The Truth About Happily Ever After

by Karole Cozzo

  Last time, I paused midplaylist, so Ruff Ryders, specifically Eve, blasts into my ears. It’s so loud I’m a bit concerned, and embarrassed, that the girl next to me can hear the blaring gangsta rap, and I turn it down, just a bit.

  It was the only way I could get back to the gym: Googling breakup playlists and realizing that hard-core rap was the only thing that worked for me anymore. It’s ridiculous, I know. I’m this skinny, often-bedazzled princess, whose playlists these days just happen to include Lil’ Kim, Da Brat, and Nicki Minaj. The angrier the lyrics, the better. It makes me feel bolstered; I can pretend I’m tough, too. Strong. Bulletproof. I always leave the gym with a little more swagger than I walked in with. Who cares if right now it’s only an illusion?

  I stay on the elliptical a full hour, until my muscles feel weak and I’ve finished my thirty-two-ounce water bottle. Feeling dizzy and light-headed when I step off, I hold on to the handlebars for a few extra seconds before wiping down the machine and gathering my stuff. I want to collapse, but the music is still pounding in my ears, and it gives me enough energy to leave the main gym area.

  I see Miller again, waving, trying to catch my attention as he finishes a set, but I pretend I don’t. I crank the volume back up, stare into the space before me, and head out.

  Because it was drizzling when I left my apartment, I drove this morning, and I’m still mouthing the lyrics to “Another” by Notorious B.I.G. and Lil’ Kim as I cross the parking lot. The song is raunchy as hell and actually made me blush my first listen, but I’ve listened to it about sixty-five times since then and now know every word.

  It’s at the refrain between verses when I collapse into my front seat, so I plug my phone into the auxiliary jack and slam my door shut just in time for Lil’ Kim to start laying into her ex who cheated on her. I take a quick glance around the parking lot to make sure no one might be watching before jumping in. Her verse is almost a full two minutes, and I’m proud, and also highly embarrassed, to say I can rattle it off in its entirety without taking a breath.

  About a minute and a half later, I’m all in, hand motions and all, jerking my neck with an attitude, and proclaiming “I ain’t gonna keep puttin’ up with the bullshit” in my best Brooklyn accent … when I finally notice that someone’s tapping gently on my window.

  I realize it’s Miller’s face, right there, and I jump in my seat, yank the cable from my phone, and promptly blush a deep shade of crimson.

  I close my eyes for about twenty seconds, mortified, before I can bring myself to reach over and lower the window, just slightly, and finally make eye contact. And Miller, he looks waaay too happy about this. He’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, while still trying to choke back barely contained laughter.

  I put a hand up. “Don’t. Just don’t,” I beg him.

  But he does, anyway, twisting both hands up into some kind of approximation of gang symbols. “What up, gangstaaaaaa?”

  “I said don’t!” I cover my eyes with my hand.

  “I don’t know what you’re so embarrassed about,” he continues, leaning down, resting his elbows on the door frame so that he can harass me from even closer. “That was truly impressive. I didn’t know you had this talent. White girl rapper.”

  I glance at him, just for a second, then again. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

  “I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I am kind of appalled at the language.” He cocks his head. “Do you kiss Prince Charming with that mouth?”

  Damn it. A tiny smile escapes from my grasp. “I hate you,” I tell him. I actually laugh. “Damn you.”

  He’s watching me laugh and smile, and abruptly his face changes. The amusement drains from his eyes, and he’s studying me carefully. Miller looks down. “No, seriously, though.” He knocks gently against the side of my door, twice. “I’m not just here to give you shit. I did want to talk to you.” He inhales mightily, as if preparing to deliver a monologue or something. “Can you … ummm … step out for a minute?” He lifts his face toward the dreary sky. “It’s not raining right now.”

  I stare at him, curious. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever seen Miller look so serious, and what’s this about, anyway? “Umm … okay?” I finally agree.

  Slowly I open my car door and step out, immediately feeling the need to lean against it for support. I didn’t eat anything before coming here today. Then I look at Miller, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, face all hesitant and nervous looking as he stares down at the pavement. I offer a small smile in response to his awkwardness. “So what’s up? You look … concerned.”

  He lifts his face at once. “I am.”

  And then he doesn’t say anything else.

  “Okaaay. About…”

  Miller hems and haws for another minute, shifting back and forth on his feet. His sweatpants are a bit too long, probably because most sweatpants are too long for him, and the bottoms are frayed and now damp.

  “Don’t laugh at me, okay?” he starts quietly.

  My eyes widen. What the heck is this about? “I won’t,” I promise automatically.

  He rubs his beard, briskly, a few times before he works up the courage to spit it out. But he still can’t meet my eye and stares into the distance beyond my left shoulder instead. “You know how I was technically on the cheerleading squad at UD, right?”

  I nod slowly, utterly perplexed.

  “I spent a lot of time with those girls. And I started noticing some things that were pretty shitty.” He chews on the corner of his lip, his expression looking disturbed. “Every season, at least one girl, sometimes more, definitely had eating issues. And the sickest part about it? Was that some of the girls, the ones who actually ended up needing professional help or checking into treatment programs … I started to realize they had help all the way down. People, their closest friends, didn’t want to say anything.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Or worse. They actually encouraged it. Kept telling the girl how good she looked, even as she was fading away.”

