The Truth About Happily Ever After

  But Jake rolls over, back toward the wall. “I’m tired. I’m not really in the mood.”

  Abruptly, my throat constricts with the feeling of tears. “Jake…,” I whisper. “I said I was sorry.”

  He doesn’t respond for a minute, but then, with a heavy sigh, eventually rolls onto his back. He extends his arm and lets me lie down upon his chest. I try to relax against him, but his body feels tense and unyielding.

  Nobody says anything for a while; we just lie there in the darkness, and eventually I wonder if he’s gone back to sleep. But then I hear him. He’s barely louder than a whisper, and I question if his words are even meant for me to hear. “I guess it’s one of the best things about you, how you always try to look on the bright side, hope for the best. But sometimes … I wonder if you’re doing more than looking at reality with a blind eye.”

  His words take my breath away. I’m overcome with a sick sense of dread.

  Why didn’t I just stay awake? I think, tears pricking my eyes. This night would have turned out good. Perfect, even.

  I lie there, still as stone, until he falls asleep for real.

  I know there’s no way I’m going to sleep, though. When I hear him snoring again, I lift my side of the comforter and slide out of the bed. I go back to the bathroom, flip on the light, and regard myself critically in the full-length mirror. I spend the next I-don’t-know-how-many minutes, hours even, inspecting my flaws, wondering exactly how unattractive he finds me to turn me away like he did.

  chapter 8

  Oh. My. God. I think to myself. This is the longest parade of my life. And by far the worst.

  As if to punctuate this conclusion, I watch as one of the eight mechanical arms of the Spellbinding Spider, perched atop the float between mine and Harper’s, grabs hold of the top of her hair one more time and gives it a crude yank before retracting. I can’t tell if its pincer is closing around her wig or her real hair, but if it’s her real hair … girl’s going to have a legit bald spot by the time the route wraps.

  If it were funny, which it’s not, today’s afternoon parade would be a comedy of errors. They’re all rooted in some computer glitch that has our individual floats out of sync, starting and stopping in random, jerking motions. Because the timing’s all off, the spider is descending when the Beauty and the Beast platform is closer than it should be and Harper has no way to escape its claw.

  Poor girl, I think. I’m pretty sure this is only her second time doing the parade. It may be her last. She’s probably wishing she was back in fur!

  Not that things are all that ducky on my float, either. I’m trying to keep my distance from Josh, today’s Prince Charming, while still appearing lovestruck. But his ghostly skin and clammy hand announced his stomach bug even before he did. He keeps being jostled against me, though, because our platform seems to be lurching the worst.

  I close my eyes momentarily, envisioning a bathtub full of Purell.

  We stop at a corner, allowing some of the fur characters to hop off the cars and dance in the street to the park’s theme song. But our car continues to gyrate, and I suddenly realize that the float isn’t the only thing heaving uncontrollably. Josh is bent over, and the second we start moving again and our float is angled away from the crowds, he empties the contents of his stomach … right into the folds of my shimmering gold gown.

  It’s not so much the sight of his puke, or even the wretched smell of it, as the sound of his retching that instantly has me nauseous.

  But we’re coming up on the main corridor now, the homestretch of the parade, so I do the only thing I can think to do to survive. I plaster a huge grin on my face and rearrange the folds of my dress to hide the pile of vomit. “Stand up!” I hiss to Josh.

  If he hadn’t thrown up on me, I might be feeling more sympathetic. And we have an Enchanted Moments parade to finish here.

  Twelve endless minutes later, Harper, Helena—one of the twelve dancing princesses, and I crack up as we stumble toward the dressing rooms.

  “That was such a complete disaster,” Harper declares, yanking off her ruined hairpiece and feeling around for patches of exposed scalp. “If I wasn’t laughing right now, I’d be crying.”

  “Hashtag, epic Enchanted fail,” Helena agrees. “If anyone was taking video, it’s going viral tonight. Worst parade ever.”

