As I walk out the door, I’m met by Sam in all his J.Crew glory. “Sam!” My mind searches for something meaningful to say so that I don’t spout off my own sad-sack story and scare him away—as I’ve just done to Brent. “I thought you went dancing with Haley.”
“This may surprise you, Dr. Maguire, but I’m not much of a dancer.”
“It does surprise me. I picture you putting Derek Hough to shame, and I’m sure you have some sequined pants somewhere in your suite.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
He leads me into the breezy hallway. “I need to tell you something. This doesn’t excuse my behavior when I first met you, but I hope it will at least offer some insight.” He takes my hands in his own. “My wife was an emergency room doctor.”
I focus solely on him and the information he’s trying to parcel out as soberly as possible. “She was smart.” I nod, finally understanding. And you lost her. Even though Sam is a completely rational human being, his emotions associate smart women with his life’s biggest loss. The human brain is so vastly complicated.
“She passed away after a forty-eight-hour shift. She took something at the hospital to stay awake when they had an influx of patients after a bad highway accident.”
I nod slowly.
“Apparently she had an underlying heart condition that was unknown to us, and she went into shock from the medication.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” I grasp his hands tightly, and our eyes lock. There’s so much pain in his beautiful gaze, and I want to kiss him tenderly until the pain goes to the far recesses of his thoughts. My own eyes fill with tears as his relate the depth of loss. I’ve been there. I understand, and I want to tell him so. When Amy died, all I wanted to do was take her place. Being left alone on the planet felt like a huge mistake on God’s part. Is that why Sam and I seemed to sense each other’s innermost feelings so early after meeting? The pain of my own loss bubbles up and I want to tell him the truth. The whole truth. Not the mask that I’ve worn for so many years.
“Nothing was ever good enough for my wife,” Sam goes on. “It was what I loved about her and also what drove me crazy. She couldn’t leave her patients. No matter what her body told her, she kept forcing herself to go harder and faster. I couldn’t fix that in her and get her to live with margins. I couldn’t make it better. I guess that’s when faith became real to me. When I discovered any control I had was nothing but a mirage.”
My heart grieves with him. I can’t make things better either, and I know the kind of powerlessness he feels. It’s a despair straight to the depths of one’s soul, and yet God expects us to go on. “We don’t see trying to make things better as pride, but I suppose that’s what it is. We’re not God. We can’t fix everything.”
He stares off into the distance. “The day I met you in the lobby was the two-year anniversary of the day I lost her. My sister wanted me out of the house so that I wouldn’t ruminate. Something about you struck me the minute I saw you—well, your author picture, actually. Some similarity that I can’t pinpoint. It’s not looks. You don’t look anything like Isabella.”
“Isabella.” I say the beautiful name carefully and with the utmost respect. I don’t know what comes over me, but I wrap my arms around him and rest my ear against his chest. I listen to the steady beat of his heart. His arms embrace me tightly, and the music and chattering surrounding us fall away. I want to stay here forever, where the world is slow and steady and nothing comes between us.
He whispers in my ear, “I don’t know why you’re not motivated anymore to finish this contract, but I can’t fix that either.”
I pull back. “I don’t expect you to fix it. You’re not responsible for someone else’s happiness.”
“That”—he points at me—“is what I came to tell you. I didn’t know why I was dragged on this barge until I saw you. You be you, Dr. Maggie Maguire. Whatever that is. If it’s dangling in a princess costume, you do it. Life is short and this is the only one you’ve got. Jake was a fool, and it’s about time you realized that and let it go.”
“I do realize that.” I realized it the moment Sam kissed me and I felt passion like I’d never known in this lifetime—from a simple kiss.
“Your mother is diabolical, and none of that should matter to you making your dreams come true.”
