by Masen, Kat
She rolls onto her side, flicking her hair back while checking her tan line beneath her strap.
“His name is Sebastian. The Prince Charming name is kind of joke between us. We’re not together. We’re on a break. So, does that answer all your questions?
“You’re married? Or a separation,” I quiz, trying to understand
“Not quite… engaged. Well, it’s complicated.”
The pang hits me, knocking me hard from a place unknown.
You cannot possibly be jealous of a guy called Prince Charming. Man the fuck up. You don’t even know this chick, why are you letting her crawl under your skin and affect you like this. Find your balls, Olly.
“Okay, so you’re engaged but on break?”
“I guess, technically,” she replies with uncertainty. I don’t think even she knows what it all means. “Look, I’m here, and he’s back in Colorado. We both agreed to separate, so I could come out here. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” I retort, her dismissive attitude is laughable. “I think you’re missing a big chunk of the equation.”
“Really? Like how you’re an ex-soccer player? Maybe you want to elaborate on that?”
I remain quiet, and it’s as if she has the upper hand and watches me with a curious gaze. There is nothing I want to add, nor any inclination to continue this part of the conversation. If anything, I want to welcome back Chance, Aubrey, CJ, and even Pixy.
The surf competition goes on for a few hours. There’s a presentation, medals, and every so often, I wander off to grab a drink or use the bathroom. I’ve met some banging chicks and scored a few numbers, but I don’t feel in the mood to continue partying with them tonight.
It’s late afternoon when we all decide to pack up and call it a day.
On the ride back home, everyone remains quiet, exhausted from the sun exposure and heat. Even Pixy is snoring in the back. I somewhat hate silence, it gives me too much time to think.
When we reach home, I help Chance and Aubrey unload as Gabriella waves goodbye. She pauses for a moment as if she’s going to say something but decides against it and says goodbye with a warm smile.
Inside, Chance calls starvation and orders us some pizza much to Aubrey’s disapproval.
An hour later, I answer the door, paying the delivery guy when I glance over and see Gabriella’s house. Placing the boxes on the kitchen countertop, I yell out that I’ll be back in five minutes, slipping my sneakers on before walking outside.
I knock on her door, unsure of why I feel compelled to see her. Moments later, the porch light flashes on, and behind the glass window, I see Gabriella’s face peeking through. Her confused expression pulls away as the sound of the locks click, and the door is opened.
“I just came to say it wasn’t my decision to be an ex-soccer player,” I mumble, unable to make eye contact with her. “I got… I got in a motorcycle accident and was injured. So there, piece to your puzzle.”
I don’t want her pity, I’ve carried enough of that on my own. I just don’t want any more speculation. She has the facts, and whatever she does with them is now her business.
As I walk away with my back turned, she calls my name. I spin around, stopping just shy of the gate.
“I need to figure out if the life my father has planned for me is the life I’m willing to settle for.” She sighs, slumping her body against the door frame. “So there, the piece to your puzzle.”
It’s not the entire piece, but for tonight, it left me with a glimmer of something. In a world full of fine, we both are not fine. We all have our crosses bearing heavily on our souls, but sometimes, there’s this unexplainable presence of someone who makes life worth living again.
Like a breath of fresh fucking air.
I walk back home, unable to stop thinking about Gabriella. She has an unusual predicament being controlled by her father. Honestly, it’s like something out of a 1950’s movie. I had questions, lots of them. But there would be a time and a place when the puzzle would make a complete picture.
Sitting on the lounge surrounded by Chance laughing obnoxiously over some commercial and Aubrey almost passed out on wine, I scroll through my phone and see the lists of girls’ numbers I collected today.
Not a bad haul, I think.
I could get laid tonight.
Or score a good blowie since it’s been forever.
Yet, only one thing replays on my mind, and it’s the one thing I can’t shake off.
I’m missing her number.
Gabriella Carmichael.
And with that thought consuming me, I know I have to do whatever I can to get it.
Even if it means being the biggest pain in her beautiful arse.
Gabriella
The familiar brown-uniformed driver pulls up to the curb first thing on Monday morning.
Jamie, as he introduced himself last week, has got his job down to a T. A quick stop, then run to the back of his truck where he sorts out the packages until he pulls out a large box with both his hands and begins to walk toward me.
“Hey, Gabriella,” he greets, juggling the box until he places it on the porch directly by my feet.
“Hi, Jamie.” My eyes wander toward the large box wondering what on earth could be inside. Sebastian is relentless with showering me in gifts. “It’s a big one today.”
James chuckles beneath his cap, handing me his device to sign my name. “A dime for every time I’ve heard that.” He winks, walking away with a slight skip in his step as I thank him, unable to hide the smile from my embarrassing comment.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Tearing off the tape, I pull out the flaps, and inside the box sits a large giraffe. Struggling to remove it, I finally pull it all out and place it in front of me.
The stuffed giraffe sits at over three feet tall, reaching the top of my chest. At the rate he’s going with stuffed animals, soon I will be able to open an imaginary zoo.
