The Theory of Happily Ever After

by Kristin Billerbeck

  I venture one more glance, and I’m ashamed to admit that for a brief moment in time, I wish I’d been born sweet and brainless. I suppose an argument could be made for the latter after my two months of binge-watching happily-ever-after movies, but I’m plagued by a brain that never shuts down. Meanwhile, Tinkerbell climbs on a silk scarf and writhes all her problems away. I have trouble believing that’s the kind of woman real men want; sweet and weak-natured.

  I’m drawn to Sam, who is across the long, winding deck, rather than the gorgeous bartender with the brilliant blue eyes in front of me. Sam’s presence is hard to ignore and I wonder why. Maybe because I’m a glutton for punishment, but I can literally feel his presence. I feel . . . dare I even think it? Tingly.

  “You know him?” Brent asks.

  I shrug and try to act casual. “I met him when we checked in. He’s here with his sister.” Oh, and he essentially called me a spinster. Other than that, he’s great.

  My eyes linger across the empty deck. Sam is straight out of a J.Crew catalog with khakis, a crisp white T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest, a black blazer thrown haphazardly over the outfit, and suede oxfords without socks. He types into his laptop, and I notice he’s got great hands with long, animated fingers. I’m taken by how he wears casual in an inherently uncomfortable manner. He’s not exactly the poster child for a party girl’s boyfriend, so he may have to get over the brilliant woman who apparently dumped him and find another.

  In essence, he’s complicated. The antithesis of what I need in my life—even for the duration of a cruise. I need fun . . . playfulness . . . the vacation equivalent of a Hallmark movie.

  I stare at Brent the bartender with his winning smile and sparkling eyes. Brent is simple, a guy’s guy who might be able to show me how to have fun again in life if I could follow his lead this week. The mystery of him and his life fascinates me—I mean, what is it like to be Brent and provide a good time for his customers? Maybe I can pick up some of that lightheartedness. Then I’d go back to my university job refreshed and maybe slightly more sorority-like. Maybe that would help me get noticed by the eminent Dr. Hamilton at NYU. Maybe my résumé hasn’t resonated with my idol because it’s too serious—too void of actual happiness. My dream is to work with Dr. Hamilton and to be a part of the cutting edge of happiness science. Maybe Brent can teach me a thing or two.

  I lean on my elbow and try to focus on friendly banter, but my elbow slides off the edge of the bar. As I nearly fall out of my barstool again, my e-reader hits the floor with a sharp crack and lands in three jagged pieces.

  “No!” I shout.

  Sam jolts up in his chair to help, but one wilting look from me and he leans back. It’s clear I inherited one trait from my mother.

  “I’d say someone is trying to tell you something about reading,” Brent says. “Maybe you need a break from studying and it’s time to have fun.”

  I don’t mention the many beach reads I’ve got loaded—or had loaded—onto my reader.

  “He seems more interested in you than being with his sister.” Brent grins. “Smitten, I’d say.”

  “Trust me, he’s not interested in me.” Or any woman with a brain. He’s Jake 2.0. Likes them dumb and willing. I am neither.

  I turn back toward the sexy bartender, who’s been watching me, and avoid my fascination with the complicated Sam Wellington. It’s best to change the subject. “Smart woman or dumb?”

  “Is that a trick question? Am I being recorded for some podcast?”

  “No, no. You said I was beautiful and smart—and even if that was a total line, I’m asking you, is that a good thing? Do guys like you want to be with a smart woman, or is dumb okay?” I shake my head. “I don’t mean dumb—that’s a terrible way to describe someone. I’m asking this: if you had a choice between a woman who didn’t make it through high school or an executive, who would you choose?”

  “Whoever I liked more.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe the girl who dropped out of high school took care of her sick mother after school, so she had to drop out, you know? She wouldn’t be described as educated, would she?”

  “No,” I say, taking a swig of my bottled water. “Who do you think is happier?”

  “Ah, this is a trick question. You’re practicing your speech on me. I’m going to end up as an illustration.”