“My mother wasn’t always like that, she—” For the first time in decades, I’m tempted to tell someone about my sister. About Amy. The name I couldn’t mention in my home any longer. The mere mention of her existence would destroy my parents, and I’d learned this truth early. I couldn’t bear to cause them any more pain, so I’d buckled and done what was expected of me. But I’m broken now. The secret is getting harder and harder to keep. It keeps rising up like a bobber in the water.
“Write the book, don’t write the book. I came to tell you that I expect nothing of you, other than you making yourself happy so you know the joy you write about. It’s not against the rules to make yourself happy. Fix your eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of your faith.”
Even without the Bible, I can tell Sam is a man of God. He has that assurance and kindness about him, even when speaking words that aren’t necessarily sprinkled with grace.
I suppose that’s why Sam confounds me. He’s lost what he loved too, but he hasn’t walked away from God or hidden his pain away like I have. Everything about Sam feels so authentic.
“No one is asking you to be a martyr. Anyway, I’m sorry I made you feel nervous or judged this afternoon. That wasn’t my intention. This is your life. Go and live it abundantly.” Sam turns on his heel.
“Wait, where are you going?”
But Sam just keeps walking away from me with that long, concentrated stride of his. How could he share such an intimate moment with me and express so eloquently what I felt in my heart, then simply walk away?
The data is starting to suggest that I repel people—especially if they’re of the male variety.
21
Happy people don’t tell everyone their dreams. They make them happen.
The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire
THE SUITE IS COMPLETELY EMPTY when I return from a busted night of fun. Haley and Kathleen are making the most of their free cruise and clearly dancing the night away, and I’m grateful for the alone time. Brent’s question, “What are you going to do about it?” haunts me. I pick up the brand-new MacBook and see my future as clearly as if Kathleen had made a prophecy. I’m going to finish what I started in these two months of my blissful sabbatical.
I want my happily ever after. And if God isn’t going to give it to me, I’m going to write it myself. The only thing that got more disdain than the television in my household when I was growing up was the forbidden romance novel. There’s a wee bit of rebellion in my latest idea.
As my fingers touch the keyboard and I look over my PowerPoint for my speech, my mind flutters back to Sam’s kiss, his embrace, and his departure for the bluer waters of Haley Adams. In my story, the nerd girl wins, not the pretty girl who bats her eyelashes at a fella. That is so cliché, so easy. But a hero who sweeps a girl out of the lab and off her feet, who whisks her past her condescending parents? That’s the real hero. That’s what future happily ever afters need on their channels: proof that occasionally the intellectual girl meets her hero and the pretty girl runs along and waits for the next ship to come by.
I only have this one life. I’ve given enough of it to my parents’ dream for me and I’ve succeeded. Or have I? I’ve made someone else’s fantasy come to life while I remain wholly unfulfilled.
I open Dropbox to find my screenplay I’ve been working on for the last two months. Now that I’ve met Sam Wellington and Brent Spoils, I know exactly what’s missing from it.
No one can write my story but me. And it’s time to write my happy ending. Sure, I’m a weirdo. What data jockey isn’t? But Anichka is a weirdo too. She hangs from scarves for a living. I could argue that isn�
��t even a real job and that her weirdness factor is off the charts. The only way she gets away with her brand of oddball is by being beautiful. In today’s age, that seems wrong, harkening back to a time when a husband gave more cows for a gorgeous wife.
Beauty wipes out a lot of oddball, and it seems wholly unfair. Like life is stacked against you. I try to reason that Anichka’s life isn’t actually such a blessing. I mean, after all, I’d escaped Jake. She’s stuck with him. Who really won in that scenario?
The program I wrote my books in has an option for screenplays. I refresh my Dropbox account and open it to the beginning of my story. The happy ending I’ve always wanted feels something like being alone on a deck in the sea breeze with a man who makes me feel like Sam does. Valued, cherished, and worth listening to, not because of my intellect or data, but because I exist. Now I know what to write.
