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)
He smiles down at the table, paradoxically looking both shy and like a lab-created hybrid of Chris Evans and Bond-era Pierce Brosnan. “I think most people would say men want someone who makes them feel good about themselves,” he says. “But I want someone who challenges me.” He rests his very tan, very toned forearms on the table. “My grandparents have been married for over sixty years, and when my grandma walks into the room, my grandpa looks at her like he’s still nineteen and trying to figure out how the prettiest girl in school is giving him the time of day.” He laughs. “I want that. To be as head over heels in love at eighty as I was at thirty. To be together and just… feel joy.”
I wonder how it’s possible that this is the moment all of this finally feels real. The show will start, Fizzy will meet and eventually date these guys, and if all of our efforts pay off, it will be a success. Fizzy will fall in love, and I get to keep my job and stay in San Diego.
When I blink back into the moment, everyone is standing. Kathy shows Nick out and closes the door behind him. “Holy shit,” she says, eyes wide in disbelief. “That was great, right? He was really great?”
“I don’t think I blinked the entire time he was talking.” Brenna stands and rounds the table. “Can you imagine him on-screen with Fizzy?”
“Can you imagine her with Dax? Or Evan? Or Isaac?” Kathy says. “I’ve never seen a reality show with a group like this.” She turns to Rory. “And we’ve done DNADuo screenings on them already?”
Rory nods. “They’ve all been binned. We’ve got a good spread.”
“They all feel so… real,” Kathy muses. “Genuine, I mean.”
“If Fizzy doesn’t marry one of them, I’m going to.” Brenna turns to me. “Connor, this could be huge.”
Rory is still staring at the door Nick just walked through. “I had my doubts, but… we might actually pull this off.”
They’re right, I think. The pieces are coming together, and if my gut is correct, it could be good.
I got exactly what I wanted. And I have nobody to blame but myself.
fifteen FIZZY
Whether or not I ever have children of my own remains to be seen, but what can be stated without ambiguity is that I am the most embarrassing adult to ever attend a child’s soccer game.
Even Jess and River don’t want to be seen with me. They march ahead onto the field, lugging chairs, a cooler, and a sunshade to a point that seems like the farthest distance from where we parked. I know the marching can’t be because they’re grouchy that I’ve declared myself to be JUNO’S BIGGEST FAN with bold black letters on a fluorescent pink shirt, because it’s objectively true: only Juno’s biggest fan would wear this in public. But my sweet little dancer has decided to try something new, and even if she’s too mentally sturdy to tremble in fear, rumor has it she hasn’t been sleeping well in the nights leading up to her first soccer match. So if I can be a bigger idiot than anyone else out here, then maybe Juno won’t worry so much about whether she’ll mess up. I have pom-poms in my tote bag, but they’re a “break in case of emergency” kind of thing. Hopefully it won’t come to that.
But once we’re set up at the sideline, I think I might have overcompensated. This entire operation doesn’t seem that intense. Of course there is the one kid in high-tech gear with shiny new cleats and ribbons in her hair that match the uniform. Her parents are easy to spot, too; they’re the ones taking a million pictures of warm-ups and shouting encouragement/instructions across the field. But this is, after all, a group of ten-year-olds, so there’s also the kid who’s obviously in her older sibling’s shorts, which are cinched tightly at the waist and balloon out past her knees, as well as the kid whose parents must be as sporty as I am because they’ve sent their daughter to a soccer game in jeans.
I spot Juno in a small group of girls gathered around a sequoia of a man who’s bent and drawing something on a clipboard. He’s too far away for me to ogle properly but has dark hair and upper arms that seem to test the physics of his T-shirt sleeves.
“Hello, sir.” I make binoculars out of my hands and pretend to zoom in. “Ahhwoooogah.”
I have been a mess since dinner with Connor. An absolute horndog. I haven’t mentioned it to Jess because I think she’s so unsettled by my admitted loss of sex drive and inspiration that she’ll be the worst enabler. It’s been hard enough not texting Connor a daily How about now? The last thing I need is Jess’s brand of ride-or-die yelling “You deserve good sex!” in my ear every day.