Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
twenty-three FIZZY
I am very skilled in the art of denial. For example, I am consistently surprised when it’s time to pay quarterly taxes. I sing karaoke with Jess and Juno and am convinced that I sound exactly like Adele. I am confident that if I walk four blocks to get my morning coffee, I have also earned a cookie.
And today, too. I’ve known this show was coming for so long now, but it isn’t until the makeup artist, Liz, comes in for touch-ups and the light warms my skin and everyone’s chatter simmers down to a hushed hum throughout the room that I realize, Oh shit, I might actually look terrible on TV. I might not have my mojo back. I might be awkward or boring or too old for this.
Liz steps back, examining the makeup she applied earlier with such care and quantity that I started to feel like I was a wall being spackled. Just beyond her, I see Connor in the background, his attention fixed on one of the cameras as he quietly talks to the director. He looks so calm, so ready. He’s probably been thinking about this moment, strategizing this entire shoot for weeks, and here I am, only now fully realizing that I am about to be on TV.
“Are we actually doing this?” I ask Liz, perched before me with a set of brushes fanned between her fingers. “This show? Today?”
“Y-yes?”
“Okay,” I say numbly. “Cool cool cool.”
I feel her studying me while I stare at the very interesting pattern of grain in the wood floor. “Are you okay, Fizzy?”
“No.” I look up at her terrified face and realize what I just said. “Yes! I mean yes. I am great.”
She disappears, unconvinced. Oh my God, I’m going to be on television. Why didn’t I put on a sheet mask last night? Why did I let them put me in such tight pants? Why did I kiss Connor? Why am I looking at Connor right now? Cameras are aimed at me, preparing for my reaction to the first Hero to walk through that door. I should be breathless with anticipation, but my eyes are fixed on Connor’s profile, fascinated by how hot he looks when he’s concentrating.
Oh my God, this is going to end in a flaming disaster. Focus, Fizzy.
The director calls to me from her chair next to one of the larger cameras. I’ve already met Rory several times, but here, surrounded by cameras and lights, I’m struck again by how young she looks. She can’t be more than thirty, and with her ripped jeans, Black Keys T-shirt, and long, dark curls covered by a faded baseball cap, she has the Hollywood laid-back vibe down perfectly. But my favorite thing about her—and the thing that seems to vex Connor the most—is the way she continually calls him bro without any intentional humor whatsoever.
“Okay, Fizzy,” she says. “Just do what you’d normally do on a first date, and you’ll be great.”
Wild horses couldn’t keep me from checking Connor’s reaction to this potentially scandalous piece of advice, and just as I expected, he’s biting back a knowing smile. He speaks into his mic: “Take that advice with a grain of salt.”
My bursting laugh lands just before a hush falls over the set, and it echoes a few beats before everything goes silent. I’m sitting at a table for two in the middle of the room, primped and ready for the first of three dates today. Portable lights are set up just out of shot, and the heat is already suffocating, heightened under the pressure of everyone’s expectations. I mean, listen, I’ve been the center of attention before. Usually, I thrive on it. I’ve delivered keynotes and been on panels at countless conventions, I’ve done small morning shows and spoken in front of readers all over the world. But this is different. This is glossy, big-scale, big-money fantasy television. This is the show where the pettiest among us will watch and critique and judge and think, Why her? I’ve taken on a huge responsibility, and sitting here when it’s way too late to back out… I suddenly don’t feel prepared.
With effort, I turn my face to the café entrance as a beautiful Asian man pulls the door open, stepping in with a heart-stopping smile. His eyes meet mine and that smile dials up, turning real at the corners.
He’s dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt, with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms and several winding up his neck from beneath his collar. When he gets closer, I can make out what’s written on his name tag:
DAX: TATTOOED BAD BOY
I swallow the laugh, but the smile stretches wide across my face. It takes intense focus not to turn to Connor, to let him see in my face how much this delights me and to see, in turn, how proud he must be of getting this right. Connor worked so hard for this. He really listened.