THE SCIENCE OF LOVE
Maggie K. Maguire, PhD
Draft
FADE IN
INT. UNIVERSITY LAB—DAY
Seven rows of white tables, each with a computer, are featured with a shaft of morning sunlight streaming through the wall of windows. Several people in lab coats are reading from their computers.
DRIFT OVER to white room with focus group answering questions. DRIFT to a scuffed-up desk separated from the rest, where a kitten calendar and several binders are lined up haphazardly against the wall. PAN to a mess of scribbled notes on the desk. The desk cannot be seen under the mess.
Groans emerge and hands riffle through the papers on the desk.
CLEMENTINE
Where is it? It has to be here!
She swipes her arm across the desk and clears everything onto the floor. DRIFT to floor and loose papers surrounding the desk. Hushed lab comes alive as people begin to chatter nervously.
INT. LAB MANAGER’S OFFICE
Strange sounds emerge from under the desk, then two hands appear, plastered to the carpet. Out crawls Clementine, her makeup askew, her shirt wrinkled, and her overall look disheveled.
CLEMENTINE
I thought I’d met someone and this would be my last submission to the Psych Journal. But the love of my life has left and everything is gone! Gone! My work . . .
As I read over my screenplay and say the dialogue out loud, I’m annoyed by the trill of my cell phone. The work emboldens me. When I see it’s my boss, I don’t panic or ignore the call. I answer it as though I’m back to being an actual adult. “Dr. Maggie Maguire speaking.”
“Dr. Maguire, it’s Dr. Fleece. It’s so nice of you to pick up the phone.”
I don’t bother to give an excuse.
“I suppose you know why I’m calling.”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“All of the department heads are here with me now. So you’re on speakerphone. This was a good day for you to pick up our call. I’ve been holding off on a decision until we reached you. If we didn’t today, we were going to have to take steps toward your removal.”
“Hello, everyone. I miss you.”
There are a few unintelligible murmurs, as if no one wants to claim to miss me—in case I’m on the chopping block.
Dr. Fleece continues in her lecture mode, void of any human feelings. “As you know, Dr. Maguire, Jake Stone has been suspended from our department pending a police investigation into why he used your credentials to gain access to the physics department.”
I have no idea what Jake would want with the physics department. Does he even know what physics is? Other than the invisible law of motion that keeps his new wife twirling in the air?
“It’s come to our attention that your sabbatical, which was very ill timed indeed, may be part of this illegal scenario. The department suggests that you too be suspended from your position until the investigation is complete. I had defended you until your recent lack of concern over this matter.”
“In my defense, I’m on a cruise ship.” As soon as I say it, I realize how dumb it sounds. I’m sunning myself on the deck of a singles’ cruise—you get the picture.
“Now is not the time, Dr. Maguire.”
“I understand.” But I don’t. I’ve never failed at anything in my life, and I’m being let go. Temporarily or permanently, it hardly matters. I hadn’t done my best and I deserve this, but some part of me must have wanted it, because I can’t bring myself to see it as anything but God’s will.
It’s appropriate that I’m at sea. My life is literally floating without a destination. Surprisingly, I don’t care as much as I probably should. I want to work on my screenplay. I want to finish something that has nothing to do with reading through data and reporting on other people’s happiness rather than finding my own.
“Please call me when you return to California so that we can discuss the investigation. I’m quite certain you’ll have phone calls waiting for you from the campus police department.”
“Thank you, Dr. Fleece. I know this has burdened you, and I’m sorry for that. When—” I stop and correct myself. “If you choose for me to return, I’ll do my utmost to finalize the grant and get the department the money it deserves.”
“Yes, Dr. Maguire, we are looking forward to your next book being as successful as the last. I’m sure your publicist passed that on for us.”
“Just in case you were wondering, there was a fire on board the ship, so my talk about the last book has been rescheduled. The ship seems genuinely excited to hear me speak, so I’ll be sure to put in a plug for the university.”
“Please don’t.”
