“He didn’t say that. Plus Haley always did like her men brilliant, and Sam’s sister was selling him pretty hard at dinner. You missed all that, but apparently, aside from being an excellent hero when the Heimlich is necessary, he’s also very successful.”
The universe is conspiring against me. It’s that simple. Now, besides leaving my fantasy world of happily ever after, I’m supposed to play matchmaker for my one friend who has never wanted for male attention in all of her natural-born days.
“You do remember that my fiancé just ran off with an acrobat? I’m not really in matchmaking mode.”
“You might fool Haley with the romantic notion of your terrible heartbreak, but I know you better than that. Some part of you wanted Jake gone for a long time before he left. The way you looked at me when you told me you were engaged?” Kathleen rolls her eyes. “You were resigned to it. I’ll never believe for a minute you were in love. Addicted maybe, but certainly not in love.”
This is one of those conversations that’s best to avoid because I know she’s right. Heartbreak wasn’t the reason for my self-imposed sabbatical, but I’m not ready to admit to the truth that a very big part of me was relieved when the wedding got called off. The genuine reason was I didn’t think I could do my job without Jake. If I had to marry for it, so be it. It wasn’t like there were other suitors clamoring for my attention. For as much as I live in the fantasy world of romance, my own engagement was probably one of the most practical decisions I’d ever made.
“I’m sure Sam’s very successful, Kathleen. I went to his amazing suite, remember? You don’t get one of those working at the mart.”
“Maggie—”
“I’m about to speak on the science of happiness and bouncing back from failure—which, I might add, I have yet to accomplish—so can we talk about Haley’s love life afterward?”
“When is the last time you remember Haley being interested in anyone?”
“It’s been a long time,” I admit. “But you said yourself, in your prophetess voice, that Sam wasn’t for her. Why the sudden surge of interest in making something happen now?”
“If Sam comes to the event, I want you to engage him. Maybe invite him to lunch with us.”
“He’s sitting at our table. Why would I invite him to sit somewhere he’s already sitting? This is all very suspect.”
“It wouldn’t be if you hadn’t spent the last two months isolated and watching romantic movies. Your Spidey sense is way off.”
“Touché. But what makes you think he’d come on an invitation I gave him?”
“He’s fascinated by you. Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you? I think he’s really interested in the results of your data, but too proud to give it much credence.”
“Can I just ask you, when has Haley ever had trouble getting a man’s attention?”
Something doesn’t sit right with Kathleen’s hasty interest in Haley getting her man. I stare at her intently, hoping to break her and discern her true motive, but she offers me nothing. Stoic as Lot’s wife as a salt pillar.
“I just thought you could handle the connecting because, you know, it’s awkward that his sister is one of Haley’s biggest clients. She doesn’t want to jeopardize that.”
“Got it. Help Haley flirt with Sad Sack. Can I get back to my notes now?”
“Maggie, I just want you to care. I want you to fight for something. If you won’t fight for your career, maybe you’ll fight for your friend’s love life.”
In all seriousness? I’ll fight for those new movies. What can I say? They’re addictive and I need a fix. Neither of my friends seems to get that I want to care.
“If I could care, I would. I just don’t. I need to increase my neurotransmitters—build me up some serotonin—and uplifting movies are what I need right now. I could probably prove it scientifically.”
“I’m sure you could. Are you ready?”
As soon as she asks, the lights cut off and everything goes black. Colored strobe lights start to crisscross the room, and the throbbing, exhilarating beat of AC/DC plays.
“Are they serious?” I shout to Kathleen. “If these people are expecting Britney Spears, they’re going to be sorely disappointed. Who could follow this intro?”
A deep male voice booms out of the speakers. “She’s a respected neuroscientist, trained at the best schools, and currently researches at UCLAAAAA! Let’s give a warm Empress of the Seas welcome to Dr. Margaret Maguiiiiire.”
Kathleen pushes me forward onto the stage, and the lights and music cut off instantly. I’m standing in the stark silence with all those expectant eyes staring me down. A single light goes on overhead. Seriously, if I could dance like Britney, I would totally start.
“Good morning!” I say too loudly into the mic I’m wearing. It squelches and makes an unholy noise. The audience grabs for their ears. Not a great start. “You’ve probably heard the old adage that money can’t buy you happiness. Statistically, that’s not true. The data I’ve studied actually reveals that money can buy you happiness.” I pause for dramatic effect.