My eyes hazily wander to the envelope, removing the card to read what it says.
How about our honeymoon in Africa?
Love, Prince Charming.
I let out a sigh. A smile wavering as the internal conflict of the whole situation rests heavily on my shoulders. As if the weight is bearing me down, I take a seat on the old wicker chair, staring blankly at the giraffe and trying to acknowledge the word ‘honeymoon.’
Sebastian is trying his best, I have to give him that.
It was a joke. One day over dinner, a friend of his was talking about Africa, and I mentioned how much I loved giraffes but have never seen one.
A honeymoon.
My chest begins to cave in, while a sense of overwhelming thoughts floods my brain within seconds.
Where will we live?
Sebastian’s family owns a ranch not too far from us. He has his own quarters, but the thought of living with the Kings is enough to make me run away and change my identity for good. They are nasty, ruthless, and I have overheard on more than one occasion that his father is part of some underground mob.
“Planning a trip to Africa?” The familiar voice startles me, my hand instinctively covering my chest to calm my racing heart. Oliver is leaning over the fence curiously watching me. I’m not immune to his shirtless body glistening in the sunlight and his muscles protruding making it impossible to ignore him. He has one of those rich golden tans with very little hair on his sculpted chest.
I quickly place the card back in the envelope. “No… I wish.”
“Interesting gift,” he comments while removing his headphones.
“It’s from Sebastian.” Oliver stares at me, rubbing his chin with a confused expression. “You know, Prince Charming? He kind of sends me stuff, I guess attempting to lure me back.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not,” I blurt out, suddenly conscious that once again, I’ve opened up, maybe a bit too much, and to a complete stranger.
I don’t kno
w why Oliver has this way of dragging up my feelings. It baffles and irritates me at the same time. It’s almost like I speak with my heart, not my head, when I am around him. Very unlike me. Aside from Aubrey, and Tiffany during my one-night bender, I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest.
“I came here to clear my head. Gain perspective before making any commitments.”
Oh, damn! There, I did it again.
“Well, how about you come with me for a run?” he asks while fiddling with his headphones as if he’s nervous or something. “Running can clear your head.”
I haven’t run in ages. College would have been the last time I had pushed myself to run and only because our sorority made us. I try to walk and practice yoga daily, but running is on a different level.
What do I have to lose? Your ability to breathe and function tomorrow.
“Okay, let me get changed first.”
“Good. Nana cardigans and skirts would make for an interesting running ensemble.”
I look down at my clothes.
Asshole.
I head inside, changing into a pair of modest shorts and a sports tank before my cell beeps. With my hair twisted between my fingers, I lean over, swiping my screen while attempting to tame my curls and place them up into a bun.
Sebastian: About this break… I miss you. Come back.
I sit on the bed reading the text over again. It’s almost as if he can sense me pulling away, latching onto any strength I’ve mustered up while trying to drag me back into a world I so desperately am trying to run from.
I decide to leave my cell behind, unsure of how to respond.
As time passes, Sebastian has become clingy with his need to text me all day long. The funny thing is, he wasn’t like that before I left. In fact, we saw each other maybe twice a week, usually in the presence of my father. He traveled, and I kept myself busy with social engagements and foundations my mother forced me to be part of.
According to her, our family has responsibilities to society. My father despised it, though he was smart enough to make an appearance for the sake of his career. Both my older sisters have children, and they used it as an excuse since they never had time to do anything, yet had a bunch of nannies working for them so they could still keep up with their beauty appointments.
But now I have all the freedom in the world—no social engagements, no luncheons or fancy caviar served on a silver platter. That, in itself, is enough to motivate me to do better things.
Things that make me happy.
Oliver is right, though, I need a good head-clearing and running should do just that.
As I walk outside locking up the house behind me, Oliver yells at me like a drill sergeant, demanding I pick up the pace. He makes it hard to keep up with him, his long muscular legs taking big steps, almost double that of mine.
After a difficult hill, and my lungs collapsing two miles back, we stop at the beach to catch my breath. Oliver does not seem the slightest bit worked up.
“How… how… on earth… are you breathing?” I’m struggling for air, bent over with my hands resting on my knees for support. My throat is parched and desperate for water or any sort of liquid to quench its thirst.
“You’re talking to a born athlete. What we’ve done is nothing compared to the training I used to endure.”
“So, you still train even though you don’t play?”
He bends down to tie his shoelace, and upon closer inspection, he stills. I notice his demeanor changes every time I mention anything about him playing soccer.
“It’s in my blood.”
A long silence follows, and with my heart rate evening out, I suggest we stop for something to drink. There’s a small café, Sally’s Seaside Stop, overlooking the beach. It has a few tables, eclectic décor, with washed-out colors to blend in with the beach theme. Upon looking through the glass display, it appears they mainly sell fresh fruit, pastries, and various drinks. We order our fruit juices before sitting at a small yellow table out front.
