Which Might Be Even More Terrifying

I replay the commercial.

Again.

I guess once… or twelve or thirteen times wasn't enough to confirm that I have completely lost it.

The glow from the television spreads across the room while the overly dramatic opening music starts up. A parade of suspiciously perfect people walks a red carpet while cameras flash around them.

Nothing says scientifically proven love like sequins and paparazzi.

The narration begins with a deep, James Earl Jones-like voice.

“Are you tired of the dating game? Fed up with swiping left and right with no luck?”

I sink deeper into the couch.

“Yes,” I mutter.

Okay.

Strong opening.

“Well, we have the solution for you! Introducing Celebrity Betrothed, the hit television show where love isn't just a game—it's a science!”

I raise an eyebrow.

Science.

Right.

Because apparently somewhere between curing diseases and putting people on the moon, science has also figured out why I keep dating Mr. Wrong.

The commercial cuts to a sleek laboratory-looking room filled with attractive people in expensive clothing staring very seriously at computer screens.

Charts.

Graphs.

Personality profiles.

People wearing glasses point at things.

“Our team of experts uses the latest technology and years of experience to analyze everything from personality traits to lifestyle habits.”

I lean forward.

I’ll admit it. That part doesn't sound completely insane.

“Our cutting-edge algorithms and rigorous testing methods guarantee that your perfect match is waiting for you.”

Guarantee.

I sit up a bit straighter.

Now the screen shows interviews.

Psychologists.

Questionnaires.

Background checks.

Some poor guy getting his blood drawn.

I blink.

“They're serious.”

I don't know whether that's comforting or terrifying.

The commercial shifts again.

A woman stands nervously outside an enormous set of doors.

A man waits on the other side.

Both look like they might either meet the love of their lives or throw up.

Possibly both.

“Each week, our celebrities meet the matches selected especially for them and begin an unforgettable journey toward love.”

The doors open.

The woman gasps.

The guy smiles.

Music swells.

“From romantic dates and unforgettable adventures to intimate conversations and difficult decisions, each couple will have the opportunity to discover whether science can lead them to something extraordinary.”

Now comes the montage.

Of course there's a montage.

Couples laughing on beaches.

Holding hands at dinner.

Kissing beneath fireworks.

One guy appears to be crying while telling a woman something deeply meaningful beside a waterfall.

I narrow my eyes.

Nobody has conversations like that beside waterfalls.

You can't even hear beside a waterfall.

The images continue.

A man slipping a jacket around a woman's shoulders.

Someone laughing so hard she buries her face against her date's chest.

A couple sitting quietly together, gazing into each other's eyes.

And, annoyingly, it’s starting to work on me.

“Don't miss the chance to witness love at first sight on Celebrity Betrothed.”

The show's logo fills the screen.

Music rises.

“Tune in each week to see if our experts have found the perfect match for your favorite celebrity.”

The screen fades to black.

I stare at my reflection in it.

Well.

That's manipulative.

Effective.

But manipulative.

I reach for the remote.

Then stop.

Because now there's a thought sitting in my head that wasn't there before.

Could this actually work?

I immediately hate myself for thinking it.

No.

Absolutely not.

This is reality television.

Television exists for ratings, drama, attractive people crying in expensive locations, and commercial breaks.

Not happily ever after.

That conviction lasts for one glorious second.

Because what if somewhere in whatever massive database these people have created is a man who actually fits me?

Someone kind.

Funny.

Secure enough that my success doesn't threaten him.

Someone who sees me instead of the medals.

Because here's the part I hate admitting.

I want the fairy tale.

I always have.

Not the castle.

Not the horse.

Definitely not the helpless-princess portion of the program.

But the guy.

The one who stays when life stops looking like the commercial.

The one I don't have to talk into loving me.

I look back at my reflection in the dark screen.

“Could you actually find him?”

The room offers no opinion.

Which is rude.

I exhale slowly.

Maybe Emily isn't entirely insane.

Let's not get carried away.

She's still mostly insane.

But what if she’s right and there really is someone out there for me?

For the first time since Emily told me I was doing this ridiculous show, I’m feeling something stronger than fear.

Excitement.

Which might be even more terrifying.