The Theory of Happily Ever After

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Come with me. You need to let go and chill out. You’re wound tighter than a drum and you’re supposed to be on vacation. There’s zip-lining up on the top deck and you’ll love it. Get a little adrenaline in that system of yours and the world will look brighter, I promise.”

  “I actually haven’t spent the morning drinking, so your idea of fun may be more adrenaline than I can handle. I think I’ve had enough. I just survived a fire, so hanging from a piece of string in the air—” I cut myself off. Dangling from a piece of string is exactly what charmed Jake away from me. Maybe this is the answer I’ve been looking for. “You know, I think that sounds amazing. Why not?”

  Maybe because anytime that question comes up—why not?—it’s a very bad idea indeed. Some people were meant to scale mountains and have grand adventures. Others, myself included, were meant to shake things up by changing the channel.

  He shoves the ever-present sunglasses back over his eyes—even though we’re still in the hallway—and it gives him a very Channing Tatum appearance. The glasses must be some kind of battle cry for him. “First, though, we need to take care of your clothes. You’re not dressed for adrenaline.”

  “Are you sure I’m not already soaked in it?”

  He grabs my hand. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “Famous last words. Next only to, ‘Here, hold my drink.’ ”

  “Who are you going to listen to about fun? The happiness expert who studies all day? Or the guy who knows how to put a smile on people’s faces? While you were in the library in high school, I was planning drag car races on the strip by the quarry and how to outsmart Peter Schmidt’s sheriff father. You may have a doctorate in whatever it is you have a doctorate in, but I have one in fun.”

  He’s got a point.

  Brent grins. “I need to get you out of that comfort zone. Shake it up a bit.” He rakes his fingers through my hair and tosses it playfully. “You’re not ready yet. You’re still dressed like you’re going to a board meeting, and you smell like barbecue. And not the good kind of barbecue we’ve got in Texas.”

  “It’s my hair.” I shake it loose. “I couldn’t totally get the smell out of it.”

  “You wear seriousness like those grandma sweaters of yours. I’ve known you two days and I’ve counted three cardigans. No one your age should have that many cardigans.”

  “I like cardigans.” I fiddle with my sweater.

  “You need to loosen up.” Brent leads me into the elevator and drops my hand to press the button. “Going up!”

  “You pressed the down button.”

  “I told you, you’re not going dressed like my second-grade teacher with eau de grill.”

  Normally this is where I’d make my exit, but going back to my friends or tempting myself with my publisher’s brother is a scarier option. Who needs that kind of temptation?

  We take the elevator down to the old-town shopping “street” that my suite looks over. We pass all the interesting stores, like the bookstore, the electronics store, even the perfumery (where I could spritz my burning scent away), but Brent leads me to a child’s store. It’s brightly colored as if a rainbow has vomited in it. Sparkles on the floor lead to a room filled with costumes.

  “Here,” he says.

  “What are we doing here?” I look at the sign. “This is a costume shop. I have no need of a costume. Why is there a costume shop on board a ship? Let’s go get some of those cute shorts with the ship’s name emblazoned across them.”

  “You do have need of a costume. The ball at the end of the cruise.”

  I laugh. “I’m not going to that.”

  “Why not? Are you above having a little fun and dressing up?”

  “I would have brought a costume had I known.” I pause. “I’m always the bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “What does that mean? What would you expect me to be, a sexy cat? That’s the typical barfly costume, right? A chance to wear your underwear out for an evening and call it a costume?”

  “Aren’t you the judgmental one.”

  “So, you had no sexy kittens in your bar this year?”

  “No comment.”

  “Yeah. But I’m the one who’s judgmental.”

  “Just because it’s true doesn’t make you less judgmental.”

  “It kinda does. What’s wrong with the bride of Frankenstein? It’s a cool costume, and I get my hair plastered with hair spray so it goes straight up. I’ve got that skunk stripe down after all these years.”

  “The point of dressing up is to get outside the norm. How do you do that if you wear the same costume every year?”

