The Truth About Happily Ever After

Huh.

  Not very hedgehoggy.

  Miller appears inside just as I’m finishing.

  I walk over to him slowly and give him a big hug. “This was the best night I’ve had in two weeks,” I tell him. I squeeze his shoulder. “Thanks for that.”

  His face remains serious. “Well, I’ve known you for a long time. And you deserve to smile.”

  And I am smiling as I leave his apartment.

  I’m smiling enough to stop at CVS and buy a touch-up kit for my roots and a clay mask treatment for my face so my pores will look as small as possible at look-overs tomorrow.

  It’s time to start picking myself up, time to get back in princess shape.

  After the meal at Miller’s apartment, I actually have the energy to start thinking about making that happen.

  chapter 15

  I sleep with a plastic whitening tray in my mouth and an avocado green clay mask on my face, crossing my fingers that the building doesn’t catch fire in the middle of the night, forcing a group evacuation with me looking like a monster. Then, the next morning at eight o’clock sharp, I throw my shoulders back and stride into the HR office with a pretend confident smile on my face.

  I’m disheartened when Diana does a very obvious double take when she glances up from her computer, her brow furrowing, mouth agape.

  My own smile wavers.

  “Sorry … good morning, Alyssa.” She stands, takes a hurried gulp of her coffee, and waves her hand. “Don’t mind me; it’s been a morning. I had to let Vivienne go.” She rolls her eyes heavenward. “A nose ring! A nose ring! Please tell me”—Diana walks toward me, iPad in hand—“what self-respecting Ice Queen has a nose ring?”

  It’s kind of her, trying to cover her initial reaction, but I know. I’m definitely not “first chair” these days.

  She barely meets my eye as she snaps the pictures and records all the numbers. It’s such a crappy feeling, taking data on all of it, having my hard times calculated, captured, and recorded on various devices. Look-overs feel brutal in a way they haven’t before, and I find myself engaging in this visualization exercise where I’m back on Miller’s patio, having whipped cream sprayed into my mouth.

  When she’s done, Diana sets the iPad down and removes her glasses. She looks me in the eye. “Sweetheart, you okay?”

  “I’m okay.” I stand up straight and try to keep any internal pain from reflecting in my eyes as I meet her gaze. “I promise.”

  Please don’t take this away from me. I can’t lose this, too.

  She hems and haws. Then, “Okay. I’m clearing you.” Diana flashes a small, sad smile. “But go and eat a sundae when you’re done today, okay? You’re withering away.”

  If only it were that simple.

  Before she can change her mind, I thank her, collect my things in a hurry, and fly out of the HR office.

  * * *

  AS I CHANGE into costume and get into character, I give myself a mental pep talk. I know I passed look-overs only by a hope and a prayer, and I have meet-and-greets on the balcony next. Wow them, I say as I secure my hairpiece. You need to knock this out of the park. It’s not just about convincing HR, but convincing myself, that I haven’t lost my touch.

  Balcony meet-and-greets are a big deal. More than at any other post, your stats on how many guests you greet are critical, and more than that, it’s a super big-deal part of a lot of little girls’ visits. Many of the princesses, they’re easy to come by, more visible, public personas in the park. Cinderella is “the” coveted meet-and-greet, and even though there are stomach-dropping roller coasters and dazzling shows with two-hour waits, a lot of parents use Line Jumper credits to avoid waiting in line on the balcony of the Palace.

  It’s time to step it up. Hopefully, high numbers and maybe even a few glowing guest reports shared via the computer system at the exit gates will put Diana’s mind at ease.

  I dress in the basement of the Palace, and then take a dark, hidden stairwell up several flights to the balcony. Cinderella’s throne is on the left side; a second purple velvet divan is on the right side. Cinderella is a constant for balcony meet-and-greets, but a second princess is always present, so guests who endure the wait get two princesses for one. The other princess varies day to day and could be anyone from Sleeping Beauty to the Frog Princess to …

  I push open the balcony doors and step outside. My stomach falls to my feet.

