by Grey, R. S.
Finally, he speaks, and his lips barely graze mine as they move.
“I have a theory.”
The noise of anger I make is involuntary. Primal.
It makes his full lips curve into a cunning smile. He straightens and steps away. His contact with me ends so suddenly, I sway toward him. It’s as if he’s my spine now. Without him, I’ll collapse.
“I don’t think your feelings for me are purely past tense. I think you might be as crazy about me now as you were back then.”
I chew on my anger, taking my lip into my mouth.
How dare he?
HOW DARE HE!?
“You’re wrong.”
I fling the words at him angrily, but his eyes peel away my layers of pretense. I resist the urge to squirm, to cover myself as if I’m somehow bared.
“Am I?” he taunts.
It’s infuriating to realize I have no shield against him, no way to convince him I’m not an open book. I’m a diary, locked and hidden away. Or rather, I wish I were…
I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. No. Instead, I walk to my door, fling it open, and gesture that he can kindly leave.
“Now.”
His eyes narrow and he doesn’t move. His gaze spars with mine. Then finally, he walks over to retrieve his book and slides right past me, pressing the hardback against my chest on his way out.
Clearly, it’s a gift.
I stand there, catching my breath and regaining my composure. All the while, I keep that book pressed to my heart until I know Derek has had enough time to leave the dorm and get back into his car. I hover there, unmoving. It’s a mind game I’m playing with myself, as if I couldn’t care less about the book. Look at me, being patient. Not even looking at it. I push myself even more, convincing myself I need a shower more than anything. I set the book on my desk and grab my bathroom caddy. I rinse off slowly in the communal showers, standing under the hot water while I berate myself for wanting Derek to kiss me.
When I can’t stand the heated water for another second, I get out and dry off. Back in my dorm, I sit on the edge of my bed in my robe, brushing out my tangled hair while I stare at the book.
It looks old. The cover is a midnight blue that’s faded to a dull navy. It’s impossible to read the debossed script on the spine from across the room, though I think it’s inlaid with gold leaf.
Finally, with an impatient huff, I toss my hairbrush on my bed and stand, walking over to angle the book toward me. I trace the letters with my finger then immediately rear back once I realize what I’m touching.
It’s a first edition copy of The Enchantress, the 18th century French fairytale Cal says inspired him to develop Fairytale Kingdom.
On the worn title page, in black ink, someone has carefully written, You remind me of her.
Chapter Eleven
Derek
I nearly forgot myself and kissed Whitney last night. It wasn’t part of my plan when I decided to wait for her outside her dorm. I wanted to talk, give her the book. She’s the one who invited me into her dorm. She’s the one who pulled me into her private sanctuary with her fluffy white bed. I saw it and imagined laying her down on those sheets, peeling her clothes off, unveiling perfectly bare skin. I would have taken my time trailing my hand along her stomach, navel, and then, lower.
I don’t have to wonder if she went to bed thinking of me last night. I know she did.
The only reason I didn’t kiss her is because she smelled like Ryan’s cologne. It reminded me of where she’d been earlier that evening: on a date.
Maybe he’s good for her. He seems harmless. I’m sure they had a pleasant evening, but I’m not the type to defer. Growing up with privilege didn’t make me lazy. The exact opposite, in fact. I’ve always had to work twice as hard to prove I deserve to be where I am, and that struggle means I don’t truly value things that come easy. I like a proper fight. If Ryan wants to throw his hat into the ring, let him.
The next morning, I’m in the shower, thinking of her, stroking myself with one hand while I keep the other one propped against the wall. A warm stream washes over me as last night’s scene plays out with an entirely different ending. Her full lips were stained red. Her breath smelled sweet. I wanted to lick up every last drop of her.
These sessions in my shower are the only way I’ve survived the last two weeks. Like a horny eighteen-year-old, I can’t seem to last a full day without giving in to the urge to touch myself while fantasizing of her.
It’s only getting worse.
I’ve had relationships before and I know what real desire feels like, but this visceral reaction I have toward Whitney is more than that. It draws from a chasm so deep and so wide, it scares me.
I finish and rinse myself off, grabbing my towel and wrapping it low around my waist. I pad out into my kitchen to fix myself breakfast and check my email.
I have a new message from Whitney that was sent last night.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Gift
I can’t accept this book. I’ll leave it with Heather.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Gift
I already wrote inside of it. It’s yours. Keep it.
* * *
I could have easily put a note inside the book instead of tarnishing the title page, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t accept it willingly. I hope she doesn’t look up its value; she’ll get the wrong idea. I’m not trying to buy her affection. It was simply a gift. Besides, who would appreciate that book more than Whitney? It’s meant to be hers.
She must be awake early too because I get a response just after my coffee is finished percolating.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Gift
I still don’t think I can accept it.
