I inhale deeply, knowing I can’t let Haley fall. She hasn’t done anything to deserve this.
“A little speech about finding bliss after setbacks,” Kathleen explains. “Easy-peasy. Besides, look at the bright side—your audience will probably be plied with alcohol and extremely happy regardless of what you have to say.”
“That’s comforting, thank you, Kathleen. Haley, the only research I have on finding bliss after setbacks is in a quart-sized carton of gelato. Something tells me they’ll be looking for more . . . I don’t know . . . substance.”
The line crawls forward closer to the ship.
“They’re not looking for substance. Look at this crowd. Looks like they cleaned out Grandpa’s closet before coming on the cruise.”
“Why are the men so old?” I whisper. “Is this a senior singles’ cruise?”
“You’re not here for that anyway. Look at it this way—they can afford to buy your book.” Haley lets go of her Louis Vuitton and grasps my hands in hers. “You’re on your way to the coast of Mexico and vacation. This is recovery after a setback. What other research do you need?”
“I can’t write a book on the science of happiness and say, ‘Yeah, take a cruise, you’ll feel better. Sorry about the twenty dollars you just wasted on this book, but you have to shell out a little more for a luxury cruise.’ ” I spin around to get off the gangplank, thinking it’s my last shot to escape, but there’s a swath of people in line behind us. Besides, Kathleen is like a human wall when she wants to be. My stomach plummets as I realize there’s no way out of this other than going through it.
This is going to happen whether I’m ready or not. No aesthetically pleasing, clean-cut romantic hero is coming to rescue me near a fake Christmas tree while the snow crunches pleasantly under our feet. I’m going on a singles’ cruise—with lots of men who appear to have raided my father’s vacation wardrobe.
3
Life without tension doesn’t create happiness. Rather, life must be filled with struggle and striving or flow—forward motion.
The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire
WE ENTER THE GLASS-ENVELOPED GANGPLANK, where we are met by an official-looking faux sailor in a white suit with crisp creases in his slacks and bright silver buttons on his lapel. “Welcome to the Empress of the Seas. Please stay with your designated party and be prepared to present your travel documents to guest services. What name will you be traveling under?”
Haley steps forward. “Dr. Margaret K. Maguire and Associates.” She turns around toward us and giggles. “We sound so official!”
As we step onto the hull of the ship, I tell myself it’s a tiny speech. Worst-case scenario, I can read from my book and make my way to the buffet before there are any questions. Maybe even fake a hypoglycemic episode. I’m all right with that misleading and decidedly un-Christian scenario until we step into the cavernous lobby and I’m assaulted by an oversized, movie-like poster of my face. Once we’re in the lobby, the loudspeaker announces our arrival as if we’re royalty.
“Please welcome onto the ship Dr. Margaret K. Maguire and her associates!” A few paid lackeys in sailor suits clap for us. I offer them my best I’m sorry smile.
“Finding Your Bliss after Life’s Setbacks, with Dr. Margaret K. Maguire” is printed across the top of my airbrushed author photo, alongside an image of my first book—which has nothing to do with bouncing back from trials. It’s science! I want to shout. Measurable data, people! Then again, I’m trying to get a grant to gather more data, but it’s nowhere near ready. Normally I wouldn’t rest until I’d proved its necessity to the pursuit of science and happiness. However, judging by my recent work ethic, I’m probably not first on anyone’s list when they’re handing out grant money.
I cringe at the poster—I swear it’s getting bigger as I stand beneath the thing. It’s like an IMAX movie screen. Is there anything worse than an author photo? Publishers believe introverted bookworms who never leave the house—or in my case, the lab—will magically turn into supermodels simply because they wrote something. It’s crazy! And it’s why authors usually have that deer-in-the-headlights look that book publishers try so hard to Photoshop away. If I looked at my author photo and then ran into the real me, I’d be sorely disappointed. It’s why I’ve avoided online dating, if I’m honest—who knows what mad photo-editing skills the bachelors of today have?