  Shit … shit … shit …

  … to Beauty.

  She’s standing in front of the divan, arranging her dress so it lies prettily when she sits down, but she freezes, hovering halfway to her seat, when she sees me, eyes turning panicked.

  I freeze as well, muscles turning to lead, unable to take a single step forward as I stare back at her.

  I was so busy worrying about look-overs, I’d forgotten that Monday was the start of a new week, meaning new schedules were posted. I’d forgotten what else I was supposed to be worrying about. Now it’s too late, and it looks like today I’ll be costarring with none other than Harper.

  She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I stare back at her evenly, and beneath her thick, creamy foundation, I see her go pale. But Harper doesn’t look away, I’ll give her that much. Guess she has more of a backbone than Jake does. She lifts her skirt, marches right over to me, and stands before me. “I have something to say to you,” she begins determinedly.

  I look at her one second longer. I remember how alone she seemed that first night I met her, when she’d been in Florida only for days, when she’d teared up in the girls’ apartment.

  I felt sorry for you, I think to myself, feeling the lump rise in my throat at my own foolishness. I hated the idea of you feeling alone.

  I can’t do this right now. I need to focus. And right now, it would be a helluva lot easier to be Cinderella than to be Alyssa, anyway. Noticing the attendants unhooking the velvet ropes, glimpsing the first set of eager faces behind the glass doors, I shake my head. “No, you don’t,” I whisper, plastering a sweet smile on my face before visitors catch any other type of expression lingering there.

  The attendants open the doors, and a group of tentative little girls, many of whom cling to their parents’ arms, wearing Enchanted tiaras, step forward. “Good morning, darlings!” I call brightly, focusing on them, offering my warmest smile.

  Princesses are pretty and lovely, yes. But more important, princesses have dignity. Princesses are resilient.

  Harper may have taken one love from me, but no way I’ll let her take another. I will not let her ruin this.

  So I tune her out, putting 110 percent of my heart into talking to each of my little visitors, asking them questions beyond the perfunctory ones, complimenting their smiles, their manners, their humor. I’m direct and efficient, mindful that there are other, just as eager, children in line behind them, mindful it’s part of my job to please everyone. I give good hugs, worrying little about germs or sticky hands or random goo that goes with the territory.

  And for a few minutes, I get to forget about her.

  But at the end of the first session, we’re required to come together, to pose as a pair with the group, to put our arms around each other’s waists and smile.

  A little blonde turns and looks up. She’s missing her front teeth and has a sunburned nose. “I think you’re the prettiest,” she says.

  “No, I think Belle’s the prettiest,” her sister, a brunette, chimes in.

  “Yeah, Belle’s prettier!” a chorus agrees.

  “Cinderella!” another protests.

  The photographer is snapping away, my body is pressed against Harper’s, and … I want to be just about any other place in the world at that moment.

  Stay in character, I coach myself.

  “Beauty shines from the inside out,” I remind the gaggle at my feet. “And every little girl has her own beauty that comes from her heart. It doesn’t look the same, and it’s certainly not a contest.”

  I squeeze the little blond girl
’s shoulder.

  And I’m pretty sure I hear Harper exhale a trembling breath beside me.

  I look at the camera and smile.

  The group photo wraps, we wave madly at the girls as they’re ushered back inside, and for a five-minute break, we find ourselves alone on the balcony. I retreat to my throne, as far from her as I can get on a stone ledge several stories above the ground. But I swear from the corner of my eye, I see her wiping swiftly at hers.

  “Was that a dig?” she whisper calls to me.

  My head whips around. “What?”

  “Beauty shines from the inside out,” she repeats. She swallows hard again. “I’m not a bad person, Alyssa. We’re not bad people.”

  It takes a minute to register. “That wasn’t about you. I wasn’t being snarky. I was just telling those little girls the truth.” I look away again.