* * *
I hate the forced formality. Emailing on the company server isn’t exactly the best method of communication if I intend on pursuing her. I want to ask for her number, text her to suggest we spend the day together. Doing what? Who fucking cares. I’ll take her back to that mini golf course if that’s what she wants. I’ll find that same dessert that stained her lips red and turned her mouth sugary sweet and buy her half a dozen of them.
Instead, I close my laptop and get ready for the day.
It was easy to get settled in my new top-floor apartment. It came fully furnished, and I had my clothes shipped from London. Heather had them unpacked and hanging in my closet before I’d even arrived in town.
The apartment has every amenity I could need, more space than a family of five could occupy, and enough silence to drive someone mad. I only notice it occasionally. Usually, I’m only here long enough to shower and sleep. I’ve been running myself ragged over the last two weeks.
Taking on an In Character position in the park doesn’t mean I get to walk away from my other duties. Instead, I have to manage my time down to the minute and give up a few precious hours of sleep every night. Cal has already begun training me to take over as the Director of Operations.
He’s expecting me at the park early this morning. We have a new ride opening next year and the construction crews have been hard at work. Today we have a progress walkthrough of the site with the head contractor and engineer.
Last night—before I waited for Whitney outside her dorm—we had a dinner meeting with a hospitality group based in Beijing. They’re in town to discuss negotiations for a franchise opportunity. In short, they want to purchase the rights to the Fairytale Kingdom brand so they can build an independent, copycat park in China. The number they threw across the table last night was enough to give Cal pause, but when I meet him this morning, he shakes his head, bypasses a greeting, and says simply, “I won’t accept their offer.”
Of course he won’t.
He’s fiercely protective of his brand. The only way our sister park in London came to be is because I personally oversaw its creation.
“I’ll email legal.”
He nods and that’s that.
The rest of the day is an outright sprint. We barely stop for lunch, and even that’s work as we sample the new fall tasting menu at València.
At 8 PM, when I make it back to my apartment, I’m dog tired. I kick off my shoes and walk straight to the fridge for a beer. It doesn’t surprise me that my father walked away from the business at my age, cashing out his shares of the company and leaving this world behind. If you get into this line of work expecting it to be a job, you’ll crumble.
It’s a way of life. A passion. Your creative values either align with Cal’s or they don’t.
Whitney accused me of lacking passion at Cal’s dinner party. I find that pretty funny considering ex-girlfriends have accused me of being too passionate. Not about them—about the Knightley Company.
I’d resigned myself to a life in which I was married to the company, just like Cal. Sure, spouses and lovers might come and go like the tide, but my real love would be always be my work.
Now, as I think of Whitney, I wonder for the first time in a long time if I might be wrong about that.
Chapter Twelve
Whitney
I think I need to sage my dorm room. This is embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never brought a guy back here. It’s not that I’m a never-been-kissed virgin. Far from it. I’ve had a whopping two sexual partners. The first was a year after Derek moved away to London.
Carrie and I went to a party at a friend of a friend’s apartment. It wasn’t exactly a stereotypical college rager. There were wine coolers and people playing Scrabble. Still, I met a boy.
Winston, so named for Winston Churchill, was cute with jet black hair and pale blue eyes. Originally from England, he seemed like the least threatening person I’d ever met. We got to chatting in a corner and, probably owing to his baby-bird-like demeanor and the one and a half Smirnoff Ices I’d consumed, I felt comfortable enough to admit to him that I’d never had sex before.
He hadn’t either.
Our eyes lit up with possibilities.
“Do you—”
“We could—”
The endings to our sentences weren’t necessary. He took my half-finished drink, set it down, and led me to his dorm room. That night was sweet and awkward. A lot of “Are you sure?” and “Is that the right spot?” mixed with “I don’t think we’re doing it right.”
Needless to say, I left having yet to experience an orgasm but with the confidence of a non-virgin sexpot.
I hung my sexual experience over Carrie’s head as any good friend should, saying cliché things like “Once you have sex, you’ll understand” so many times that she eventually tried to smother me with a pillow.
My second sexual partner was a guy I was actually dating at the time. It was a few years after Winston. I was more than ready to tackle sex for a second time.
Grant was very good-looking and a few years older. He was an associate in the engineering department and Carrie had tried to warn me away from him. According to her, he was unhealthily obsessed with his own reflection. He played acoustic guitar and described himself as an up-and-coming singer-songwriter, and that’s exactly what he was in the bedroom—up-and-coming. A real one-hit wonder with a two-minute single titled “She’s Not Satisfied”.
I gave him a second date, on the off chance he’d had performance anxiety. He insisted on playing his guitar for me before we got down to business. I sat on one side of the couch, he sat on the other, eyes shut, crooning in high falsetto. I was unsure of what to do with my hands after he politely asked me to stop snapping along.
We didn’t make it back to the bedroom. I lied about a family emergency and got the hell out of his apartment.
He still works here. We rarely cross paths, but when we do, he always asks how my grandma’s doing.