  Finally Miller meets my eye. But I’m as confused as ever. “All right…”

  “It’s sick,” he announces bluntly. “The way people dance around the subject because it’s uncomfortable.” He lifts his chin. “And I always said I’d never be one of those people, even if the conversation sucks and no one wants to be having it.” He looks me square in the eye.

  Realization finally dawns, and I shake my head rapidly. “Whoa, Miller, no … I…”

  But he appears to be a man on some kind of a mission. “Trust that I’m not some creepy stalker or anything. But a few days ago, you were working out in your sports bra. And it was your spine that caught my attention.” Miller looks sort of sick now. “I could see, like, every one of your vertebrae, and instinct kicked in, and…” He trails off and shakes his head. “Something about it … just wasn’t right.

  “God.” He winces. “This sounds ridiculous. I totally sound like a creeper. But…” He squares his shoulders a final time and looks at me, his cheeks pink. “… I know there are a million and a half girls around here who wouldn’t say a damn thing. And I may be botching this big-time, but I will be the one person to say something, just in case you actually want someone to say something. To notice. To care.” He swallows hard. “Are you having issues? Do you need someone to talk to?”

  I don’t know if I’ve ever been so stunned in my life.

  I stare at Miller for a long minute. I want to hug him. So I do.

  “Miller.” I press my forehead right into his damp T-shirt and wrap my arms around his roundish middle. “Oh my God.”

  Then I step back and put my palms to my cheeks, still figuring out what to make of all this. I shake my head. “You are … that was…” I give up and start over again a few seconds later. “First off, thank you. That was awesome. That was really, really awesome.”

  And he was spot on. About the way girls encourage one another … all the way down. How no one will ever say anything to
someone’s face, even when it’s evident as anything that she’s suffering.

  I reach for his hand and give it a quick squeeze because his cheeks are still pink and there’s no reason for it. “Don’t feel dumb. You’re right. And more people should do what you just did.”

  I think he relaxes slightly then.

  “I don’t have an eating disorder,” I assure him. “And I’m being totally honest with you.” But I can’t help but remember my appearance in the mirror this morning and my head drops. “That being said, I do know I look like complete shit right now.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  I smile wryly. “I thought we were being honest here, Miller.”

  He doesn’t try to refute me again.

  I wait until he’ll look at me so he knows I’m not trying to cover anything up or dodge his concerns. “I do have some … personal stuff going on. It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” I whisper gruffly. I start nudging at my overgrown cuticles with my thumbs. “I haven’t had much of an appetite, but trust me, that’s not something that I want. At this point, I’d kind of give anything to actually feel like eating again. You know, enjoy a meal.”

  I look up and we kind of stare at each other, uncomfortable. Miller and I have always been friends, but it suddenly occurs to me that this might be the first serious conversation we’ve ever had. Usually we’re laughing together, not really … talking. I feel like he’s seeing me naked or something.

  And I think it’s likely the end of the conversation. Miller is a total sweetheart, and his approaching me like this … it was a real stand-out move. But I highly doubt he wants to stand around listening to me boo-hoo about everything that’s messed up in my life right now.

  I smile at him. “Thanks again for checking in on me. Not too many people would do that. It was supercool.”

  I open my door again, preparing to get back inside.

  “I bet you I could make you a meal you’d enjoy.”

  I pause, midway inside, and glance over my shoulder at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What?”

  He shrugs. Finally he’s smiling again, that goofy, self-possessed Miller smile. “I bet I could make you a meal you’d enjoy.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I make a mean steak. A mean steak. And I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you don’t allow yourself a whole lot of red meat, but”—he raises an eyebrow in challenge—“if you want to try something different to get out of this slump of yours…”

  My eyes narrow. “You’re offering to cook me dinner?”

  “Well, yeah. Provided the idea isn’t offensive to Jake or anything.”

  My fingers curl around the door frame in response to the internal assault. “The idea won’t be offensive to Jake or anything,” I assure him quietly, swallowing hard.

  I wait until I regain my composure, till I’m sure my eyes are clear, before looking up at him. His offer is so nice. It’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in about … forever. The truth is, I’m not at all sure he can deliver on his promise, but these past few minutes, talking to him, have been some of the most tolerable minutes I’ve had in the past two weeks.

  So even if I don’t have an appetite, the prospect of having dinner with Miller isn’t terrifying. It sounds like a relief. A relief from the isolation and sadness I’ve been cocooned in.

  “You’re really offering to make me dinner?” I clarify again.

  He nods simply. “If you’d like.” He winks. “I feel fairly confident.”

  I nibble on a fingernail. “I need to get some meat back on my bones. I have look-overs on Monday.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to pass.”

  His honesty concurrently floors me and makes me crack up. “Kick a girl while she’s down!”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to reiterate the necessity of you eating a decent meal.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his calendar. “No time to waste. You free tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah. I’m done at three.”