Haley pipes up, all business. “I had two cases of your books shipped to the boat. They’re going to be selling them in the cruise bookstore, so you’ll probably have to sign a few after your speech.”
I sigh. “Aren’t you Miss Efficiency?”
“Look, it’s either sell them or lug them home. Take your pick,” Kathleen says. “And I’m not helping.”
I stare at my oversized photo again. It reminds me that all of these strangers expect my public self—the one who studies statistics—to come up with factual conclusions. Not the romance addict with dairy treats, but the businessperson who wears a suit with a lab coat and dons professional makeup. That Dr. Maguire really looks like she has it all together.
“I don’t even know that person,” I say.
“You are that person,” Haley reminds me. “You watch what happens. You’ll slip on your heels and that brilliant left brain will force her way to the surface, spouting all her facts and data. You’ll have people bored out of their minds within ten minutes.”
“Spouting facts and data? You make me sound like a human computer.” Seriously. “Even I wouldn’t want me. No wonder Jake ran for the hills.”
I wish I was able to explain to Kathleen and Haley that it isn’t Jake’s leaving that ripped the proverbial wind from my sails. It was the loss of purpose, the halting of forward motion and flow toward something. In my lifetime, when I accomplished one goal, it was on to the next. When Jake left, that momentum all but stopped—no wedding to plan, no study to continue. I had nowhere to go. The light at the end of the tunnel had faded and I was stumbling around in the darkness. It sounds overly dramatic as I think about it, but what can I say? I was lost, looking for what was next.
“Stop!” Kathleen roars so that it echoes. “You can’t move forward as long as you’re obsessing about the past.”
“Kathleen, hush!” Haley says in her sweet drawl. I swear she sounds Southern when she’s trying to calm us, but she’s as Californian as both Kathleen and me.
“No.” Kathleen shakes her head. “I deal with excuses every day, Haley. She needs some tough love.” She turns to me. “Maggie, yesterday we found you lounging in a ratty robe, smelling sour pork, and stealing cats. We need our Maggie back. The world needs that Maggie back. Besides, those gelato and cable bills aren’t going to pay for themselves. Enough of the science of depression. Back to the science of happiness. No man is going to bring that to you, and you know as well as we do that you’re better off without Jake in your life. He had you question every move you made—like some Stepford wife. I know your parents may have stunted your romantic ideals, but it’s time to grow up, honey. It’s time to lose that obsession with Prince Charming fixing everything and get back to work.”
She had me there.
“Hmm. There’s a science to happiness?” A deep voice slides over my shoulder like a silky scarf, and I turn around slowly, secretly hoping the face matches the voice.
My Prince Charming fantasy isn’t dead yet. Apparently I’m not completely out of my rom-com coma, which I know is a bad thing.
I’m catapulted back into reality when I’m insanely aware of my complete lack of makeup and a hairstyle that resembles something like a human Brillo pad. The smooth, robust voice, which sounds like good espresso tastes, belongs to a man who is much taller than Kathleen, so I’d say about six feet four, give or take a few centimeters. He has intense, stare-through-you, deep brown eyes and an authoritative nature that makes me feel as if I’ve fallen off my heels in the swimsuit competition, and he, being the Russian judge, has given me a score of 2.4.
&nbs
p; Naturally, I’m desperately attracted to him. He’s got all the arrogance and dark intensity that I seem to covet in a man—right up until the moment he breaks my heart and I realize these characteristics are what neurotypicals, aka normal people, would call “red flags.” My next thought is that I can save us both some time and trouble by completely ignoring him. Besides, until I fix the mess I’ve made, I’ve got no business even thinking about romantic heroes—unless it’s on a tiny screen with a familiar logo flashing across the bottom.
But this heavenly-looking being is speaking, and I’m sidetracked by the warmth in his eyes—and his hot looks, which I realize is shallow, but whatever. I’m so fixated on him that I have no idea what he’s saying, only that the way he’s saying it looks so good. Utterly mesmerizing.
