The Theory of Happily Ever After

by Kristin Billerbeck

  One thing I now know for certain: being educated doesn’t necessarily make me smarter.

  Brent, meanwhile, laughs out loud, but straightens up when Sam glares at him.

  “I spoke out of turn earlier,” Sam says, his arm still outstretched. “I owe you an apology and I’d like to make it up to you.”

  There’s something disingenuous about his confession, and I wait for a punch line. Lord help me, I can’t stop myself from challenging him. “But you do actually believe women of a certain intellect can’t be happy.” Granted, I may be miserable, but I’m hardly the poster child for intelligence at the moment. I will, however, learn from my mistakes and let this conversation with Jake the Second go no further. Even if his words are as smooth as butter and he makes a young Johnny Depp look average.

  “Let’s just say in my experience, that’s proven to be the case. I’m sure there are exceptions.” Sam rakes a hand through his dark, floppy hair. “Listen, I’m trying to extend an olive branch. For my sister’s sake.”

  I notice he’s still got the small Bible stuffed in his jacket pocket. “Do you carry that with you everywhere so you look more innocent?”

  He looks down at his pocket and laughs. “No, I’m writing a Bible study for my men’s group. We take turns and I’m in charge next time.”

  This feels like God’s not-so-subtle reminder that I need to get back to church to meet a decent man.

  “Will you accompany me to the safety drill?” Sam asks again. “It’s mandatory and we have to go anyway. I thought it might give me the opportunity to explain myself better.”

  “It’s mandatory that I go with you, or that I attend the safety drill?” Ugh. Why must I keep challenging him? Just move on! If Sam is my new book publisher, I’m in serious trouble with Haley—not to mention the Big Guy Upstairs regarding how I treat fellow believers. Jake’s probably right about me. Otherwise, why am I making this completely innocent man pay for Jake’s mistakes?

  Brent interrupts. “Mate, you best go on and find your sister. They’ll have you line up by stateroom with your party. This little filly will find her roommates.”

  Little filly? Only a guy as good-looking as Brent could pull that off—comparing a woman to a horse. It comes off with all the bravado of an old John Wayne movie.

  Sam ignores Brent’s comments and cocks an eyebrow toward me, awaiting my answer. I have to say, it’s kind of sexy in that romantic come-hither way. If only I could will myself to lower my walls and take him at his word.

  “I’m not staying with my sister. Thanks for your concern though, mate.” He grins at me, and those melty brown eyes spellbind me in a way that makes me want to forget his stinging words. But that’s exactly what got me where I am. Ignoring obvious truths. This one being that Sam Wellington is looking for the silent, sweet type who’ll applaud him for his brilliance, regardless of whatever harebrained move he makes. I steel myself against his seductive stare and turn my attention toward Brent. Nice, friendly Brent. The patron saint of mopey women.

  Brent is like the golden retriever of men—eternally happy, always looking for people to wag alongside. Perhaps he’s been sent here by some cosmic force to make sure I’ve learned my lesson and can leave complicated men in my past. Just because I’m in academia doesn’t mean I have to surround myself with malcontents. Brent probably likes baseball, apple pies, maybe a little country music. He probably drives a truck and does the two-step. His brand of fun is exactly what I need this week as I crawl out of my self-imposed hermit months. Mindless, soul-stirring fun.

  Both handsome men stare at me expectantly. Rather than replying with something charming, brilliant, or witty, I smile numbly, collect my broken reader, and jaunt like a scared rabbit to my stateroom. Alone. Maybe I’m not as smart as I think I am. The data is certainly beginning to take shape. I may be the wrong person to represent intelligent women in Sam’s “too smart to be happy” scenario.

  6

  We are happiest when engaged with others. The amount of time spent socializing has a direct correlation to one’s happiness.

  The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire

  DO WE HAVE TO GO TO SPEED DATING?” I don’t know why I bother asking the question. The whole point of this trip is to get me out of my comfort zone. I can be thankful my friends are not depositing me on some barstool for the duration of the cruise. “Can’t we just go straight to dinner?”