  But the attendants have stepped around the corner to take their break, and since I’m not Rapunzel and don’t have yards of hair to toss over the edge and climb down, I can’t escape her voice, even though I’m turned away from her.

  And Harper is insistent on being heard.

  “We were on the same flight down,” she says. “Our seats were in the same row.”

  My head snaps up before I can stop it.

  Then, I consider in retrospect. And in retrospect, I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s like looking at the lid of a puzzle and suddenly having it make so much more sense how the pieces sitting in a useless pile fit together. When he arrived at my apartment, Jake was superdistracted and said something about “we” when telling me about the taxi ride. The very first time I met Harper, Chrissi mentioned “this guy” Harper met on the way down. And then there was the way both of them had acted when they came face-to-face with each other during their supposed introduction.

  “We just … we had this really intense conversation. It felt like we’d known each other forever. I was feeling really emotional about some family issues, and I just felt like … I don’t know, like he had been put there.”

  Something else occurs to me. My lips fall apart, and I say it out loud. “He didn’t tell you about me. He didn’t tell you he had a girlfriend.”

  “No. He didn’t. Not when we talked, not when he … kissed me.”

  I’m too stunned to speak, and Harper seizes the opportunity to continue.

  “Then I met you, and of course found out he did very much have a girlfriend, and I … liked you so much. Like you so much. He’d obviously lied to me, was a total jerk, and I had no interest in ever seeing him again.”

  So what changed? I can’t help but wonder.

  She’s quiet for a few seconds. “But then I did. See him again. And again. We kept running into each other, even though I was trying to keep my distance. We kept finding ourselves in these bizarre situations. Like when I passed out, and another time when we ran into each other in the grocery store, and it was like … I don’t know … fate.”

  I cringe at the word.

  “We’re both from Philly. We had all these connections. We talked like we’d known each other forever. It was impossible to keep believing he was a jerk, no matter how hard I tried. That connection, the one neither of us really wanted, was still there.” Harper pauses. “So we decided, why not be friends? That we could try to be friends. And no one would get hurt. I even tried dating Kellen, hoping something, anything, would help.”

  All of this was going on behind my back. No wonder Jake was always so distracted. No wonder Harper was so hesitant around me.

  “But. That night we all ended up out together, at the restaurant. It was like … something was being thrown in our faces. Something we couldn’t ignore. Like we were being told we had to step up and face the truth, even if people would end up getting hurt. Because this was supposed to happen.”

  The attendants reappear at the same time I feel my fingernails digging into my skin. I rise, for a second time pushing my own feelings way deep down beneath the surface so I don’t hurt the feelings of these little people who have waited so long to get up here.

  “None of this was supposed to happen,” I reply, and then put my smile back into place. “Things like this are not supposed to happen.”

  I never want them to leave, that second group. I want to sit with them at my feet, commenting, “Oh my, you have the brightest smile I’ve seen all day!” and “You’ve traveled all the way from Belgium! How delightful!” I feel bolstered with the little girls at my feet. I envy their innocence; I want to soak it up as long as I can.

  The second group photo is no easier than the first, especially when some dad, who clearly thinks he’s being really clever, calls out, “Two princesses. Hey. You two ever fight over that one Prince Charming dude?”

  I put my hand on my hip and wag a finger at him. “Princesses never quarrel,” I quip.

  When they depart, desperate to avoid further one-on-one conversation with Harper, it’s me who walks around the corner this time, hoping I’m making my point clear, that I don’t want to hear any more.

  But she follows me, speaking to my back, apparently insisting on getting it all out to her satisfaction. Which is really rather selfish, I think.

  “I have one last thing to say, and then I’ll be done with it,” she promises. I hear her inhale a long stream of air through her nose. “If I could’ve controlled things, none of this would have ever happened.”

  I grit my teeth and wrap my hands around the stone railing. More “beyond their control.” More “fate.” Blah, blah, blah.