  “No, I’m legitimately asking. If you had to guess who was happier, who would you guess?”

  “That’s easy. The person who is closest to who they were meant to be.” He unlocks a cabinet and starts lining up bottles. “If bartending has taught me anything, it’s that everybody has a purpose on this earth. Some embrace their vision early on, and some people spend their whole lives searching for it. So I’d pick the girl who knew her place in the world. She’s more settled. Kind is more important than being either smart or ignorant.”

  So, not the girl who sat on the sofa for two months trying to figure out her purpose.

  “What’s the matter? You look sad. That the wrong answer?”

  I glance over at Sam with his laptop, who obviously can’t stop work long enough to take a vacation. Then I stare back at Brent, who always seems to be on vacation. He lines up the bottles so straight against the mirrored wall, it’s like an art form.

  Finally, my gaze settles on the oversized poster of me in the lighted brass frame on the wall, looking every bit the successful author and doctor. Wow, I think. That chick really looks like she has it all together. The irony. And regardless of what Brent has to say, men aren’t picking her—ahem, me.

  Sam Wellington may be missing a filter, but his words are far closer to the truth than I’d care for them to be. In the poster that’s plastered everywhere, I’m wearing my lab coat. I look more like I work at the Lancôme counter at Macy’s than the university. Maybe that’s my true calling. Maybe then I wouldn’t get caught without makeup when it’s necessary. I’m thinking most women would know intrinsically to brush some powder over their blotchy skin before stepping foot on a singles’ cruise. Even if they didn’t know they were going on a singles’ cruise.

  Along with “fun,” I’m going to add “common sense” to my to-accomplish-in-this-lifetime list.

  5

  Happy people give themselves permission to play. They make time for fun.

  The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire

  LEAVING MY BROKEN E-READER ON THE BAR, I amble to the edge of the deck where the city of Galveston can be seen in the distance. This elite top deck that apparently came with our room offers amazing views of Galveston and the long, thin line of cars trying to get to the ship.

  “It’s so peaceful up here,” I say to Brent.

  “It won’t be soon. People come up here to watch us set sail. Of course, you’ll have the safety drill before that happens.”

  “Safety drill? I’m not on the Titanic, am I?” I hold my hair in place to keep it from whipping my face.

  “Mandatory. It’s out on deck. You don’t have to bring your life jacket any longer.”

  “Life jacket?” I squeal, looking over the edge and the long drop down to the sea.

  Sam chuckles loudly enough that I hear him.

  “Is something funny, Mr. Wellington?”

  He raises a palm. “No. I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to questioning your opinion on matters, Dr. Maguire. But incidentally, how many times have you watched Titanic?”

  “Once. It’s too sad. Plus I have a hard time believing that when the ship is going down, her ex would be worried about chasing them with a gun!” I shout over the wind. If I’m trying to prove I’m not one of the intellectual women he abhors, I’m doing an excellent job.

  It’s not lost on me that the most successful romantic movie of my era doesn’t work for me because of plausibility issues. Yet I’m completely okay with snow that’s spongy in a Christmas movie and expensive purebred dogs being passed off as lovable mutts.

  Sam laughs again, and I can see by the small creases beside his ey
es that he’s not without mirth. He’s obviously spent a great deal of his life smiling in the sun, and my mind wanders to an image of him in the California sunshine. I realize this theory is more of my projecting my Prince Charming imagery on a man who may simply be naturally aging. Maybe he’s never been in the sun or surfed or sailed or even laughed. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter why this complete stranger seems stilted and cold. Imagining his past is a dangerous road and I’m not going to take it—I’m searching for the alternative route.

  Recalculating. As Kathleen instructed me to do when I got lost in my fantasy world.

  I saunter up to the bar again and hang on to the stool while I plant myself on it. “So Brent, what’s your musical guilty pleasure?”

  “My what?” he asks, leaving two bottles out of place on the counter.

  “You know, that band or singer you listen to when no one’s home. The music makes you deliriously happy, but you’d be mortified if anyone found out you actually listen to it when you’re alone.”