  “No,” Haley says. “We’re committed and they’re counting us in their numbers.” She points at me. “Great research!”

  I’m certain that we will never add speed dating in one of my chapters as a scientifically proven means to happiness. Essentially, it is an avenue to get rejected at a much quicker pace and without the beautiful anonymity of a finger swipe on one’s smartphone. I’m here because, like all bad ideas, it started with Kathleen saying, “Come on, it will be fun!”

  The women, i.e., casualties, all take seats around the room at individual tables for two in a closed-down-for-the-night burger bar. For decorations, the room has a single white candle in the middle of each table. I’m assuming this is to represent our sad loneliness. It’s all very suspect. Is this supposed to be romantic? The room could double as a séance setup for a coven in a horror movie.

  “Can I suddenly become a drinker?” I ask. “This seems like it would be easier with alcohol.”

  “Stop being funny,” Haley says. “Men don’t like funny women.”

  “Or smart women. I know, I’ve been told. Why am I here again?”

  From what I’ve gathered, what’s about to happen is that for four minutes, timed by a bell, some bloke will sit at our table. We will try desperately to impress each other with small talk and random facts about ourselves. Kathleen is seated on the left side of me and Haley the right. They’re both fidgeting in their seats, far too excited about this entire process.

  “I’ve never seen a speed-dating round as part of a story that included happily ever after,” I say. “You’d never see this on the Hallmark Channel.”

  “Live a little. I love meeting new people,” Kathleen says with glee. “What a stellar way to meet the maximum amount of people in a short time. People are on this ship from all over the world. This is going to be fun.” She gives us a seal clap.

  “You know what would be fun, Kathleen? If we got to see you use your black belt skills on some of the more vile participants. I would enjoy that. Kind of like a speed-dating-meets-Fight-Club scenario. I’d pay to see that. I bet a lot of people would.” I nod. “Yeah, I’d enjoy that.”

  The dating process and me clearly don’t mesh. This could be why I’m desperately single. The bigger question is why, after Jake, being single makes me feel so unworthy.

  “Now who’s the buzzkill?” Haley asks. “You make Eeyore sound like he has the gift of encouragement. Honestly, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Haley, look around.” I put my hand on hers. “You don’t feel like you’re at a meat counter waiting to be ogled by hungry carnivores?” I squeeze her hand. “You know how in those nice, fancy steak restaurants, they parade the meat platter out and tell you all about the marbling and the aging process on the slabs of beef? That’s us. Meat on a plate, and they will come out and judge our marbling and aging process. And we signed up for it. We’re here by choice.”

  “You are a buzzkill,” Haley says, yanking her hand away. She taps her name badge with her dating number: 16. “How do you suggest we meet people? Hide out in your lab and hope some focus group will bring us all underwear models posing as lawyers?”

  “I wouldn’t marry a lawyer,” I say.

  “Is there a lawyer who wants to marry you?” Kathleen asks. “Then I fail to see your point. This is great research for your books. You should want to be here more than either of us. If you think of bachelor number one as study number one, maybe you can identify what he needs in his life to be happy.”

  “Your picture isn’t plastered all over the ship. If I get weird stalking emails after thi
s, I’m holding you two accountable.”

  “Now she’s worried she’s going to get stalked,” Kathleen says to Haley. “She must have switched over to the Lifetime channel once in a while when she was couch surfing.”

  There’s an overly excited MC in the middle of the tables. This cruise seems to have a run on these animated types—the game show industry must be missing a few wannabes. The MC tells us exactly what’s going to happen and not to get too flustered.

  “Just have fun with it!” he shouts. “Here we go! Round one! Gentlemen, take your seats.”

  The first guy who sits down in my chair is Ed, #52, which could very well be his age, but I’m not asking. He’s wearing a lumberjack red-and-black flannel shirt—on a cruise ship to Mexico. Okay then. He is big and boisterous with a lot of male energy. I’m going to suggest he finds showering regularly an unnecessary activity.

