The Theory of Happily Ever After

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Truce,” I tell him. “I wasn’t on my best behavior at dinner.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s been a long week. I probably don’t need to explain that social settings aren’t my strong suit.”

  He cocks that infernal brow.

  “I assure you, tomorrow I’ll perform like a dancing monkey for your sister’s publishing house.” I rap my fingernails on the table.

  “A simple, professional speech is all we ask. No dancing necessary.”

  “I am a professional, though I realize I haven’t given you any indication of this.”

  I want to blame it on him and tell him that it’s his fault for putting me on the defensive with his comments, but that’s hardly fair. Or Christian, for that matter. I need to take responsibility for my own garbage or I’m . . . I’m just like Jake. Did St. Paul whine about being in jail? Or why he wasn’t out preaching? He did not. He wrote letters of encouragement from jail! Why can’t I be productive like that in my misery? All I did was write a romantic screenplay that will probably never see the light of day.

  Sam shakes his head subtly. “You seem to think I’m always judging you in a harsh capacity.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Sam’s other stinking eyebrow raises! I am ready to shave them both off at this point.

  It takes every ounce of energy I have to maintain my seat and not run from everything I’m feeling. “What is going on in that head of yours then? You seem to expect me to understand you when I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

  “Trust me, there’s not nearly as much going on in my mind as you’re thinking.” He laughs. “I’m not worried about your speech.” Sam sits beside me in a cushy, sea foam–colored recliner. He smells divine. Earthy and woodsy like he’d just stepped out of the room where my gramps kept his pipe. Sam dwarfs the chair and leans forward, coming closer to me. His eyes meet mine with an intimacy I haven’t felt in ages, and I catch my breath. Reality strikes me that Jake never looked at me like that. Not even once.

  He wraps his hand around mine. “Let’s start again. I’m sorry I offended you earlier. I mean that sincerely, and there are no additional dark thoughts muddling around in my brain, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I avert my eyes rather than face the stirrings within me. I see a cut-glass railing on a spiral staircase, similar to the one in the dining room, and my mind wanders as to where it leads and if there are actually two floors in this suite.

  “I wasn’t myself after being dragged on a cruise,” he claims. “I’ve been told I can be abrupt at times.”

  “Dragged on a cruise?” I laugh. “You and I are possibly the only two people who view a cruise as some kind of condemning punishment.”

  “You mean it’s not?” Sam grins playfully. “It’s not all bad. I got owned by a New York Times bestselling author.”

  I want to escape his charm, and yet I find myself leaning into it. I clamp my eyes shut. I need to escape his cozy love nest before I let any of his charm get under my skin. I breathe in deeply and search for the tough weed of a woman my parents raised me to be.

  “You have a staircase?” I ask to avoid letting this conversation plummet the depths of my tentative emotions.

  “Up to the bedroom. You really should go see it, and no, that’s not a pickup line. I’ll wait down here while you check it out. It has a circular bank of windows all in front of the bed, so when you wake up, it’s a captain’s view.”

  “It’s not really!”

  “Go and see, I don’t mind.”

  I can’t help my curiosity. I’m not generally impressed by fancy spaces, but engineering a two-story suite into a ship? That’s something I have to see for myself. I climb up the spiral staircase as if I’m wearing glass slippers and slip into the expansive room. The entire crescent-shaped space is a wall of windows framed by the white steel of the edge of the ship. There’s a television hung on the middle frame of the windows. It stands directly in front of the king-size bed so the view surrounds the television. Naturally, I can’t help but think of how magnificent it would be to hole up here and watch chick flicks until this infernal cruise is over.

  “Holy cow, can you imagine a movie marathon from here? With a butler? You’d never have to move except to go to the bathroom!”

  “Did you say something?” Sam calls from below.

  “Uh, no. Nothing. Just oohing and aahing my approval.”

  I stand at the bank of windows and question the study that says money doesn’t make you happy. It may not, but this suite could certainly prolong a lack of misery.

