Reasons to Be Loved By You

Chapter 1

MEET TAYLOR F. HE’S thirty-two, from Orange County, and is a partner at a private equity firm. For his date tonight with Nikki B., he’s chosen a Michelin-star-rated yakitori restaurant.

It’s been ages since I’ve set foot on a LovedBy set, but I can still hear the voice-over.

Stay tuned for the most predictable date ever.

I’ve started tracking how long into a date before the guy asks me a question.

My record is two-and-a-half hours, and the question that stopped the clock was, “Do you want to come back to my place?”

Taylor F. is ahead of the game in that regard, though only on a technicality. (As we sat down, he asked me if I was a vegetarian, but before I could answer, he said, “I hope not,” and started perusing the menu.)

If things get really bad, I sometimes turn it into a drinking game.

The rules: Each time I ask a question and the guy doesn’t reciprocate, I take a drink.

I always stop myself after two glasses, though, or else there’d be some dates where they’d have to scrape me off the ground and pour me into a wheelbarrow to make it home.

We’re four courses into the ten-course omakase, my second glass of wine is nearly empty, and I can feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through my blood. I’m about to reach for my glass again when Taylor asks, “So are you still looking for your Happily Ever After?”

There’s a mocking lilt in his voice, a sly grin. He’s obviously poking fun at me, making sure I know that he thinks my time on reality TV was silly.

He’s making a reference to the famous tagline.

The one that gets repeated over and over in pop culture, from SNL skits to group chats.

Each contestant on LovedBy has a heavy, leather-bound book with their name on it displayed in the mansion’s library.

As the lead, at the end of every episode, I’d select the book of the guy who was eliminated and say very seriously, “Our story is over.” Then I’d close the book and place it on a shelf before turning to the remaining guys and saying, “I’m still looking for my Happily Ever After. ”

And back then, I actually believed those words.

I put the glass back on the table without taking a sip. Rules are rules after all—and he did ask a question. “Are you a fan?” I lean into the Georgia accent, letting my vowels turn sweet and sticky like pecan divinity.

“I don’t really watch reality TV,” Taylor F. says, adjusting the watch on his wrist. He brings his hand up to stroke his chin, and the move seems so practiced, I wonder if he’s trying to show it off.

Classic. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too—he went on this date only knowing who I even am because of LovedBy, yet now that he’s got me here, he can act like he’s above it.

“Oh no? What do you usually watch?” I take a sip of wine. At this rate, I’m going to have to switch over to water for the rest of the date.

“Golf,” he answers simply, and I don’t know if he’s screwing with me. There’s a look in his eyes that makes me think he is.

My ex—the one from LovedBy, the one who jilted me on national television—is a professional golfer.

I fell hard for him and thought what we had was real.

But for Aaron Brinkley (or “Aaron B.,” as he was known on the show), it was just a chance to bulk up his social media following and sign up more brand deals.

The whole time I’d been falling in love, opening my heart, and letting him into my bed—he’d still been in a relationship with another woman from back home.

Even now, years later, I don’t know how much of what I felt for Aaron was real and how much of it was the product of a highly engineered, deeply stressful situation. But one thing’s for sure—the pain and embarrassment I felt in the aftermath were definitely real.

I might not be able to trust my instincts about love anymore, but my instinct that this guy is a douche seems to be proving more and more correct. On paper, the guy is everything I want: great pedigree, amazing career, phenomenal jawline.

Terrible personality.

I’ve been on nearly this same date a dozen times already this year.

The guy changes (a start-up bro with dark curls and a Tesla, a private equity guy who played baseball at Northwestern, a real estate investor with a house in Lake Tahoe) and so does the restaurant (a steakhouse that only serves humanely raised beef, an Italian spot with hand-shaved truffles over semolina pasta, a French restaurant with full caviar service), but everything else stays the same.

The same shallow questions, the same awkward goodbye, and ultimately, the same dull emptiness of going home alone.

And I give great date. I’ve always been pretty good at it, but after LovedBy, my dating game has reached new and dizzying heights.