  I blanch as I stare down at my costume in disgust. “Yeah, I’m not even asking for permission. I’m burning this dress.”

  “Someone’s getting fired tonight, mark my words,” Helena predicts. “Mistakes like that don’t fly at Enchanted Enterprises.”

  “And they shouldn’t,” I say. “We’re better than that.”

  We duck into our individual stalls and change in record speed. When we emerge, Helena, a smoker, holds her lighter to the hem of my soiled, smelly dress.

  “Guess I can’t really get away with it,” I sigh, then forcefully toss the dress into the laundry chute.

  “So much for the glamorous princess life.” As Harper ties her hair back from her face, she asks, “Who thinks we deserve Ben & Jerry’s? And I’m not talking sorbet, I’m not talking Greek frozen yogurt, I’m talking Chubby Hubby with whipped cream and hot fudge. And gummy bears.”

  Helena grimaces. “Sadly, I’m working tonight, too. I’m afraid if I leave the park at this point, I won’t be able to make myself come back.”

  Harper turns in my direction.

  “I have to work out,” I respond automatically. And to be honest, after so many margaritas at El Barrio over the weekend, I can’t really afford a trip to Ben & Jerry’s. Calorie-wise, I mean.

  “Didn’t you say you went to the gym this morning?” Helena asks.

  “I did. But I do yoga three nights a week. Tonight’s one of those nights.”

  “So skip.” Helena shrugs. “Go get ice cream. You deserve it.”

  “I can’t.” I press my lips together. She makes it sound so easy. “You skip once, then you skip twice, then you’ve skipped for weeks, and then suddenly you’re not passing look-overs.”

  Helena rolls her eyes. “Give me a break,” she mutters.

  It’s always been my opinion that Helena views this job as a joke. So I have no problem answering what feels like an insult. Or ridicule. “You don’t have to judge me because I take this job seriously,” I tell her, hoping my tone doesn’t sound snarky. “That I take the responsibility seriously. Actresses, newscasters, models … lots of people have jobs where working out regularly is part of the package. We happen to be some of those people.”

  Helena digs around in her bag for her Parliament Lights. There are no-smoking areas nearby, so I get the sense she’s doing it just to mock my devotion to Princess protocol. “Whatever. If it’s that big of a deal to you.” She shrugs. “After today? Me? I’d go for ice cream. But I gotta go. I want to grab something to eat before I’m due back.” She gives us both a quick hug and dashes up the steps.

  Harper is still standing there, a rather uncomfortable-looking bystander. She’d probably side with Helena.

  “Honestly, the puke sort of killed my appetite, anyway. And I actually just really like this class,” I say as means of further explanation. Then I consider. “Hey, why don’t you come with me instead? It’s an amazing class. The instructor uses all these fabulous beach images projected onto the ceiling and has the coolest playlists I’ve ever heard. And trust me; it’s actually a much better way to forget about this afternoon than gorging on ice cream. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow at any rate.”

  Harper’s enthusiasm is underwhelming. “I haven’t really done too much yoga. Just a few Pilates classes.”

  “It’s a beginners’ class,” I assure her. “Mostly for relaxation.” I crack my neck, producing a horrid sound. “I really need to relax.”

  I haven’t been able to, fully, not since Saturday night. I still feel bad about what happened, and although Jake doesn’t seem angry anymore, I still have this feeling, like, I bombed a major test. I’ve been trying not t
o think about it.

  Harper still looks like she wants to flee. But apparently I’m applying enough pressure, because as I continue to stand there and stare hopefully at her, she caves. Plus, she knows I know she doesn’t have other plans. “Um, okay. Guess I’ll give it a try.”

  Side by side, we walk toward the park’s exit, eager to leave this particular day behind us.

  * * *

  I’M GLAD SHE’S coming with me, I think, as we climb aboard the Lakeside shuttle and sit down together. When I’m avoiding thoughts I don’t want to think, distractions are good. Harper fills me in on how her first show performance went. She gets a little misty-eyed as she recalls a favorite memory from the park with her father, making me think her need to get away this summer has something to do with him. She looks at her phone and groans, explaining that she made the mistake of giving Kellen her number and he’s been texting frequently since.