  He shrugs and offers a cocky smile. “I’m into classic rock.”

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not a guilty pleasure. That’s just the music you like, and it makes anyone sound cool to say they’re into classic rock.” I shake my head. “Let’s try this again.”

  “Is this another test?”

  “Maybe.” I guess my question is a test. Everything with me is a test on some level, which is the most likely reason I’m still single. I’m like an eternal four-year-old, always trying to figure out what makes people tick and asking “Why?” instead of just letting them be.

  He leans over the glossy wooden bar as if he’s got a great secret to tell. As he leans on his elbows, I can’t help but notice again that the man has some healthy biceps. I stare back into his blue eyes.

  “Probably Taylor Swift. But if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you,” he growls.

  “Not scared. I’m a scientist, remember? Your secret is safe with me. This is strictly professional.”

  “If this goes in a book, I’ll need you to guarantee me anonymity.”

  “I’d just tell you to shake it off.”

  He grins. “I see what you did there. ‘Shake It Off’ is one of my favorites. Hard to stay still with that if it comes on in the restaurant.”

  There’s something delightful about being perched atop this incredible ship with two of the handsomest men I’ve ever met in my lifetime. It’s like God whispering in my ear that there’s hope in the world and I will figure it out. Like here’s an appetizer sampler to practice my feminine wiles on for a week before going back into the real world.

  “So tell me, why the interest in musical guilty pleasures?” Brent asks as he dusts off the top of a counter.

  “My data shows that men who immediately admit their musical guilty pleasure are more honest in general. They’re less likely to be harboring a dark side.”

  “So the longer it takes for a guy to say ‘Taylor Swift,’ the more dishonest he is?” Brent raises a brow. “Sounds legit.” Then he laughs. “Do you have anything to back up this study?”

  “Of course not. It’s utterly ridiculous, but it’s a good conversation starter, wouldn’t you say?”

  “So you’re basically trolling me with a pickup line, is that what I’m hearing?” He shakes his head slowly. “The poor men who fall under your spell in the name of science.”

  I will myself not to flirt. Whenever I do, it only comes off as awkward and humiliating, and even though I’m never going to see this hot dude after this week, why risk it. Now is the time to practice real people social skills away from academia.

  “My data—”

  “Your data?” he drawls.

  “Data might be stretching it.” Naturally, I can’t prove this in any professional manner—nor would I want to, as my professional reputation is already in shreds. Attach One Direction or Lady Gaga to my data and put a fork in me, I’m done. “It’s just something I’ve noticed,” I add.

  “I play Taylor Swift in the restaurant. The female patrons are an easy excuse. Besides, who doesn’t love Taylor?”

  “So you’re dishonest about your listening guilty pleasure. Blaming others for your own listening pleasure. Hmm.”

  “Is that bad? I thought it was pretty brilliant myself. What does that say about me, Dr. Freud?”

  “I’m certain it has something to do with your mother, but I can’t put my finger on it quite yet,” I quip. The way he looks at me expectantly with his sumptuous eyes, I want to answer whatever would make him happy. “What do I know? The research on guilty pleasures is still out.”

  Jake never confessed to any guilty pleasure band, but I heard him crooning like a rooster at dawn to Barry Manilow. Barry Manilow! The ultimate guilty pleasure for any straight male, but Jake was too proud to own up to it. I should have broken it off then and there! Admitting he knew the words to “Mandy” would have only made me love him more, because Barry was his mother’s favorite, but he just wouldn’t confess to being a Fanilow.

  “Maybe the Spice Girls too,” Brent adds. “How I loved Posh Spice.” He breaks into song about what he “really, really wants,” and I start to laugh. “Attagirl,” he says. “I knew you had another giggle in there somewhere. No one who studies happiness can be all doom and gloom. It’s not in your nature.”

  If he only knew. Lately my picture would look more appropriate in a Prozac ad than on my book jacket on the road to bliss.

  My cell phone trills from my back pocket. “There’s cell service on the ship?”

  “Only until we set sail. Then, depending on your carrier, it will cost you a small fortune. Best to turn it off.”