There are a few groans and a few cheers.
“But don’t lose heart,” I say, sticking my forefinger in the air. “Money makes you happier to a point. The good news is that more money doesn’t necessarily make us happier. Once our needs are met, the data shows we may begin to spend it wrong.” I clear my throat. “The good news is that, according to my research, you’re spending it correctly. Money probably bought you this cruise, and we are happier when we spend money on life experiences versus stuff.”
An eruption of clapping bursts forth, and I decide to tackle the hard stuff next—like how marriage makes you happier if it’s a good one, but children don’t. People hate hearing that message. I hate telling them that. It’s like saying I don’t like puppies, and I’ve learned that it’s best to get it over with early on in the speech.
I get lost in my thoughts for a moment. I mean, as a single woman with enough money and no kids, I should be bursting at the seams with happiness—statistically speaking.
There’s an older man in the front row. He looks like Santa Claus and seems just as delighted by life. I wonder what makes some people genetically predisposed to optimism and joy, and others human Eeyores. That’s definitely a possible study. I make a mental note.
“We want to know what we’re doing right! I’m here to tell you that, but I’m also here to tell you how you can improve your capacity for happiness based on the science!”
A scratching noise fills the room and my mic cuts out. A small puff of black smoke bursts forth from the large black speaker in front of me on stage, then a bigger explosion with sparks. There are screams from the crowd, but my eyes are glued to the smoking speaker. I grab the pitcher of water left on a stool for me and throw it on the smoke, but rather than burning itself out, the smoke begins to curl up toward the ceiling. It’s followed by a small open flame that starts to rise. The flame gets bigger as I watch for far too long, until the ear-piercing wail of the fire alarm sounds and the audience scatters—no longer questioning if it’s part of my act. No, there are no Britney pyrotechnics that accompany my science talk.
I watch as a spark takes hold of some kind of pyrotechnics device in front of the stage, and small bursts of what seem like fireworks pop and sizzle until a black, rubbery rug beneath the stage catches fire. The remaining optimists in the audience, hoping for those dance moves, scramble toward the exits while I stand mesmerized by the activity, studying the data rather than taking action. My throat starts to feel scratchy, and I cover my face with my sleeve. Then I remember Kathleen is backstage. That moves me into action and I dash behind the curtain.
“Kathleen!” I yell over the shouts of the escaping audience and panicked crew members.
She doesn’t answer, and I hear another small explosion, followed by the door shutting, seemingly to contain the fire. Now I begin to panic and rush to the back edge of the stage, but my foot catches on something and I tumble
forward for what feels like an eternity.
Visibility gets murkier, and I watch as the sprinkler system on the ceiling, the one with no water pouring from it, disappears from my view. My throat burns as I struggle and gasp to capture any remaining oxygen. I hold my breath and army-crawl toward a flashing exit light, but it also disappears in the thick haze before I can reach it. The smoke overtakes the room and I’m confused which way to go—everything feels surreal, as though I must be dreaming. My heart is pounding and I struggle for breath. There is no more air, only dark, stifling smoke.
I can hear my name being called over the shouts of panic. I’m lifted from the ground and carried through the dark, all-encompassing cloud until it miraculously clears and the cool ocean breeze stings my face. My throat is raw, and when I inhale the fresh air, it makes a crackling sound in my ears. I cough and sputter at the first touch of oxygen. The sunlight burns my eyes.
Sam’s sturdy arms hold me above the deck, and his dark chocolate eyes are bearing down on me.
“Why didn’t you move quicker? When the rug went up?”
I don’t know. I stare at him silently.
“You stood there, then you bolted the wrong way and disappeared. I was trying to call to you, but the audience practically knocked me down trying to get out.” He sets me down but keeps his arms firmly around me, bracing me as I get my bearings. His jaw is clenched and his tone is upset—as if he’s angry and feels some sense of responsibility toward my stupidity.
“I didn’t want to cause a panic. I thought of Kathleen and figured everything would be out before I returned with her. It all seemed so surreal. Shouldn’t that rug be fireproof?” My voice is hoarse.
“Kathleen was in the back row beside me. Didn’t you see her?”