  “What do you think?” Sam is standing a safe distance away on the landing. His feet are crossed at the ankles as he awaits my answer.

  “I think my friends and I could all fit into this bed and you should switch rooms with us. Although it might be more difficult to get me to make an appearance at my speech. I might get lost in here.”

  “You and your friends are welcome to hang out here. Did you see the deck below? I suppose you didn’t—it’s dark. But I imagine I’ll spend most of my time there getting some work done.”

  “You’re going to work in this room? Sam! This is amazing. Why didn’t you bring someone to enjoy it with you?” As I ask the question, I regret it immediately. I mean, why didn’t I bring someone?

  He smiles. “My sister seems to think a week on a singles’ cruise will fix all that.” He scoffs at the notion.

  “I’m sorry.” And this time I mean it. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You and I aren’t exactly winning any awards for social graces in the near future.”

  “You don’t think we should start up our own charm school?” I say to lighten the mood. “What would we call it? Friends without Filters Charm School?”

  Sam grins. “My sister means well, dragging me on a singles’ cruise, but she doesn’t understand that I’m happy working. I’m fulfilled.”

  I nod. “In my research, some people are happy working, without intimate relationships in their lives.”

  His mouth drops.

  “Not that you’re one of them, of course. For all I know, you could have a long-term girlfriend . . . or maybe a wife.” I’m making it so much worse. Shut up already!

  “If I did, do you think my sister would force me on a singles’ cruise?”

  “Oh, right. Probably not.”

  Sam steps toward me, and we stand side by side staring out at the vast, dark sea in front of us, with only a small light from the ship to guide us. Then he turns and stares into my eyes as if he can read my mind. I scramble for anything to say to avoid the intimacy . . . and the desire I’m feeling for his proximity.

  “Look, I know your sister is my new boss, but I’ve made a terrible error in my data and I want to ensure that it’s correct before I release another book. I’m trying to protect her, don’t you see? She’s only just become president of BrainLit, and I’m not sure . . .” My voice trails off.

  Sam says nothing. He simply keeps gazing into my eyes as if I hold the secret to the universe.

  “I—I’ve made an error in my calculations,” I say again. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, I heard you.” He’s so close I can feel his breath graze my lower lip.

  “When I originally signed the publishing contract—years ago, incidentally, for a two-book deal—I saw potential in the science of happiness and my role in that science. I’m trying to be honest here. I don’t want your sister to lose credibility. I’m waiting on grant money for the study on resilience, and there’s no guarantee it’s going to happen.” I keep talking, hoping to increase the space between us but not having the will to do so. “What I’ve collected right now, it just isn’t enough for an entire book. I may not have anything to say in the new book, don’t you see?”

  He nods, but it’s clear he’s not thinking about his sister’s business. Every cell in my being wants to reach up and kiss him. This man who offended me and all women like me. I’m currently an insult to wome
n everywhere, but his draw is powerful. Magnetic.

  I step backwards and begin to pace in front of the window. “It’s important that a woman has stepped into that role as publisher, and I want her to have the best outcome possible. I don’t want her to be the laughingstock at the booksellers’ association. She needs to find a different scientist. I can help her. I know everyone in the field.”

  “You’re worried about my sister, is that it?”

  “I am,” I say breathlessly. And I’m worried that I’m going to kiss a complete stranger.

  “The science of happiness is a burgeoning field.” He actually makes these words sound sexy. I’ve watched way too many romantic movies. “Doctors who previously studied depression have started to look into the science of happiness for the cure. The cost of depression on employers is into the billions and rising. This research will have a direct correlation to the economy if it provides the answer.”

  I can’t tell if he’s toying with me. “You seem to know a great deal about my field.”

  “I know a lot about business. You’re a maverick. Maybe you’re not comfortable in that position and are passing it off to the next doctor of happiness. Is that truly wise? The work is going to happen with or without you because it means money in the pocket. You’re willing to give that up over this obsession you have with your past data? Data becomes outdated, no? So find the new data.”