  “Now who’s judgmental? First it was my cardigans, now it’s my costume.”

  “This is an elegant ball. You need to be thinking more Phantom of the Opera and less the sad psych department at your school.”

  “We’re not sad. We study happiness,” I tell him.

  He grins and the muscle in his cheek flexes, revealing his deep, one-sided dimple. He really is a magnificent-looking man, and he could easily render a simpler woman unconscious to her own thoughts. “The zip line will be closed by then. They have to get ready for the Water Lilies show.”

  The Water Lilies show is where women like Jake’s new wife hang from the rafters by scarves and dive into the pool. Esther Williams meets Cirque du Soleil. Not surprisingly, it’s not on my list of things to do.

  “You may as well get one of the good costumes early,” Brent says.

  “Is this a joke? No one said anything about a costume ball.”

  “It was in your pamphlet. It’s most likely in your contract as well. They usually require the entertainment to show up.”

  “I didn’t get a pamphlet. I didn’t get a contract. I got dragged, remember?”

  He looks me up and down. “Did you even dress up for spirit day when you were a kid?”

  I shake my head, wondering how it’s so obvious to him that I didn’t have a normal upbringing where I got to wear costumes. Do I have some sort of sign on my back? “Freak of nature?”

  “What about Halloween?” he asks.

  “My parents didn’t allow it. They said to put childish things away if I wanted to be a doctor. While the other kids were out trick-or-treating, my mother said I was gaining brain cells and one day I’d see the benefits.” I’m still waiting.

  “All right, then. You realize that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard—it’s like homeless-dog sad. No church festival or anything?”

  “My parents weren’t churchgoing people. They worship at the throne of intellectualism.”

  “Intell—what? Never mind.”

  We enter the costume boutique that seems strangely out of place alongside the electronic shops and duty-free jewelry stores. I’m met by a wearable coat of arms and a posh burgundy Victorian dress with an intricate cinched bodice and lace bell sleeves. I pick up the price tag—$1,260. I quickly drop the tag as if it’s on fire.

  We’re met by a tiny woman with dark hair and oversized, doll-like eyes. “May I help you?”

  I’m still recovering from the price tag and wondering who on earth has that kind of money to spend on a costume.

  “Yes, I’m looking for a princess gown,” Brent says.

  “A princess—no.” I press Brent’s animated hands to his sides. “No, we don’t want anything. Thank you.”

  “We do,” he says over me. “Who is your favorite princess? Don’t give me any sob story about how you never saw any princess movies.”

  “Duh. Belle. She’s the smart one who the entire village thinks is odd.”

  “Hmm.” He nods. “Nicely played.”

  To my horror, the salesgirl quickly produces a Belle costume, complete with a hoop skirt.

  “Oh, she doesn’t need the hoop. She needs to be active in it.”

  “I do?”

  “Can we get her size? She’ll take a tiara too. Put it on my tab.” He hands her his ship card.

  “Wait, no. Br
ent, I can get anything—”

  But he won’t take no for an answer. He’s like Kathleen, only with bigger biceps.

  The salesgirl takes me into the dressing room. I want to escape, but I’ve run enough.

  “This costume is lovely. You’ll be the Belle of the ball,” she says with a smile. As if she hasn’t told every other woman and child the exact same thing.

  “It’s beautiful, but it’s too much.”

  “Your man friend will pay.”

  My man friend?

  “No, no. I’ll pay. But I don’t think all this is necessary. It’s very elaborate.”

  She ignores me and zips me up. “Beautiful dress. Satin, silk, and crinoline. Very well made. Good quality.”

  “It’s $595!” I exclaim at the sight of the price tag.

  “It comes with slippers to match. Beautiful.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Your man friend will pay. Look, handmade taffeta roses.”

  How on earth do I get myself into these situations?

  “Oh, she’s going to be wearing it out,” Brent shouts into the dressing room. “Just put her things in a bag. She needs to have them cleaned.”

  “Yes, you do,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to say anything. You a smoker?”