Kathleen taps my shoulder. “Maggie, he’s asked you a question.” She reaches out and shakes the man’s hand, and I watch as his long fingers clasp hers tightly. “Yes, that’s her on the poster. This is Dr. Maggie Maguire. You’ve read her book, I’m assuming?”
He shakes his head. Once. “I’m afraid not. Not big on junk science. No offense, of course.”
I can’t help but laugh out loud at his response. Just like Jake, he boasts all the same social skills in polite conversation. “Why would I take offense to you calling my life’s work ‘junk science’?” Even if it happens to be true.
Still can’t keep my eyes off his. Why would someone with all the warmth of a lizard have such kind eyes? the devil on my shoulder asks.
“I’m only saying, this kind of study can’t be replicated in a lab. It depends upon subjective data, and if you ask me, that’s questionable science at best. Don’t get me wrong, I know the masses eat it up. I’ve heard about your success.”
“Actually, I didn’t ask you.” I surprise myself saying this aloud. Could it be I’m over the Neanderthals and ready to move on to normal men? Neurotypicals? “But you’re entitled to your opinion, of course. Have a lovely trip, won’t you?” I force myself to turn toward the front desk, proud that I’ve made progress and can see past the visual perfection that this striking hunk of masculinity is. It’s a facade. A well-wrapped package says nothing about what’s on the inside where it matters. Have I learned nothing from Jake?
Haley stares me down. “Maggie,” she says through her teeth in a hissing whisper. “Defend yourself with the science.”
“He hasn’t read your book, though trust me, I’ve tried to get him to. He did see your TED Talk.” A spritely woman with short hair and the same deep eyes comes beside him. She has a manic energy about her and no doubt was a cheerleader in her former years, and maybe class president. She was definitely a sorority girl.
The hot Neanderthal raises a single brow. “My sister is correct. I did see your TED Talk. They forced us to watch it as part of a team-building day at my office. But I’m afraid it didn’t really resonate with me.”
Gee, I wonder why. Could it be the storm cloud that follows you around?
I size him up again. He couldn’t be a romantic hero—despite the small Bible he’s carrying alongside his passport. It makes me wonder if he’s some kind of pastor, but if that were the case, would he really need a “New Year, New You” cruise? Of course, I’m here and I’m certainly in need of a new me, so I probably shouldn’t judge. Besides, he’s much too dark and brooding for a pastor. He doesn’t have that sweet-natured, virtuous look that I’ve obsessed over the last couple months. I’m definitely holding out for that innocent type, like the drop-dead gorgeous preacher who, although his pews are filled every week in the movie, is inexplicably single without prospects.
This man’s eyes, though, are exceptionally kind. They’re throwing me off, so I can’t quite figure him out. His eyes contradict his surly disposition and what comes out of his mouth. I’m intrigued by the mystery of this inconsistency, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’m not going to ignore that first impression, despite the Bible—which, let’s face it, could be a prop to collect women on this singles’ cruise. Maybe it’s his way of getting women to let their guard down. I narrow my eyes and clutch my laptop case close to my body. I’m ready to walk away when he speaks again.
“I hope I haven’t offended you. It’s just that I question some of your research. Firstly, that happiness is a quantifiable emotion.” As cold as his words are, they don’t contain any venom, but rather curiosity. He doesn’t take his warm gaze from my eyes, and it feels as if we’re having an alternate conversation. I’m lost in the language of his eyes, virtually ignoring his caustic review of my work. His words are nothing I haven’t said to myself in the last two months, which is why they sting all the more.
“It is quantifiable, I assure you. Numerous studies support happiness psychology, including my own. It can be measured objectively. I’d direct you to both Stanford and Harvard, which currently have happiness psychology. Martin Seligman defines the equation as happiness = S + C + V.” Even as I say this, my Spidey sense is telling me to shut it down.
The expressive eyes before me have glazed over. And thus demonstrates my life experience with men. I begin talking, they start looking like students in a ninth grade science lecture. I should have known Jake was up to something by the mere fact he seemed interested in what I had to say.
“What?” The man shakes his head.