  I clench my hand and dig my fingernails into my palm. “Money to find new data is hard to come by. Have you ever written a grant?”

  “Forget the grant. All you need is a corporate sponsor. Done. What are you so afraid of? You’re not happy, so you think you’re a fraud. Do you think all cardiologists have healthy hearts?”

  I look directly at him. For once someone understands, and he’s hit at the raw, tender nerve of my truth. I feel exposed. Sam actually gets it, and I’m filled with revived hope, but it’s quickly dashed by his next sentence.

  “Fashion designers are some of the worst-dressed people in the world.”

  “What is your point?” This comes out sounding much ruder than I meant it to.

  “You don’t have to be Tigger to study happiness. It’s just data that you’re analyzing, not your own life. But it’s data that matters. Employers are losing billions because people aren’t happy, and this book will shed light on that, so it’s important to the business community as well as the science community. You want grant money? I’ll find you grant money.”

  His belief in me scares me. He sounds like my friends, and I wonder why so many have so much faith in my work. “I don’t want grant money to support corporate greed. There’s no trust in that kind of study. Do you remember when cigarette companies paid ‘scientists’ to tell us smoking was good for us? Science isn’t science if you’re not willing to read the data truthfully.”

  “I see it now.” He nods knowingly, like he’s a doctor ready to make a dire diagnosis. “You’re one of those science snobs. It can’t be used to help anyone. It’s for knowledge only. To better the world somehow.”

  I’d protest, but realizing he’s under my skin yet again, I don’t feel the need to defend myself. I realize that he doesn’t mean anything demeaning by his words. He’s clarifying for himself. Perhaps that’s the worst outcome of my career dive. I seem incapable of hearing something rationally. It all seems to go through a questioning filter, as if everyone is out to get me.

  As I tear my gaze from his, I think he must be a very decent man to invest in his sister’s career so heavily. He clearly takes loyalty to a new level, so he can’t be all bad. No matter what my current black-and-white thinking tells me.

  My cell phone beeps downstairs. “I thought we didn’t get service on board.” I clamber down the steps, anxious to get away from his inquisitive nature and his prying eyes.

  At the dining table, I scramble through my small handbag to get my phone. Sam stands calmly behind me.

  “It’s intermittent. I notice I hear from my assistant at random intervals. We must be close to shore if you’re getting a call.”

  I shrug. “It’s probably Kathleen ensuring that I’ve actually apologized to you so she doesn’t have to rough me up when I get back to my room. You caused me a world of trouble today.”

  He gives a sideways grin. “I’m glad to hear it. Here I thought I failed to make an impression.”

  If you only knew. Inexplicably, I feel at home with him, and for a brief moment, gone is the unrelenting ache that gnaws at my stomach on a daily basis. Dare I say it? I feel happy in his presence.

  10

  Empathy allows connection. Feeling sad with someone else connects us relationally, but so does feeling others’ happiness.

  The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire

  RIFFLING THROUGH MY HANDBAG for my phone allows me to focus on something other than Sam’s magnetic presence behind me. The ringing continues in the form of my favorite song, “Humble and Kind,” and I’m thankful for the diversion. Why would I react so easily to a man who feels the way he does?

  Marcus’s presence is welcome as a chaperone as my emotions are overflowing. “Do you need some help, miss?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Thank you, Marcus. It’s right here!” I lift my phone in triumph.

  “Shall I bring in your dinner?”

  Sam shakes his head. “Not just yet, Marcus.”

  To my horror, a text picture of Jake and his new bride lights up on my phone. I try to shove it back in my handbag before Sam sees it, but it’s too late.

  Sam reaches for my phone. “This is the brain-dead ex Haley told me about, I’m assuming?”

  My heart sinks a little further. “I guess he wants me to know that he’s doing just fine without me.”

  Sam’s jaw clenches slightly. “What a gem of a human being.”