  I nod, but then I nearly fall out of my seat again when I look down at the name flashing. It’s Jake. My stomach does a feverish flip because it hasn’t caught up with my brain. I’ll let it slide this once.

  “It’s my ex.” I look into the well-worn smile lines beside Brent’s amazing eyes, wondering why he doesn’t tempt me. Too nice, maybe? Too much fun? Not complicated? Normal, that’s it. He’s normal—a neurotypical.

  “Want me to answer it?” He flexes his arm and lowers his voice. “I’ll make it intimidating.”

  I force a smile. “He’s supposed to be getting married today.” I stare at Jake’s name flashing before me, paralyzed by the sight of something I never thought I’d see again.

  “Then why don’t you ignore that call and let him get married.”

  “Great advice.” I nod. But everything within me wants some closure with Jake. Or to know if he’s changed his mind. Has he realized that it was me he really loved and Lycra Girl was only a passing fancy?

  I drop my head to the bar. “I’ve been ruined by romantic movies.” Which is an understatement.

  “Pardon me?” the poor innocent bystander asks. He probably doesn’t even have the Hallmark Channel. I’ll bet his television never moves from ESPN.

  “As a scientist, I have recently come to the conclusion that feelings must give us more momentum than facts. It’s bothersome. Facts are easily dealt with while emotions are not, and yet we act on feelings. Why?”

  He stares at me awkwardly. “Give me that phone.” He grabs it from me. “You need a drink.”

  Another thing Jake used to say to me. “I don’t actually drink. It doesn’t agree with me. My church never allowed it when I was younger, and I just never started.”

  “Well, we need you to have a good time, so the first rule is no talking to the ex on his wedding day. That is not how you start to have a good time on a cruise. That is how you go backwards in life. Do you want to go backwards?”

  I shake my head. “I do not want to go backwards. I have only one direction in life, and that is forward.”

  Brent holds the phone close to me. “If I give this back, do you promise not to answer it?” He puts it down. “Hey, mate, you need a drink? I can’t serve you until we start up, but there’s a bar right inside that set of doors there.”

  When I swivel on
my barstool, Sam Wellington is standing directly in front of me. His eyes are dark and oozing with softness like melting chocolate, and just as tempting to me right now. It must be the residual Jake effect. The thrill is short-lived, because those soulful eyes harbor the man who told me, in essence, that he’s searching for a flying ditz of his own. I must secretly desire rejection as a way of life.

  He reaches his arm toward me and I nearly take it. “It’s almost time for the mandatory safety drill,” Sam says without taking his chocolate eyes from mine.

  I blink a few times, trying to figure out what he’s telling me. Aaannd?

  “May I escort you to your stateroom? You’ll need your flotation device.”

  “Not anymore. Right, Brent?”

  “Correct,” Brent says from below the counter as he preps the bar. “No more flotation devices. How long has it been since you were on a cruise?”

  “My parents took me in high school,” Sam says. There is something so delicious in his innocence. He’s strikingly handsome and has this grizzled wisdom that comes across despite his youthful appearance.

  “Brent, meet Sam Wellington.”

  Brent stands and the two men size each other up, then shake hands brusquely. I’d like to think this is about me, but it’s clearly more of a dominant male thing that has nothing to do with me or my broken e-reader beneath them.

  Sam clears his throat and turns back to me. His gaze is intense, and something tells me that he’s not used to hearing the word no. “Dr. Maguire, I’d like to make up for my rudeness in the lobby. I don’t know what came over me.” He seems sincere, but what do I know? Jake seemed sincere too right before he told me he was getting married to someone else. Clearly I’m not as observant or as discerning as I think I am.

  “May I remind you that my IQ is slightly above that of the flotation device in my room?”

  He appears stung by my comment, and I regret my words immediately. Was that really necessary? The man apologized! It wasn’t his fault I had baggage about being the nerdy librarian girl to Jake’s scarf princess. The flying Anichka would have never said such a thing. She would smile and accept his apology like a lady.