  He shrugs. “So come over tomorrow night. I’ll fatten you up in time for Monday.”

  I can’t help but laugh again. “You make me sound like a prize heifer.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Miller taps on his phone again. “I’m texting you my address. Come over anytime after six.”

  “Okay.”

  I hear myself officially accept the invitation.

  “Cool.” He turns around and saunters off. “See you then, Lil’ Kim.”

  I don’t have time to think of a retort before he disappears inside his truck.

  chapter 14

  I head over to Miller’s apartment at 5:59 p.m., because apparently I’ve been craving social interaction more than I realized. I’ve changed into a tank top and skinny jeans that now fit loosely, and before I leave, I grab an old, washed-out hoodie and zip it up. I don’t really want to catch Miller noticing how thin my arms have gotten.

  Because he lives clear across the complex, I decide to drive. I didn’t hesitate before accepting his invitation to come over for dinner, but along the way there, random concerns pop into my head.

  I should’ve brought something, I think. Where are my manners?

  Is Yael going to be there? That would be awkward.

  I mean, her attempts to hide her dislike for me are … nonexistent.

  But it’s too late to seriously rethink any of it, so I just keep driving, arriving at his building five minutes later. Theirs is a second-floor apartment, so I climb one flight of stairs, find his door, ring the bell, and wait.

  I really wish I had a plate of cookies, a salad, anything … in my hands.

  But I relax the second Miller opens the door wearing a wide, easy smile. He’s recently showered—the back of his collar is damp and he smells like soap, barefoot in jeans and a mossy green T-shirt that brings out some green flecks in his warm brown eyes.

  “Welcome, Princess.” He ushers me inside.

  “Hey.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and walk past him. “Thanks again for inviting me.”

  He nods. “Of course.”

  I check out the entrance to their apartment, its dark red walls covered in framed black-and-white stills from the various Enchanted Enterprises movies. The decor doesn’t surprise me. Yael seems like the artsy type.

  “Cool walls,” I comment, running my hand reverently over one of the stills. “I love all the EE stuff.”

  “Right? Would be cooler if they were originals, but the reprints are good, too.”

  I wander a bit farther, coming to stand in front of the image of Enchanted’s Cinderella running from the ball, her lost slipper in her wake, the Prince chasing after her. A pang of sadness hits me. Prince Charming. If only he actually existed.

  But I’m quickly distracted when I catch sight of the small kitchen area, its countertops covered in multiple cutting boards, a collection of prep bowls, and a whole lot of sharp knives.

  “Whoa.” I smile over my shoulder at Miller. “You’re not messing around, are you?”

  “I do know my way around the kitchen,” he admits. “But it’s safer to say I excel at the basics as opposed to being a gourmet chef.” He walks behind the counter and uses a large fork to flip over some marinating steaks. “Beef is simple. But preparation is key, letting it sit out at room temperature awhile, making a decent marinade. Then all you have to do is toss it on the grill.” Miller selects a knife out of the dozen and deftly chops a pile of mushrooms.

  I watch him, bemused smile playing on my lips. I don’t know too many guys whose kitchen skills extend past popping a DiGiorno in the oven or whipping up ramen in the middle of the night. “I have to say … I’m rather impressed with this secret talent of yours.”

  He glances up to give me a quick smile before returning to his mushroom business.

  I … well, I linger awkwardly on the other side of the counter. I’m not entirely sure where to sit. It’s been a while since I shared personal space with a guy who wasn’t my boyfriend. Miller seems to n
otice and without looking up, nods toward a stool against the far wall. “Grab that if you want. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I position the stool at the side of the counter so I can watch him work. I’m kind of fascinated.

  “My family owns a butcher shop back in Jersey,” he tells me. “This isn’t a self-taught skill or anything like that. I was just raised with more information about various cuts of beef than you’d ever want to possess.” He switches from chopping mushrooms to chopping tomatoes, wiping his hands on a dish towel in between. “My family’s very carnivorous. It’s all about the meat and potatoes.” Miller looks up and grins. “That’s really all I know. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I smile but shake my head at him. I think his tummy suits him.

  “Do you have any allergies or anything?”

  “No,” I answer.

  “Okay, good.” He looks at me for a few seconds, hesitant. “And you’re aware the menu is going to far and away exceed your typical daily caloric intake, but that’s what we’re going for, right?”

  I take a deep breath. I consider my skinny arms. “Right.”

  Miller stares down at the platter bearing two huge steaks, his eyes lighting up. He comes over to me to display them. “Look at these; look at that marbling. It’s pretty, Alyssa, it’s so damn pretty.”

  I giggle.

  “The grill’s already warmed up, so I’m going to go throw these on.” He gestures toward the patio. “You wanna sit outside with me while they cook?”

  I stand. “Yeah, sure.”

  I follow him out to their small deck, reaching past him to open the sliding door for him. Seconds later, the steaks hit the grill with a loud hissing sound and Miller closes the lid. When he does, I notice the grill is hand painted with an exact rendering of Drako the Dragon. His snout covers the grate, so as smoke escapes, he’s literally transformed into a fire-breathing dragon. So cool!