  “He basically makes a point of harassing every new princess,” I tell her. “D’you know he plays the Jackal? It’s like he’s really into method or something.”

  We giggle, and I think we’re both doing a decent job of perking back up after the workday.

  And then she goes and says the one thing that ruins my mood more succinctly than Josh’s vomit did. She morphs from distraction to anything but.

  “So when Jake and I were eating lunch yesterday, he told me…”

  I’m too jolted, too upset, to hear exactly what he told her. I’m pretty sure it was something random and innocuous, but the way she begins her sentence leaves me too dizzy to process.

  “You had lunch with Jake yesterday?” I interrupt her.

  I guess this is one time when I fail at keeping my emotions off my face, because hers goes sort of pale when she realizes the impact of her words.

  “Yeah, I mean … no, we didn’t have lunch together. I mean, we were in the cafeteria at the same time, and I just ended up talking to him for a few minutes. Filling him in on my trip to the ER. It wasn’t … it was totally random, and—”

  I wave my hand to cut her off and put on a smile so big it actually makes my cheeks hurt. “No, you don’t have to explain!” I laugh. A long time. “It’s totally cool that you guys had lunch. Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh … okay,” she stumbles, finding her own hesitant smile.

  She returns to the story. I still don’t catch a word of it.

  Why wouldn’t they have lunch together? Why wouldn’t they? After all, I’ve had lunch with countless male cast members during my time at the park, and I’m not the kind of girl who gets worked up every time my boyfriend talks to another girl. I mean, we have a long distance relationship. If I didn’t trust him, we wouldn’t still be together right now, right?

  But … he didn’t tell me.

  We had dinner together last night, we talked extensively about our days, and he didn’t tell me. He didn’t mention Harper at all.

  I stand up before the shuttle even comes to a complete stop, suddenly desperate to get off this bus and into class. Where there won’t be any more conversation.

  This will help, I think, moments later in the Mind and Body Studio as I sit down upon my monogrammed mat—a gift from Blake—and fold my legs into lotus position. Yoga is all about restoring balance, and inner peace, and positivity. It’s one of the things I like about it. The actual process may be kind of miserable, but you can pretty much guarantee you will walk out the door feeling better than you did when you walked in. And that’s very cool to me. I would really like to walk out the door feeling better than I did when I walked in.

  Just before our instructor dims the lights, Camila enters the studio and settles into the empty spot to my right. She’s a regular, but from experience I know she’s not here to socialize. She seems to take her practice very seriously. Her focus and precision are impressive. I give her a quick smile, and she merely nods in acknowledgment, her face stoic.

  Right, I think, drawing my hands together in front of my heart. Time to get down to business.

  But class starts off on an ironically bad note. The second song of the playlist is obscure, one you rarely hear on the radio, a bit outdated. It was a song Jake introduced me to, one he’d insisted I listen to on one of his earbuds when I ran into him taking a walk last summer. He’d watched my face while I’d listened, and then kissed me for the first time at whatever he saw reflected upon it, apparently.

  “This Year’s Love” by David Gray.

  The words had held so much meaning in those seconds before our first kiss. “This year’s love had better last…”

  The song had instantly broken my heart, how it held so much hope and so much fear, even in the middle of an extremely happy moment. Tonight … it flat-out destroys it.

  I try, I really do, struggling to concentrate, to “let my mind go blank” as we’re instructed, but for the entirety of the class, my body refuses to comply with my attempts to contort it properly. I’m distracted and teary, and my limbs seem to sense it.

  Finally, just as I’ve almost toppled over for the seventeenth time, we’re allowed to lie in savasana, like corpses, for several minutes. Our instructor walks behind us, murmuring something about “the good in me honoring the good in you,” and after a few “namastes,” class is over. We’re encouraged to relax in savasana until we’re ready to leave, so I lie there for a few minutes, listening to the quiet chimes playing, telling myself I have to get it together before I stand up.