  “Ed,” he says as he thrusts his hand toward me.

  “Maggie.” I shake his hand and he pumps my arm as if it’s going to suddenly spew water.

  “You hunt, Maggie?”

  “Um, no. I live in a city in California.”

  “Up in Alaska, living off the land is the right way to go. I don’t believe in killing it if I’m not eating it, so don’t think I’m just one of those people who loves to kill. No sir. They say you live longer the closer you are to your food source. I’ll tell you right now, I’m very close to my food source.”

  So whoever picks him has a long coupling before her. Fair enough.

  “Is that so?” I try to sound encouraging, but it comes off as disinterested. Small talk is not my forte.

  “You’re not one of them vegans, are you? They say California is the land of all them fruits and nuts.”

  “I’m not a vegan. I enjoy a good steak. I don’t hunt for it though. I go to Vons.”

  “Well, you can’t just shoot a cow, now, Maggie. I mean, cattle take a lot of land, you know that? It takes about two acres of land to support one cow.” He holds up his forefinger. “One single bovine. I don’t have me that kind of space on my property. That’s the trouble with you women. You want it all.”

  “I want it all?” What does me liking steak have to do with the price of acreage in Alaska? Suddenly I’m a gold-digging man-eater with a necklace of filet mignons strung around my neck. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m giving off a negative vibe. I change my attitude. “Now, no offense meant, Ed. Do you fish too?”

  “Everyone fishes. A man who doesn’t fish is not to be trusted.”

  Four minutes is truly an eternity. An eternity!

  I lean over to Kathleen and whisper, “I know who I nominate for the black belt recipient.” I turn back to Ed. “I don’t want it all, Ed. Not all women want it all.” I lean over the table. “Why exactly are you on a ‘New Year, New You’ cruise?”

  “Bear season is over. What else did I have to do?”

  My unrequited love for Jake is starting to make more sense to me. Please let the options get better than this. Mountain man needs to find himself a female copy. Sort of a female bigfoot.

  After an excruciatingly detailed lecture on the intricacies of bear hunting, Ed is on to Kathleen’s table. Is it wrong that I want her to arm-wrestle him and take him down and show him not all city women are frail damsels in distress, waiting for our man to bring us some meat tied on top of the truck?

  I fidget with my collar as I wait for Haley’s last date to get recycled to me.

  “Hi,” says my next victim, I mean date. “Brandon. You are?”

  “Maggie,” I say, using my finger to underline my name badge. “#31.”

  “Is that your age or your IQ?” He laughs. “Nah, nah. I’m kidding. This is awkward, isn’t it?”

  “It is my age, actually.”

  He cursed. “No kidding. Well, for an older gal, I’d give you a solid six. Seven or eight if you let that hair grow out. I like a lady with long hair. It’s more feminine.”

  Instinctively, I pat the back of my head. “Do you now? Duly noted.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “California. Los Angeles area.”

  “That explains it. You could use some meat on your bones. You appear frail.”

  I rub my hands down my sides. This is not the easiest exercise on the ego. But it is a good excuse for more gelato. “Thank you?”

  “Do you know any movie stars?” Brandon asks.

  “No, I don’t, but I saw Gwen Stefani at Whole Foods once.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s not important. Where are you from, Brandon?”

  I’m not listening to his answer. I’m terrible at this, not because I’m not a good listener—I’m generally an incredible listener—but this is not for me. I’m so out of my element, and knowing people on a casual level seems like a waste of time. Everything about my personality is “slow and steady wins the race.” Speed dating is just that—speedy. Efficient. Somehow, efficient dating is missing the entire point of knowing someone on a deeper level. I understand it’s only the introduction, but I’ll be darned if I want to tell my grandchildren that I met their grandpa on a singles’ cruise and got his number in a speed-dating round.

  “Hi.” A nice-looking blond with kind blue eyes sits across from me. “I’m Steve from Dallas.”

