The True Love Experiment

Two hours later, I pull up in front of Natalia’s house. It’s a beautiful place—I should know; I cosigned the loan. The Realtor called it Spanish Colonial Revival, with white stucco walls, a low-pitched tile roof, and a gated courtyard Nat always goes all out decorating for Halloween. But where there was once a tricycle in the yard and pastel chalk animals scribbled on the sidewalk, now there’s a ten-speed and a row of potted orchids leading up to the front door. Natalia took up gardening after our divorce. Post-divorce she’s thriving, and so are the orchids.

Waiting for me on the front step is Stevie’s chocolate-brown labradoodle, Baxter. We are absolutely those parents who got their kid a consolation divorce dog. He barks cheerily to alert the house that an intruder has entered the premises and, tail still wagging, promptly rolls over for belly rubs.

“All that money for puppy camp and you are still a terrible guard dog,” I say, bending to pet him. “Where is everybody? Where’s Stevie? Can you go fetch her?”

The door is slightly open and Baxter nudges it with his nose and goes up the stairs.

“Hello?” I call out. It’s cool and quiet inside. Stevie’s homework is spread out on the coffee table and a basket of folded laundry sits on the couch. The walls are filled with photographs, some of Stevie and Natalia, a few with me. We’ve taken photos of Stevie in the same location and in the same pose on her birthday every year, and seeing them grouped together is like a time lapse of her childhood. She’s tall for a ten-year-old, and rail thin. She has her mum’s olive complexion and dark hair, but her eyes—my eyes—are as green as they’ve ever been.

Footsteps pound on the stairs and a second later, a body collides into mine, skinny arms wrapping around my waist. Baxter is right behind her. “Finally,” Stevie says into my stomach.

I bend, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Sorry, boss. Meeting ran late. Did you have fun with your mum?”

She flops onto the couch dramatically. “We drove everywhere. We went to the dry cleaners and to drop some things off at the post office for Abuelita and then to Mom’s nail appointment. I forgot my book, so she let me watch videos on my phone and we ordered Chinese food.”

Guilt—my constant weekend-only-parent companion—raises its ugly head.

“I’m sorry, Sass.”

“It’s okay. I got my nails painted.” She holds up a hand and wiggles her pink-tipped fingers. Stevie will pick pink everything if given the opportunity. “And I know you’re super important at your job.”

I sit on the coffee table facing her. “There were some things that couldn’t wait until Monday.”

“I bet they were a really big deal,” she says slyly. “You have the best ideas and make the best documentaries.”

I’m suspicious. Much like her mother, Stevie is a master negotiator. The problem is that I rarely know we’re negotiating until I’ve already agreed to something. “What’s the angle?”

“No angle. You’re just really cool, that’s all.” She pauses. “But I almost forgot!” She sits up, miraculously rejuvenated. “Wonderland is coming here!”

Wonderland, Stevie’s current obsession, is a pop group that’s taken over every chart and award show in the country. For birthdays, Christmas, and every minor holiday involving a basket, treat, or wrapped parcel, Stevie has asked for Wonderland merchandise. The members’ faces are on so many of her T-shirts I could spot them in a crowd without any trouble.

“Coming here as in for a concert?”

“Yes! Could we go? Please?” She takes both my hands in hers and makes her eyes as wide as moons. “It could be for my birthday.”

“Your birthday was in January. It’s May.”

“Hmm,” she says, recalibrating. “If I get straight A’s?”

“You already get straight A’s.”

Her wry expression says it clearly: Exactly. A sucker, I am. I pull out my phone. “Okay. Where are they playing?”

Stevie’s vibrating intensity dials up. “The Open Air!”

“Calm down,” I say gently. “I’m only looking. Did you talk to your mum about this?”

“She said it’s fine if you take me.”

“Of course she did.” When the site loads, a giant banner fills the top of the page: WONDERLAND: THE FORBIDDEN GAME TOUR. “A title like ‘Forbidden Game’ leaves me with many questions.”

Stevie rolls her eyes. “Dad.”

I scroll down to the San Diego dates and spot the red SOLD OUT flag over the buy link. I turn the screen to show her, and she immediately deflates.

“I’m sorry, Sass. Maybe next time round? Besides, it doesn’t even start till eight and you’re dead asleep by eight thirty.” Her bottom lip juts out and I bend to meet her eyes. “We’ll check if it’s streaming and maybe we can watch together.”

She’s disappointed, but rallies anyway. “Can we get tour shirts and order pizza?”

“Absolutely. Now go fetch your stuff so we can go.”

She leaps off the couch, long, coltish limbs propelling her to the stairs. I swear she’s taller than when I saw her on Sunday. The dog races behind her.

“Where is your mum, by the way?” I call after her.

“She was outside. Insu is building a shed in the garden and she’s watching.” She looks down at me from the top of the stairs. “He’s really strong.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Insu is Natalia’s boyfriend. He’s twenty-six… so there’s that. It took us a few years to iron out the kinks of divorced co-parenthood, but the care and respect we show each other now is better than when we were married. Watching Nat fall in love again eased a weight I hadn’t fully realized I was carrying. Having that person practically be a teenager (a slight exaggeration, but I’m the single one here, so let me have this) is a flavor of joy I couldn’t have anticipated.

Stevie’s footsteps sound overhead and then she falls silent, presumably throwing things into a bag. In the quiet, I pace the living room, and my mind rolls back to my work dilemma.