  “No, I’m not a smoker.” I raise my voice. “Brent? This dress is very expensive, and I really have no use for it after this costume party. I think—”

  “You think constantly! Yes, I know. Just be quiet and let me see the gown.”

  “I look ludicrous.”

  “Don’t forget she needs a tiara!” he says.

  “Belle doesn’t wear a tiara. It’s part of the reason I like her. She dresses up to go to the library.”

  “She needs a tiara,” he repeats. “Every princess needs a tiara.”

  The salesgirl, Madge is her name, opens the door, and there’s a pedestal with a three-way mirror in front of it. “Wait here. I need to get you some slippers. Size seven?”

  I nod, too weary to battle a cruise-ship sales associate.

  Brent gasps. “You look amazing. Absolutely stunning.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is ridiculous.”

  “It was made for you. You have to have it.”

  “The gown has pantaloons underneath it, and I feel as if I’m wearing a diaper.” By his expression, I know that not everything needs to be said out loud.

  I step out of the dressing room in the off-the-shoulder yellow gown as if I’m going to a Civil War ball. Brent places the sparkling tiara on top of my head. “Why am I playing dress-up again?” I ask.

  “Because you, Dr. Maguire, need to loosen up.”

  “Can’t I loosen up without looking like I work in a theme park?”

  “You do look like that. Isn’t it awesome? When we go out on deck, every eye will turn to you. I want you to know what that feels like, because you’ve been hiding behind that librarian exterior for far too long.”

  My clothes are already in a bundle at the front desk. “Put these in a bag and save them for her,” he says to Madge. He grabs my silver ballet flats and hands them to me. “Let’s go. You might want these instead of those canary shoes.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not going to dress up like the Beast?”

  He pounds his chest like a gorilla and grunts, “I am the Beast!”

  “We have to pay. The last thing I need is to be thrown into the ship’s brig after the day I’ve had.”

  He grabs my hand. “We’re all good. It’s paid. Let’s go.”

  I look back at the counter. “No, I can’t let you—”

  But he drags me on before Madge can sell us yet another accessory.

  We take the elevator to the top deck of the ship. It’s open and breezy and sounds like a carnival. We find the snaking line to get secured in—it’s like we’ll be a sliding, shooting Christmas ornament across the ship’s open core.

  Little girls are gathering around me like pigs at mealtime and clutching at my legs. “Are you the real Belle?” one little redhead asks.

  The children seem to be part of a single parents’ group on the ship. They’ve been segregated, as if they’re not real singles but a special sort of single not good enough for the general population. That scenario seems utterly outdated, but I suppose if I had children, I’m not sure I’d want them around the speed dating or bikini contests either.

  I’m not sure what to say to the redheaded girl so that I don’t break her princess heart. My mother would have staunchly told her there was no such thing as a real Belle. It takes me some time to summon up a proper response so the girl doesn’t go crying to her mother and ask if there’s really a Santa Claus, or has her entire childhood been a lie?

  “No, I’m just dressed like Belle. She’s the smart princess.” I refrain from telling the girl she too can get her PhD. It seems inappropriate for the moment and frighteningly like something my mother would say.

  “You’re so pretty! Can I take my picture with you?” Her father is right beside her with a camera ready, so I grin while taking her hand.

  “Belle, Belle!” More young’uns start to squeal and attach themselves to me. I’m glad for the distraction and bend down to greet each one and take a picture for their parents.

  “You missed your calling. You should have worked at Disneyland,” Brent quips. Then he turns his wiles on the little girls. “You will grow up beautiful just like Belle, but we have to let her get on the zip line now. She has to practice her skills for when she gets home to the Beast.”

  “Her skills?” I arch a brow.

  “Listen, do you want to be a Disney princess and pose all night or ride this thing?”

  “Is that a trick question? Because I’d rather be a princess.”

  “You said you wanted to have fun. You’re not going to do that being fearful. Let’s go.” He pushes me forward to the line at the top of the ship. If I felt dizzier early, I’m downright discombobulated now.