  “Hi, Steve, I’m Maggie from California.”

  “You’re the happiness doctor on all the posters.”

  “I am. Don’t hold that against me and I won’t use you in any books. I promise.”

  “Neither will I. I’m an aspiring science fiction author.” He then proceeds to tell me the entire plot of his novel and asks if I know any agents.

  I repeat this painful exercise eighteen more times before I’m released into the wilds of the cruise mainstream. Sam didn’t come to the speed dating, and surprisingly, neither did Brent. Because they’re both smart? Perhaps not desperate?

  “What did we learn from this?” Kathleen asks as we huddle together.

  “I think we learned that ‘happily ever after’ is one big hoax. I’m ready to snuggle up with a good Christmas movie and abandon the dating scene altogether,” Haley says. “Maybe Maggie didn’t get everything wrong.”

  I sigh. “How many phone numbers did you get, Haley?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It sort of is. How many?”

  “Six, maybe? They just handed me their numbers. Oh, and one room key. As if.”

  “You, Kathleen?”

  “Two.”

  I hold up my fingers and thumb in the shape of an O. Not even the bear lover looking for bigfoot was tempted by my feminine wiles.

  But let’s be honest, I wasn’t really trying. Until I restore my heart to the position of grateful, I know that I’ll continue to attract the negative energy I’m exuding. God wants to restore my heart, but I need to let go of my anger at Jake and forgive him. Jake didn’t do anything other than be himself. It’s unfair to blame a snake for being a snake, isn’t it? At the very least, it’s naive.

  “Now, Maggie,” Haley says as she straightens my curls with a flat iron before dinner, “remember, you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression.” She taps the tip of the appliance against a copy of my book. “No one knows that you’ve dropped out of sight for two months. This is a chance for a fresh start to build anticipation for your next book.”

  “What was speed dating for then?”

  “Forget about speed dating. That was just to give you some quick practice on social etiquette.”

  It’s probably best not to tell her about my run-in with the Bible-toting Sam Wellington at the bar just yet. I’m not sure if he saw me fall off the stool the first time, but he definitely saw it the second time, and I did not exactly accept his apology graciously. If I see him again, maybe the third impression will go over better, but I won’t hold my breath.

  “Did you hear me? The next book . . .” Haley’s voice trails off as I start to ruminate. Again.

  I feel as if I’m havin
g an out-of-body experience. The next book. I can’t even string a sentence together at the moment. “There’s no next book,” I tell my publicist, who should know this. Granted, according to my contract, there is a next book, but I’m partial to ignoring that fact at the moment. The current fantasy is far more conducive to my current way of living than my normal factual data.

  “You’re a career scientist at the top of her game,” Haley says in her resident cheerleader tone, trying to hype me up like a football coach to his losing team. “You exude confidence.” She ratchets her enthusiasm down. “Fake it if you have to, because that new publisher at BrainLit Books is going to be scrutinizing you to make sure that their predecessor made a smart investment. You’re currently their lead author now that Malcolm Gladwell has left, but since the former publisher was fired, I assume they’ll be checking the contracts carefully.”

  “No pressure in that.” I can’t even sit on a barstool properly and Haley expects me to impress some fancy New York publisher? It’s Sam Wellington. It has to be. With my luck, it couldn’t be anyone else.

  Haley puts down the iron and unplugs it. “This is my biggest client, Maggie,” she reminds me. As if I need more pressure. “If you can’t behave yourself for your future, do it for me. Do it for Dr. Hamilton—he can’t ignore the work of a two-time bestselling author on happiness science. No one reads about science for pleasure. You make it accessible.”

  I nod. “I want to get back to work, Haley. I really do. If today on deck taught me anything, it’s that I need to focus on where I can find success in life, and that’s my work. Because it certainly isn’t picking up random men at a bar when there is literally no competition.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  But it’s short-lived.

  “My only fear is that Jake might be right and I’ll lead people down the wrong path. What if my research needs more data and people are making bad life choices due to what they’ve read in my book?”