People are coming and going, some walking their dogs, some in workout gear just like us. There are a few school kids and surfers in wetsuits—a mixture of people unlike the stuck-up socialites back home.
“I love people watching,” I say while eyeing an elderly man who pulls out a water bowl for his dog. It’s pink and bedazzled in jewels, and he’s filling it with a bottle of Evian. “I don’t get to do it back home, you know. But gosh, there’s something about watching people go about their daily lives that’s fascinating.”
“Airports are the best.” Oliver appears relaxed, taking a sip from his straw while eyeing the same man and his dog. This time, he pulls out some fancy blanket for his King Charles Cavalier to lay on. It’s also pink, has diamantes sewn along the edges, and embroidery which says ‘Lady Eloise.’ “You ever just sit and wonder where that person is heading?”
“Yes.” I smile, the feeling so familiar. “I don’t get to travel much, but when I get the chance, I could just sit in an airport for hours.”
“So why don’t you travel? Money?”
I’m a little taken aback by his forwardness, but considering he saw me empty my stomach into a random bush, we’re beyond that level of friendship. Talking about money is something my parents enjoy doing, but not me.
“I traveled with my parents and sisters. We did Europe, though my family’s idea of traveling is five-star hotels and dinners with the consulates.”
“So, you want to do it rough?”
“Excuse me?”
“Travel? Trek through the world with a backpack, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. It would be lovely,” I reply, wistfully.
He bursts out laughing. “Sweetheart, I’ve done the backpacking, and it’s anything but lovely. You share a shower with strangers, sleep in bunk beds, your clothes stink for days, and if you’re lucky, you don’t end up broke with some hooker running off with your belongings.”
I scrunch up my face unable to contain my amusement. “A hooker ran off with your belongings?”
“Not me.” He laughs, again. “A mate of mine when we backpacked through Europe. Let’s just say, a girl he picked up at the bar wasn’t quite a girl if you know what I mean.”
“No way!” I blurt out, covering my mouth to control my laughter. “You hear about these things, but you never actually hear of it happening to anyone you know.”
He nods, still grinning. “It was quite a loud scream to wake up to. And I’ve never heard a bloke scream like a girl.”
I twirl my straw around. “Lucky it wasn’t you.”
“I wouldn’t just bring a random woman back, especially in a foreign non-English-speaking country,” he affirmed, rather confidently. “Sex is great, but it’s even better when you’ve built it up in your mind.”
The linger of his words heat beneath my skin.
I blame the warm air or the run.
No, it can’t be anything else.
Oliver is an arrogantly good-looking man who just turned you on.
“Interesting perspective,” I say, unsure of where to go from here.
“So, the boys back home are what?”
“The boys back home?” I’m not following until he stares at me waiting for a response. “They’re not backpackers, that’s for sure. They’re more into stocks and bonds. Political race. You know, that world?”
“So, hookers and crack?”
“That’s a bit far-fetched,” I argue, taken aback. “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you’re into hookers and crack. Why would they pay someone when they can get it for free?”
“And what if they can’t get it for free? What if the person they’re desperate for has taken off to go find herself?”
Where is he going with this? His honesty is confronting, treating me like I’m his closest friend when, in fact, he is still a stranger to me. I feel compelled to defend myself and the life back home in which he has no understanding of.
&nb
sp; “Sebastian is not like that. He understands I need this.”
Oliver leans forward, his eyes demanding I bring myself closer. Without thinking, my elbows etch forward. We’re inches apart, close enough for me to see the small freckles scattered on the bridge of his nose.
“Sweetheart, if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you walk away and demand a break,” he whispers, the sweetness of his breath lingering.
My heart beats erratically with so many mixed emotions, while the heat does nothing to cure the pressure mounting inside of me. His eyes are fixated on mine, a sultry stare drawing me in. A grin is plastered on his face, and although I never noticed before, he has one dimple that sits perfectly near his cheek.
I pull away, regretting my decision to go on this run. My desire to experience freedom is being overshadowed by guilt.
“It’s complicated, and besides, how could you even understand? I don’t have to justify my relationship to you.”
Oliver retracts, the grin disappearing from his face. The heat between us dying down faster than you can say fiancé.
“Right, I wouldn’t understand? I’m just the single boy next door looking to get laid. Obviously, I picked the wrong girl to play with.” And just like that, he’s turned back into his arrogant self, demanding we run back home.
This time, he doesn’t play nice, riling me up and pushing me the last mile until I almost collapse on the pavement. At my front gate, he pats my back hard, almost pushing me forward in my weakened state, calling me a ‘good girl’ as I almost faint to the ground.
Walking away, he pulls his white tank off, throwing it around his neck. His back muscles make it hard not to stare.
He will be the death of me.
As I shower, trying to rid myself of the guilt washing over me, it only makes things worse. I avoided brushing over my private parts, running the soap quickly because the pent-up frustration is turning into some sort of orgasmic finish. I am ashamed of how his words affect me, and how every time he argues and turns into the arrogant asshole, it becomes a breeding ground for my frustration which only leads to other mixed emotions.