I hear a few groans in the background and wonder which of my colleagues has turned on me without ample proof. You’d think a science department would look to the data rather than believe the first rumor of my career demise. Okay, maybe it’s the second rumor. I don’t think I got many brownie points for bringing Jake into the department.
“Like I said.” Dr. Fleece gives an exasperated sigh. “Call us when you return. We’ll look forward to discussing your future here at the university.” She clicks off the line.
There’s a flurry of chaos as the stateroom door opens to Haley and Kathleen giggling and shouting wildly. Both of them are carrying their shoes in their hands and dance into the room as if they’ve had too much to drink.
I slam my laptop shut. “Wow, sounds like a fun night. Have you two been drinking?”
“Of course not. This is what fun sounds like, Maggie. You should have some!” Kathleen shouts.
“Shh. You two must have blown your ears out in the dance hall.”
“You were working?” Haley runs over to me and slams herself onto the couch. “If you’re not going to take advantage of the cruise, that’s the best thing you could be doing. This speech is going to go so well, you’re going to—”
“Wait a minute.” Kathleen, ever the buzzkill, walks over to my computer. “Let me see what you’re doing.”
“I’m an adult, Kathleen. Are you really going to check my work like my mother used to do with my homework?”
“Listen, I know that people say they did fifteen reps with a weight set when they really did only five or so. People lie to protect themselves all the time. No judgment, I just want to see that you’ve got the files open to your data. Of if you’re scanning the Kardashians’ every move.”
“Yeah, I care what the Kardashians are up to.” I yank my computer tightly to my chest. “No. I don’t need to prove myself.”
“You spent two months on a couch,” Haley says. “I agree with Kathleen. I think you need to prove yourself.”
“You girls are my best friends. You don’t trust me?”
“In a word, no.” Kathleen wrestles the computer out of my hands and opens it. Unfortunately for me, it hasn’t been off long enough to need a password, and my screenplay in all its glory is open to page 83. “What is this?”
“Is that a screenplay?” Haley looks at me as if I’ve betrayed her last vestige of faith in me. “You’re writing a screenplay now? What’s next? Giving up real work for your art
?”
“I’m not giving up anything. Give me my computer back.” I take it from Kathleen. “I’ve been dismissed from my position at the university until the investigation into Jake is over. You both told me I needed a hobby. Well, I found one on my sofa.”
“What did Jake steal?”
“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me, but I’d guess he was stealing the copper wire they use for conductivity and selling it on the black market.”
“Take a picture of your sorry apartment. They’ll know you had nothing to do with it,” Kathleen says.
“I’m lucky they don’t put me on a sea plane and send me back tomorrow to answer questions. They did ask me not to mention the university in my speech.”
Kathleen and Haley exchange a glance.
“It will be fine,” I assure them.
“This is what you’ve been doing?” Haley asks. “Working on a screenplay? I knew you couldn’t just be watching those movies the whole time. I’ve never seen you sit still for longer than five minutes.”
“I watched a lot of movies. It was research. All those dog-eared novels I read as a kid came back to haunt me. I never knew screenwriting was an ambition until I stopped striving for five minutes.”
“If this is what you’re going to work on, I’m confiscating this computer.”
“Don’t be childish.” I feel my anxiety starting to rise as I think of my manuscript in the hands of others.
“This is a fine hobby. I’m glad you found yourself a hobby besides borrowing cats. This is a step in the right direction, but why can’t you work on the outline for your new book? Is it too much to ask that you actually do something for the jobs that pay you?”
“Hey, first of all, Neon loves me. I feed him fresh salmon. His owner buys that stuff off the highest grocery store shelves. Cheapest stuff you can buy. Then she leaves it outside for the raccoons to eat. Vile woman. The raccoons could attack Neon!”
“Well, we can be happy Maggie hasn’t started feeding the neighborhood raccoons,” Kathleen says sarcastically.
The Theory of Happily Ever After Page 23