I could make some hybrid of eco-conscious and reality programming, but the truth is that I don’t really want to bump up against my documentary colleagues in this setting. It’s taken me years to build the credibility I have, and I suspect one adventure race through the jungle will squash all of it in a single go. Besides, Blaine wants something salacious and sexy, and nothing in my current repertoire could be described as such.

I’ll have to think outside my current box. Dating shows have been done ad nauseam, so a new show would need a hook to make it stand out above the rest. I’m an amateur in a very well-traversed space, but the more I sit with it, the more I keep coming back to the idea I had at the bar after hearing the GeneticAlly news. My gut says there’s something there, but I’m still missing a piece…

I find myself in front of one of Nat’s many bookcases. Without question, Stevie got her fangirl genes from her mother, but where my daughter loses her mind over pop stars, Natalia is an avid romance reader. Upon inspection, I register that the shelf before me has over two dozen books all by the same author. I pull one free.

Ravenous on the High Seas by Felicity Chen.

The cover features two beautiful people wrapped up in each other on the deck of what appears to be a pirate ship. It’s a great photograph—sweeping, sexy, atmospheric—and when I open the cover, there’s an even more detailed version inside. I glance at the summary: a lost heir, a sword-wielding heroine, a country on the brink of war, and hidden treasure that could save them all. When I flip open the back cover, I freeze. The author photo staring back at me is the gorgeous woman from the bar.

Over at the family computer, I enter the password and type Felicity Chen into the search bar. The screen instantly populates with results. Publication interviews, fan edits, social media accounts, retail sites, and her publisher’s page. I click on one of the news hits and see a commencement address at UCSD Revelle College.

By the time footsteps sound on the wood floor behind me, I’ve watched the commencement address and half a dozen short interview clips, read three Entertainment Weekly reviews of her work, and scrolled through much of her Instagram feed. Felicity Chen is funny, charismatic, smart, and great in front of a crowd. She would be a natural on TV…

Natalia is suspicious. “Why is my favorite author’s face all over that screen?”

I spin in the chair to face my ex. “What do you know about her?” Felicity’s bio is frustratingly lacking in personal details. Wikipedia isn’t any more helpful. “Is she single?”

“If you date her and break her in some way and I don’t get her next book, I may have to kill you.”

“I don’t want to date her, Nat.”

“Do you want to date anyone? You don’t have to live like a monk, you know.”

“This again.”

“The thing with Stevie walking in—”

I stick two fingers in my mouth and let out a sharp whistle. “Yellow card, Garcia.”

Nat bursts out laughing. This little troublemaker knows I am legitimately scarred after four-year-old Stevie walked in on me going fully at it with a date’s ankles on my shoulders. It was the first and last time I had someone over while Stevie was staying at my place, and I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. I swear I am only waiting for the day that memory surfaces and my daughter can never look me in the eye again.

“Sorry,” Nat says, sounding not sorry at all. “Just put a bell on her door. Works like a charm.”

I hook a thumb over my shoulder at the computer monitor. “Can we focus?”

Her eyes drift past me to Felicity’s face on the screen. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she’s single. She’s talked about dating in past interviews. Why?”

“I want her for a show.”

Nat’s eyebrows drift upward. “Like a documentary on romance and feminism or something?”

I laugh. “No.”

“What’s the laugh about?” she asks, scowling.

Careful, I think. Nat has busted me in the past for giving her shit about the kind of books she reads. I don’t want to step on a land mine here when I need her help. “Sorry, no, it’s just that I might be making a dating show.”

Her eyes widen. “A—what? What is North Star’s brand? Sitcoms and Lifetime movies, to environmental documentaries, and now dating shows?”

“It’s Blaine,” I say by way of explanation, and Natalia requires nothing more. Blaine bounces from one thing to another, depending on who’s currently got his ear, and right now—understandably—it’s the executives holding the purse strings. Odds are good I was hired because a now-ex-wife was worried about marine mammals. “And nothing’s set in stone yet, just exploring some options.” I don’t want both of us worrying about this, so I change the subject. “How’s Insu?”

“Wonderful,” she says, draping herself across the couch in the exact way our daughter would. “He’s taking me to dinner tomorrow night for our anniversary.”

“Oh cool, did he get his driver’s license?” I grin at her. “They grow up so fast.” In truth, I like Insu—he’s far more mature than I was at that age, he adores Natalia, and Stevie likes him, too—but I’m not going to pass up a chance to take the piss a bit.

“You know he’s only seven years younger than you.”

“Which would also make him eight years younger than you. I hope you’re locking up the drinks cupboard.”

A cushion connects with the side of my head just as Stevie makes it downstairs with her things, Baxter and his own weekend bag in tow.

“Ready to go, Sass?”

“Yep. I sent you a link to the tour T-shirts,” Stevie says. “You don’t want to wait because they might sell out.”

I reach for my phone again. “Yes, Captain.”

“Would this happen to be Wonderland related?” Nat asks.

“Sadly, the concert was sold out, but we’ll get some goodies to soothe the ache.”

Nat gives me a little what a relief, huh look over the top of Stevie’s head as she hugs her goodbye. And for a handful of seconds, regret cuts sharply through me. I’m sure I miss a thousand of these ordinary and sweet moments every day. I could have lived this life with the two of them. It would have been platonic and passionless, yes, but stable and loving. I’d assumed there had to be something more out there, but really, it’s not like my love life is any more electric than it was when we were married.

But it’s too late to start over again, and the truth is, I’ll miss all of this and far more if I don’t figure out what the fuck I’m going to do about work.