  “But I am sorry that it did, that this aspect of my life caused someone else pain.” She’s quiet when she speaks again, the tears in her voice evident. “I know what it feels like to hurt. I know what loss feels like. And I am so, so sorry that this thing inflicted that pain on someone else.” She takes a minute to steady herself before finishing. “You were my friend. Without hesitation. Without expecting anything in return. And I am so sad that I hurt you.”

  My lips start trembling despite how hard I’m working to control them. I feel the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. I swallow and swallow and swallow, until they recede.

  I never thought there was anything she could say to make me soften.

  She is being so honest, and her apology actually sounds more heartfelt than anything Jake offered me.

  She is on point. She is saying sorry in the right way. And it’s hard to hate her, to fully fault her, in that instant.

  I glance over my shoulder, almost ready to look at her.

  But then she goes and says it.

  “I so didn’t want any of this, Alyssa. I didn’t want a boy; I didn’t want a relationship. The last thing I was looking for was some big dramatic love story.” She sighs and her shoulders fall. “All I wanted was to get away,” she explains wearily.

  Her words flip a switch inside my heart. As quickly as I felt myself softening, I feel myself turning bitter again.

  She got my fairy tale. She got my fairy tale … and she doesn’t even want it.

  The least she could do is want it. If she was going to go ahead and take it, if all along he was meant to be hers more than mine, the least she could do is want it!

  I turn my back again.

  “I’m sorry,” I hear myself calling to her, my voice cold. “But I can’t accept your apology. So please … just stop. Just stop and let me get back to work.”

  It’s not like me to say something like that. It’s not like me to feel it. Beginning-of-summer Alyssa always accepted apologies. It’s called having grace. It’s the princess way.

  But she didn’t even want it.

  She acts like this is a burden. To her.

  The idea makes me so angry, I can’t bring myself to look her in the eye and feign forgiveness. Right now, I just can’t.

  And even though I’ve always meant every word I’ve said to little girls about extending a hand to one another and always showing kindness, I brush past Harper, leaving her to collect herself, by herself, in time for
our third group’s arrival.

  Her attempt at an apology has done nothing to mend any fences, but at least I have my answers. At least I don’t have to devote any more attention to wondering. She told me the story, and now I can close the book on both of them.

  chapter 16

  I’m not really sure what possesses me to step into the boxing room at the gym. I don’t know what the room is really called, but that’s what I call it, the small exercise studio with red matted floors and retractable rows of long, narrow punching bags hanging from the ceiling. Maybe I’m driven by some lingering resentment from my run-in with Harper. Maybe I’ve been listening to too much angry rap music.

  Whatever the reason, I find myself walking in, the room empty, its lights still off. My motion activates them, and the space is immediately bathed in bright light. I slowly turn in a circle, taking it all in—the mirrors, all that red and black equipment I’m unfamiliar with, the chains hanging from the ceiling. It feels like I’m in a room designed for torture more than anything else.

  But I don’t leave. Because I’m overcome by my desire to punch one of those big bags. Hard.

  Taking a quick look over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, I stride over to the bag at the end of the row. I curl my hand into a fist, thinking it’ll be just like the movies, satisfying and gratifying and effortless. My hand meets the bag with a dull thud, and I wince, the word ow forming silently on my lips. Yeah, it’s not like that at all. It’s like punching a brick wall, and it hurts. Pain vibrates through my fingers and into my wrist. And the damn thing doesn’t even budge.

  I shake my hand out and try again. And again, and again, and again. There’s a burgeoning frustration in my gut that’s fueling my punches, despite the pain, but no matter how hard I hit it, the bag won’t move.

  The frustration turns to anger. It’s making me mad, that I have no power or control over this stupid inanimate object, that no matter how hard I try I can’t make anything happen, and before I realize what’s happening, I’ve resorted to wrapping my arms around it, pressing my forehead against the foul-smelling rubber, and pounding the crap out of it in small little bursts from both fists while grunting and cursing.