Needless to say, my sexual history is sparse and therefore my brain has latched onto the small exchange I had with Derek in my dorm room the other day and run with it.
It wasn’t even a kiss—his lips barely touched mine—and yet I dream about him that night and the next. On Monday, I wake up warm. Tingling. Turned on.
I kick off my covers and stand. Angry.
I refuse to do anything about my current state. I will not have a self-induced orgasm while thinking about Derek. Those brown eyes of his would know what I’d done. He’d smile smugly and ask me about my morning, making me blush and relive every wave of pleasure generated just from his hint of a kiss.
No.
I decide to exert this pent-up energy in other, more healthy ways.
I do five jumping jacks. Then I start to do ten push-ups, wimp out after three, and collapse onto my rug.
My eyes find the novel Derek gifted me in its spot underneath my bed. I hid it. I thought it was safe down there, out of sight. Turns out, I was wrong.
I want to give the damn thing back. How dare he give me such a thoughtful and priceless gift? What am I supposed to do with it? Even now, it’s wrapped in a Ziploc bag. If I look up its worth, I’ll likely faint. I won’t let myself. I reach out and push it a little farther under my bed.
For my shift later that day, I decide to show up exactly one minute before the meet-and-greet starts. Julie is in panic mode outside my dressing room door. “We have to go! We’ll be late! I’ll get fired!” I think I hear her hyperventilating but her worry is for naught. I’ve worked in this position long enough to know it takes me exactly ten minutes to walk at a normal-fast pace from my dressing room to my mark in front of the hearth. So, I give her eleven minutes.
She glares at me angrily during our walk. There’s sweat collected above her lip.
Derek is already standing in his position, patiently waiting for me to walk up and join him. He greets Julie with a polite nod and doesn’t hide his interest in me as I readjust my dress sleeves. Fix my hair. Clear my throat. Pretend to acknowledge and wave to someone across the room. Anything to keep myself busy.
“Whitney,” Derek says in greeting.
He does nothing but speak my name in his deep voice and immediately I recall the fantasy I woke up to this morning—the hot, anxious need I tried to quell with jumping jacks.
“Derek,” I respond, abrupt and formal.
“How was the rest of your weekend?”
“Uneventful.”
Carrie and I rode a shuttle to the grocery store for provisions. At checkout, she eyed my cart full of one-off items: spaghetti noodles, but no sauce; ice cream cones, but no ice cream; one lone onion. Though her brows rose with interest, she kept her lips zipped.
“And yours? Did you gift any other priceless artifacts?”
He smirks. “Just the one.”
“I really can’t accept it.”
“Yes you can. I gave it to you. It’s yours now.”
His earnest tone convinces me to give in to the urge to glance up at him.
“You’re insane. You know that? For writing in that book.”
He doesn’t seem to mind my accusation. He wears the label with pride. “So you don’t like it?”
“I love it.”
“And my theory? Have you put some thought into it?”
Children are lining up. Soon, we’ll be too busy for private conversations.
“Theory?”
It’s like I’ve never heard the word in my life. Could you use it in a sentence?
He smirks, seeing through my thin facade so easily my irritation spikes.
“No,” I reply hastily. “No time for theories, I’m afraid.”
“Did you see Ryan again?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“I’m just curious if this blush you’re sporting is for him or for me.”
I narrow my eyes on him, grinding my teeth. I meant every word I said in
my dorm room. He doesn’t get to reappear in my life and suddenly decide he wants me. Where’s the poetic justice in that? My heart broke eight years ago, and whether or not he had valid reasons for leaving me high and dry—I know they were valid; I’m not so illogical that I can’t see his point of view—a part me feels like I cannot, will not ever be able to surrender and give him what he wants.
Besides, he still hasn’t made it clear what he wants. A date? A kiss? Or is it only curiosity that has him interested? Maybe he wants nothing more than for me to admit I still have feelings for him so he can say, Aha! I knew it! Case closed.
My heart couldn’t bear it. The way he spoke so flippantly about his ex-girlfriend only proves my point. If I ever found out he described me that way, I’d never recover.
When he next speaks, it’s like he’s been listening to my thoughts.
“Let me take you out to dinner.” There’s a shallow pause. “A date,” he clarifies in a velvety smooth voice.
“No!” I say too quickly. It comes out in a near screech. The reply is a knee-jerk response surfacing from deep within my psyche. The same part of my brain that warns me not to touch hot stoves warns me not to accept this date.
I flinch, realizing my mistake. My overreaction is sort of evidence in itself. I try to soften my response with justifications. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not fair to you, really. Theory aside, I think I might have feelings for Ryan. And there’s also a guy who works in the fudge shop across the street. I don’t know him well, but…”
My sentence dwindles as I realize how little sense I’m making.
I glance up, expecting to see signs of rejection, but he looks amused, and then, THANK GOD, the wave of children finally descends upon us, demanding our full attention.
