not you.”

I look out to where the show is winding down and Wonderland is saying their final goodbyes. Nothing good can come from this. We both know it and yet we keep ending up here. “Well, I’d be surprised if there are photos of me with women anywhere. I don’t date much these days.”

“Have you ever tried DNADuo?”

“Me? Definitely not,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not that I don’t believe it or anything, I just… if I had a match, I’d want to take it seriously, and I just can’t right now.”

“Jess was the same way. With Juno,” she says, clarifying. “She wasn’t interested in getting involved with anyone until Juno was in college.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I’ll tell you what I told her: that makes for a boring fucking book.”

“Well, maybe one day,” I say. “I tried dating a few times when Stevie was younger, but any woman worth pursuing wants more than the occasional weeknight together. Plus, whoever I’m involved with gets me, Stevie, and Nat.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Stevie was two.”

“Oh wow. She was so little.”

There was a time when a comment like this—no matter how well-meaning—would have sent me down a rabbit hole of guilt. Stevie was young and going through the divorce was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do, either. “She was.”

“But you and Nat are close now? I’ve heard Stevie talk about her a few times, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her at the school during pickup. She’s hot.”

I laugh. “She is. And she has a very young, also very hot boyfriend whom I expect to propose to her any day now.”

“How nice for her.” The moment stretches out, tense and knowing. I expect her to look away; she doesn’t. Instead, she clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Too bad for you you’re no good at compartmentalizing.”

I decide to stop dancing around it. “Specifically, I’m not good with casual sex.”

The word sex flares out between us like a flamethrower and she grins. “Yes, actually I meant too bad for me that you’re no good at compartmentalizing.”

I laugh at this. “You are an honest-to-God menace, Felicity.”

“You like it.”

I pretend to think about it, and she comes right up on tiptoes, growling in my face.

Finally, I relent. “You are tolerable.”

She sets back down on her feet and leans against the counter beside me. “Delightful,” she says.

“Bearable.”

“Gifted and charismatic.”

“Pushy and opinionated.”

“Your new best friend. Say it.”

Her hand rests near mine. My pinky twitches, brushing against hers. If I move away now, I could pretend it was an accident. But I can’t, and instead shift my finger so it rests on top of hers.

She curls her finger around mine. Heat spears through me, and the urge to turn into her, to press her against the counter, lift her up, step between her legs, and—

I pull in a slow, deep breath. “My new best friend.”