I, being me, decide to make matters even worse. “S represents our happiness set point, C is life circumstances, and V is voluntary or intentional activities. Like with your choice of careers, you set an objective. Or being on this cruise. It was intentional.”
“Not on my part, I can assure you. The cruise notwithstanding, this all sounds subjective to me, but if you’d like to discuss it over coffee this afternoon, I’m more than willing to hear you out.”
Ignoring his polite brush-off, I continue. Sometimes I’m like a dog with a bone and I cannot let things go. “It’s subjective like an eye appointment is subjective. You tell the eye doctor what you see, which is subjective, but it’s based on the objective parameters of good eyesight. When the black fuzzy shapes morph into letters, you can tell the doctor you’re seeing better. When more of what makes your life fulfilling and purpose filled is part of your daily routine, you’re happier.”
He glares at me and frowns, as though he’s disappointed in my answer. “Does that explanation mean you’re not interested in coffee? I can tell you from my own valuable research that coffee definitely evokes happiness. I mean, there has to be before-and-after evidence with Frappuccinos littering Instagram, am I right?”
Haley steps in front of me. “I’d love to have coffee with you, Mr. . . .”
“Sam.” He thrusts his hand toward me rather than Haley and clasps mine in his own gently. “Sam Wellington.”
“You two should go have coffee.” The petite blonde with a pixie cut and cheekbones to die for slaps his shoulder. “He’s here to have fun. Aren’t you, Sam? The first day of the rest of your life and all that.”
Sam remains unmoved by his happy-go-lucky sibling and, if possible, seems more miserable than ever. I want to tell him, I feel ya, dude. Happy people suck when you want to be left alone.
“I’d be happy to explain Dr. Maguire’s work in detail, Mr. Wellington.” Haley steps in front of me again, and Kathleen’s eyes are wide as if to tell her to back off. It seems Mr. Wellington is immune to Haley’s charms and Kathleen is fascinated by this strange upset in the nature of things. I’m still uber-focused on legitimizing my work, which is progress at this point.
“It’s my contention, Dr. Maguire, that smart women—educated, intellectual women—are incapable of true happiness,” Sam continues, to his sister’s obvious dismay. “They will overanalyze and destroy any hope of it. I thought perhaps—” Sam stops when his sister grinds her stiletto heel into the top of his foot. “What? It’s the truth.”
“All right, and that’s enough discussion for the day.” She pulls him away from us, but his words have woken me from my stupor.
“Mr. Wellington.
” I follow him. “What did you say about intelligent women?” He couldn’t have said what I think he just said. No one is that clueless, and if they are, I may as well start writing my pickup-lines book as we speak.
Sam breaks free of his sister’s grip. “What I mean to say is, has your research taken IQ into account?” He speaks over his sister, who is still trying to drag him away from me. His magical eyes are focused directly upon me, and there’s a desperation in his gaze that makes me take his question seriously. Until I realize I’m probably just Mowgli, hypnotized by the manipulative snake—just like when Jake challenged me at the start of our relationship.
“Everyone is taught to get his or her education and keep moving forward,” Sam continues, “but what about when that doesn’t bring happiness? All I’m asking is, can you prove to me that intelligent women are capable of happiness?”
All the warm, bubbly feelings I’ve been registering erupt like a live volcano and dissipate into the air around me. Sam Wellington said exactly what Jake said to me—that intelligent women can’t be happy.
His words would mean nothing if they didn’t feel true. After all, Jake specifically told me that he needed a woman who was more fun in life. He needed that and, apparently, the research he stole as his own, but that’s another kettle of fish. His words were stunningly similar: “You overthink everything, Maggie. That’s why you’re miserable and you’ll never be happy. Don’t you ever want to sit back and down a brew or watch a ball game?”
No, I didn’t actually want to sit and watch a ball game, nor did I want to down a brew. But suddenly I’m imagining my glamour-shot author pic next to the dictionary word buzzkill.
“Of course she has taken intellect into account,” Haley, in full publicist mode, says. “Tell him, Maggie.”
The Theory of Happily Ever After Page 3