  We move behind the guarded rails, safely away from my “fans,” and it’s now patently obvious how far up we are. I start to shake like a leaf, and soon I feel my teeth chattering. The line of people soars above the rest of the ship, and the zip line climbs even higher.

  The make-believe downtown feels miles beneath us, and the idea of going splat in front of a faux Banana Republic is not the way I pictured myself going out.

  “Wait a minute.” I grab the rails on each side of me and anchor myself so that no one can go around me. “This isn’t going to work.” I turn to Brent, but he’s stretched across the rails as well, so I can’t escape around him. “I’m wearing a dress. They can’t strap me into that contraption in this gown. We should come back tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe they have a clown costume at the shop.” Honestly, if a clown costume cost me thousands and I could get out of this harebrained stunt, I’d spend the money twofold. There is nothing like discovering that I don’t have an ounce of adventure in me while perched atop a giant cruise ship like a wayward seagull. It’s not an accident that I’ve spent my career cooped up in a lab, studying other people’s adventures.

  Brent appears fresh out of patience. “Your dress is complete with pantaloons. You couldn’t even give a Victorian gent a flash of shin in that getup. Think of the little girls down there waiting to see their heroine fly across the friendly sky. You have minions rooting for you.”

  “That’s what the Water Lilies are for. To dance across the sky and look pretty for their little fans.”

  Brent hasn’t seemed to notice the height. He’s too busy shooting the breeze with everyone in line as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Brent has the same easy way with people that Jake had, and I do admire that. Covet it. Being left an only child who spent most of her formative years in the library, I’m missing that life skill.

  As Brent mingles among the crowd, it reminds me how ill suited I am for a man like Sam Wellington. Why this makes me think of him, I h
ave no idea. But Sam probably expects his wife to host state dinners or the like. It could be easily argued that I’m ill suited for any man at this point, but maybe that’s why Sam’s kiss felt so magical. He was the forbidden fruit, and so naturally I was tempted.

  However, Brent is easy. Brent is fun. Brent will bring out the breezy Maggie, if there is such a person hiding underneath the cardigans. He is exactly what I need before I hit the ground running and try to get my life back. Fear rules me. It’s time to have a little faith.

  Brent is exchanging Snapchat codes with the guy behind us in line and takes a selfie with the guy’s date as if he’s some kind of rock star. I’m fixated on his idle chatter when suddenly we’re at the front of the line and perched on top of the ship.

  Some poor young grunt is trying to wrestle with my gown, and trust me, he doesn’t get paid enough for this. He stops and stares at me like, Does the sanitarium know you’ve been let out?

  “You go, Brent.”

  “No, no. Ladies first,” Brent says.

  My heart is pounding out of my chest. The warning sign says that the attraction is not for all guests. If you fear heights . . . I totally fear heights. If you fear a falling sensation . . . Who doesn’t? If you fear high speeds . . . Yeah, not a fan. If you have claustrophobia, do not participate. It also says if you have any physical or mental conditions that could be affected by this attraction, do not participate. I mean, where do I start?

  “I can’t do it.” I turn around, but the wall of people blocks my exit.

  “That five-year-old in front of you did just fine. Risk something for once in your life!” Brent is starting to sound like Kathleen. But he’s so right. Every time I’m given a chance to fly, I fold up my wings and hide away.

  The small Hispanic man messing with my dress looks confused, and I’m sidetracked by this poor guy and my yards of satin. I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m not in yoga shorts like everyone else on this infernal ride. To avoid getting a TSA-type pat down, I fold my dress into a diaper shape and tuck the skirt into the sash so it’s sticking out like a pool noodle—a natural barrier of crazy to keep most anyone away.

  The guy straps me in while another man in sailor gear gives me convoluted directions. My Belle dress is now a big yellow diaper. The sailor removes my tiara and slides a helmet on me. If I want to blend in, flying across the ship in a canary-yellow princess costume is questionable.