I know when to laugh. When to lean in. When to reach across the table and rest my hand on their arm.

I know what questions to ask to get them to open up to me.

I know how to dangle the bait, set the hook, and reel them in.

This one isn’t even a challenge. I’m bored, itching to scroll my feed or complain to my four-way group chat with my closest friends—Sybil, Emma, and Willow.

Even the disappointment of this date is predictable, like a fried pickle you just know will be soggy before you bite into it.

Which is why I discreetly pull my phone out of my bag and, holding it under the table, text Sybil—the only other one of the Core Four who lives in LA—our code word: manscape.

It’s basically our version of an SOS: kind of a combination of “man” and “escape”…

but it started when a date was so over-groomed, his spray tan was coming off onto his linen napkin.

Then I slip my phone back into my bag and remind myself that soon this date will be over. I’m even able to manage a smile, knowing I’ll never see Taylor F. and his ugly, ostentatious watch again.

Time to redirect. “Golf, huh? I’m actually more of a football girl,” I tell him.

He flashes a grin full of teeth. All perfectly white and perfectly straight. Definitely veneers. “Right, a good Southern girl.”

I am a good Southern girl. From a good Southern family. A Southern football family. My older brother was a center at Alabama, and I spent my entire high school career as a cheerleader on the sidelines before getting a cheer scholarship to USC.

I can sense it before he opens his mouth. The Test. The thing shitty guys always do when you mention you might like a sport. Challenging you to prove you’re a real fan.

“Okay, here’s something a good Southern girl should know.

” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, which accentuates pecs and biceps that he’s clearly been honing at the gym.

The move has the same rehearsed air as the watch thing from a moment before.

Seriously, is anything about this guy genuine?

“Name three SEC quarterbacks who’ve won Super Bowls. ”

I suppress a sigh. “Namath. Stafford. Manning… Manning. Some double coverage for you.”

He just blinks at me.

“It was a joke. Eli and Peyton. Double coverage? Double Mannings?”

“Ha. Right.” He uncrosses his arms and reaches for his drink. “It wasn’t really that funny.”

No, it wasn’t really that funny, but I had the grace to fake laugh when he made a joke about ordering sake bombs at a Michelin-starred restaurant. The least he could do is give me a courtesy smile.

“I mean, women aren’t that funny.” He says it with a wide, bright smile as if inviting me into his sexist joke, as if testing to see whether I’m one of those girls who “doesn’t take herself too seriously.

” (Actual quote from 99% of dating profiles.) To his credit, Taylor F.

’s profile had not used that line, but instead said he was looking for someone with “a sense of humor,” something I’ve always taken to mean that you were funny.

That you knew how to make someone else laugh.

It’s become clear that what Taylor F. actually wants is just someone who thinks he’s funny.

I’m so tempted to pull a Sybil and bolt—the girl has a little bit of a habit of running from tough situations, and that included her own wedding, though somehow it all worked out in the end.

It always does, for her. But I’m not Sybil, and politeness is so ingrained in me, it’s practically strapping me to the chair.

Our friend Emma would stand up immediately, say something withering, and march out of the restaurant.

Sybil—if she hadn’t already run away, that is—would flash a smile that was all teeth and tip her martini into his lap.

And Willow would lean onto the table and sincerely inquire after his mental health—after all, she’d say, someone this attention-needy might’ve been neglected as a child.

What do I do? I force the muscles of my face up into a smile as if I’m in on the joke and lob back, “I know lots of funny women.”

And I do. Each of my best friends is hilarious in her own way. When I think of belly laughs, tears, aching cheek muscles because you’ve been smiling so much—I think of time spent with the Core Four.

Taylor F. smirks. “Yeah, sure. But not funny funny.”

The server drops by our table again—she’s young and friendly, wearing her dark hair in a ponytail at the top of her head.

I’m about to say To hell with it and ask her to bring me a third glass of wine, but then the soft light of the restaurant glints off the pendant resting on the server’s collarbone.

It’s a distinctive piece of jewelry, and I immediately recognize the design—or rather, the designer.