  Jake is determined to finish me off and make certain I understand that I never mattered to him. Which seems to be a recurring theme in my life. All I ever wanted was to matter to someone. Not the invisible millions who watched the TED Talk or read my book, but one person who didn’t want to live without me.

  “That’s cruel,” Sam says. Then he presses the phone on again and looks closely at the picture. “Clearly he traded down.”

  I smile. “That was him calling. I guess he decided a picture was worth a thousand words.” I try to muster a laugh. “It seems to be a group text. How kind of him to include me, don’t you think?”

  “What’s your password?” Sam asks.

  “4545,” I offer without thinking. My mind is still reeling from the humiliation.

  Sam taps quickly, opens the photo app, and flips the camera toward us. He presses his handsome face beside mine and lifts the camera up. Instinctively, I offer a big smile, and our beaming faces are snapped into history. I look slightly shell-shocked, but my makeup is fresh. It’s obvious I’m wearing my best dress with the lace collar, and then . . . then there’s the fact that Sam Wellington is so blasted good-looking. We look uncannily cozy in the photo, comfortable with one another, and I think I actually look prettier beside him simply because he is so handsome. He taps away again, and soon I hear the whooshing sound of our picture off in the universe—the text universe. He places the phone beside me.

  Alongside our picture, which I must admit looks like a romance movie advertisement, are the words, “We are ecstatic for you! Us next!”

  Sam sits in his sea foam–green chair, and I tell him, “You seem pleased with your handiwork.”

  “Guy had it coming. I think we should send the next one in a bikini from the beach on the Mexican Riviera.”

  “Do you now? I hope you brought your bikini.”

  “Your problem, Dr. Maguire”—he leans back in the chair he dwarfs and crosses his arms over his bulky chest—“is you’ve spent too much time in the lab studying happiness rather than living it. I find it questionable, and I’d like to see this research of yours put to good use.”

  “In a bikini. So I heard. It’s so forward think
ing of you. You wouldn’t by chance be on the board for the National Organization for Women?”

  “I’m making a legitimate offer for a fantastic day on the beach. I’ll bring the picnic and everything.” He puts his hand to his chest. “No sexism meant. Come in whatever you feel is appropriate for a day in the sun. A muumuu maybe? Bring your friends along if you’re worried about my character.”

  “I’m not worried about your character or my ability to handle you if necessary.”

  “Oh, now that is intriguing. A PhD who can defend herself with what, if you don’t mind my asking? Karate? Tae kwon do? A knife you carry strapped to your thigh?” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Do you want to try me?”

  “Heavens no, I was just imagining what that might look like. I trust that you can defend yourself. You made short work of me today in the lobby.” He sits up and aims his deep brown eyes at me. “You know that guy isn’t right in the head, don’t you?”

  “Jake?”

  “A normal person who breaks up with someone doesn’t try to hurt them. He’s not right in the head, in my opinion. It’s his wedding day supposedly, and if he were in love and not playing a sick game, he’d be concerned with his new wife, not his ex and punishing you. I think you’re lucky to be away from him.”

  “Is that so?” My answer is snarky, but his words warm my heart to the core. I needed someone to remind me that what I went through wasn’t a normal breakup.

  My mind drifts back to Jake getting Sam’s text. Compared to Jake, Sam Wellington is straight off the pages of GQ. Only, he clearly isn’t all about looks and false flattery.

  “I’ve apologized. So we’re good, right?” I ask Sam.

  He frowns but seems to relent easily. “As long as my sister gets her book, we’re good.”

  “I told you, my calculations are off. I can’t in good conscience set your sister up for a lawsuit with her book launch—”

  He cuts me off. “I think your research has proven correct and you’re familiar with all facts on happiness. My analysis is that you’ve confused happiness with euphoria.” His hand envelops mine again. “Nothing feels as good as falling in love. That’s not happiness, it’s ecstasy, and it doesn’t last.” He picks up my phone again and punches in my code. “This guy . . .” He points to Jake’s photo. “You’re so out of his league. I want to know what you were thinking. Is there a science behind that?”