  I remain still, on my back, inhaling deep breaths, after everyone else has collected their belongings and left. The room has grown quiet, and through the windows I can tell that twilight has descended. I take a deep breath. Only good thoughts. I take another. Then, before I know what is happening, I feel my chest pulsating in some weird way and I’m pinching my eyes shut against the tears threatening my eyelids. A quiet, strangled gasp escapes.

  “Alyssa?” Harper calls. “Alyssa. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  I’d forgotten she was here. Not wanting her to see me like this, I curl into a fetal position, back to her. Away from her.

  “I’m okay,” I whisper, without looking at her. “I just … want to be alone.”

  She hesitates, lingers. But eventually I hear her gather her things. She stands up and returns her mat to the stack. Then she walks back one last time. “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll … see you later?” she says awkwardly.

  “See you later,” I repeat quietly. I close my eyes until I hear her feet all the way across the room, the door closing behind her. I keep my eyes shut, taking deep breaths, allowing a few silent tears to fall so I can get rid of them and be done with them.

  Ten minutes later, when I finally manage to pull myself together and sit back up, I practically jump in surprise when I realize Camila is still sitting beside me, gazing toward the front of the room. Her legs are still folded, and her palms sit atop her knees. She’s so quiet I didn’t even hear her breathing.

  I hastily wipe at one eye with the palm of my hand. “Oh wow. I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” she says evenly. “It’s just physiological. Practicing brings the physical and emotional together. Sometimes there’s a release.”

  “You’re probably right.” I try to smile. “I do tend to get emotional when I practice. It’s weird.” I try a little laugh. Then, staring out the windows, I exhale a big puff of air, feeling my entire body deflating. The words come out before I’m planning to let them. “Oh, who am I kidding? It’s … stuff. It’s boy stuff.”

  I groan. I really, really wanted to avoid all of this. I don’t really talk about boy problems. I don’t really talk about problems, period, as a rule. Talking about a problem does nothing to fix it, after all.

  But what Harper said … and that song …

  “I just can’t wrap my head around it,” I hear myself saying, “or my heart around it, and trying to put it into words…” I stop, then try again a minute l
ater. “Last summer, me and Jake just fit. We had … inside jokes, stupid nicknames for each other; a good night was just lying in bed watching stupid reruns.”

  My throat tightens. Ramen noodles spilled all over my comforter, routinely, and I didn’t care. We watched horrible reality TV on MTV, at first as a joke, but then later because we couldn’t stand to miss an episode, even if we wouldn’t admit it to each other. The memory makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.

  I glance over at Camila. “Have you had a serious boyfriend before?”

  “No.” Her back is stiff, her words immediate.

  I smile wistfully. “Well. That’s the good stuff. The nothing stuff … that’s actually the good stuff.”

  Blowing another lungful of air out my mouth, I keep going. “How can last year be so different from this year?” Tears prick my eyes again. I can’t believe I’m admitting this to anyone. To … myself. “I’m driving myself crazy, trying to figure it out, work it through, understand it. But there is no equation, no reason why things are off right now, and they are. He’s trying, God knows he’s trying, but I can tell. I can tell he’s trying.” One more tear falls. “And I know before he didn’t have to try, so it sucks.”

  I glance at Camila again. Her face suggests she’s struggling, and I have to chuckle. “I’m sorry. I’m probably completely ruining your Zen. I don’t know why I’m unloading all of this on you.”

  Maybe it’s partly because I trust that it won’t go anywhere. I’m sure Camila would never turn these hidden feelings of mine into gossip.

  Her lips are pursed. “I don’t mind you unloading on me, if that’s what you want to call it,” she answers. “We’re … friends.” Camila shakes her head. “I do, however, mind your completely narrow perspective on the status of your life at this point.”

  I do a double take.