Cara Lancolm. As in, the woman who was dating Aaron B. at the same time that he proposed to me on television.

The very one whose jewelry profits soared after the scandal broke.

My grip tightens on my chopsticks, but I force the muscles to relax, placing both sticks delicately on the celadon-glazed rest beside my soy sauce dish and folding my hands in my lap.

CLS necklaces (Cara Lancolm Studio) went viral a while ago by this point, and yet they’re still trendy. This one is her signature design: three stylized strawberry leaves in yellow gold. I honestly see them everywhere, and it never ceases to spike my blood pressure.

The server places two small plates in front of us. “For this course, we have an A5 Wagyu lightly lacquered with our house-made, yuzu-infused teriyaki sauce. Enjoy.”

Taylor F. smiles back at me as the server leaves, and I realize that he thinks this date is going well. He’s having a really great date with a semi-celebrity who he thinks he’s eventually going to sleep with.

I don’t know if he’s completely oblivious, or if I’ve just become that good at putting on a show.

But I know what he sees. Blond hair augmented by extensions.

A heart-shaped face with full makeup that he thinks is minimal.

A flawless Southern California tan. Arms and abs toned from daily Pilates.

Someone beautiful in a girl-next-door way, with enough ambition to be interesting at parties, but not someone who’ll outshine him.

There’s a reason I picked up on all his practiced moves—because I have plenty of my own.

Back on LovedBy, I was a producer’s dream.

I liked being told where to stand and what to wear.

I liked knowing the right thing to say. They wanted me to ask about a contestant’s absentee dad?

Done. Kiss a guy beneath that window because they’ve got rose petals ready to drop?

You got it. I was a natural. My older sister Linney says I was so good for the show because I grew up doing pageants.

That I have “the weirdest mix of competitiveness and people-pleasing” she’s ever seen.

And she’s not wrong. Because even as this date crashes, there’s still something in me that wants to make sure he walks away from this date liking me.

I want to walk away having won the date.

It’s ceased to be about making other people feel comfortable because it’s the right thing to do—instead, it’s become a game.

Finally, I spot something sparkly at the hostess stand.

It’s Sybil—in a drapey sequined top and jeans, her wavy blond hair a mess around her shoulders.

Oh, thank the lord. I let out a relieved breath as she spots me, too, and rushes over, her towering platform shoes clacking on the restaurant floor.

“Thank god I found you,” she says breathlessly. She also seems to have adopted the mid-Atlantic accent of an old Hollywood starlet. “There’s been”—she pauses for effect—“an emergency.”

Sybil is many things, but an actress isn’t one of them. And this is not her best work.

And Taylor F. may be an arrogant douche, but he’s not a complete idiot. He turns toward me, realization shrouding his face as it morphs into anger. “Did you text your friend to come bail you out of this date? Do you know what I had to do to get a reservation here?”

Sybil pipes in, dropping the accent. “Um, wake up at six a.m. to get a reservation on Tock? Like everyone?”

“I—” Taylor F. stops.

“It takes setting one alarm and, like, two clicks on the app.” She shrugs and turns back to me. “I brought Jamie here for his birthday last month. The chicken hearts are insane. So good. Ready?”

“Ready.” I gather up my purse, then turn guiltily back to Taylor F. “Sorry, I just don’t think this is going to work out.” Even now, I try to cushion the blow of my rejection.

“Whatever,” Taylor F. scoffs. “No wonder Brinkley dumped you.”

His jab hits me in a place I’d thought long-since healed. Anger rushes through me, but what’s left behind is an icy scum of shame. I guess when he brought up golf earlier, he was screwing with me after all.

“For that”—Sybil reaches across the table and plucks the skewer of meat from his plate, waving it back and forth in front of his face—“no Wagyu for you.” She grabs mine as well, and I let out an unladylike yip of laughter.

It’s high-pitched and a little shrill, nothing like the throaty chuckle I perfected on LovedBy.

Sybil hooks her arm through mine, and we head for the door. I turn back to look him in the eye. “That was funny.”