I shook my head. “There were so many people there.”
“Next time,” he says coolly, “panic. It’s okay to panic. What were you thinking?” His tone makes me feel shamed to my core. The question haunts me and hits me in a dark place. I was more upset about upsetting people than in fighting for my life. What if I hadn’t thought Kathleen was behind me?
Possibilities emerge while I stand there grappling with my thoughts. I didn’t think this through—because really, what possibilities are there if one succumbs to smoke inhalation? I can think of only two: casket or cremation.
That’s not what I want.
“You need a vacation,” Sam says as though he’s read my mind. “A real one. You’re burned out, and I’d recognize that look anywhere.”
I stare at him, blinking wildly, and nod. “I am? No, I—” But my protests don’t come. He seems to know my heart without me speaking a word. How can that be? Maybe Kathleen’s prophetic gift rubbed off on him.
Sam keeps me braced steadily with one arm while his hand softly traces my cheek, and I stand entranced by his dark eyes. Chaos is swirling around us, people are in hysterics. There is screaming and the sound of glass breaking. The crew is shouting to each other in a foreign language, and smoke billows from the indoor hallways. But out under the breezy sky on deck, I feel safe. Perhaps safer than I’ve ever felt. Sam has this soothing way about him. He takes care of things that need to happen without asking, without direction. Somehow he anticipates and reacts before anyone recognizes there’s a problem. Usually it’s my responsibility to take care of crises. My life thus far has been one big checklist, and it’s like Sam has come in and checked everything off.
I try to reason that this means nothing. I’m finding meaning where there is no data to support it. My emotions are just getting the best of me because it’s been so long since anyone gave me any affection. Jake wouldn’t even kiss me on the cheek until we were engaged. Then, once we were engaged, he told me that we should simply wait until we were married to make it official. How could I have been such an imbecile?
I stare into Sam’s eyes earnestly, wondering how he instinctively understood something about me that I didn’t have the insight to see. I am burned out. I’ve been going full speed ahead for my entire life. My self-induced binge-watching coma allowed me to be still.
He’s so near, and I close my eyes and wait for his lips to press against mine. His breath is soft against my cheek. I feel his lips on mine, and it feels so natural . . . then the slightest butterfly touch on my top lip before he abruptly tears himself away. I shiver and step toward him again, willing him to finish what he’s started, but his eyes motion to his left as he moves back. The spell has abruptly broken.
Haley, her emerald eyes wide with shock, is gaping at us. She’s nearly standing between us, looking at Sam and back at me, and considering our proximity, this is not easy to do. Her mouth is a long oval. Her perfectly formed, delicate jaw dangles as though she cannot believe what she’s witnessing. The slight color she possesses in her porcelain skin has drained from her face, and she mutters a tiny sound, almost like a baby’s whimper.
Kathleen stands behind her, arms crossed. Shame heats my body. This is what happens whenever I follow my feelings. Feelings are for the weak. As if Sam senses the change in me, he wraps his arm around me again, perhaps to defend me from Kathleen and Haley.
I wrestle myself free of his embrace, but the action goes against every impulse I possess. I want to snuggle into the crook of his neck and for once do exactly what I want, rather than what’s right.
That’s why I went into science to begin with, to please my parents. As I stand away from Sam and apart from my friends, once again I’m that small child, studying as diligently as I can to please my parents. I’m looking up at them with my report card, begging for their approval.
We’re soon joined by Jules, who audibly gasps as her hand flies over her mouth. “Sam?”
Now is probably not the time to mention that my computer was left in the flames.
I know the right thing to do—the “girl code” thing to do—but my heart isn’t in it. Sam understands, and he knows how weary I am. I don’t know how he could, but he pegged me. This job, the constant treadmill of life. It’s killing me day by day, a little at a time. I realize that Jake had taken the pressure off me—he was my life preserver who made life bearable and not, in fact, the love of my life. The love of my life would never purposely try to hurt me and gloat about it.
Sam Wellington, with his dark, brooding eyes and collared shirt, makes me feel like the stupidest girl on the planet, and for once in my life, it’s perfectly fine by me.
12
Pessimism is associated with a shortened life span, so it benefits your lifestyle and life span to seek out joy. Gratitude is just one way to increase your happiness quotient.
The Science of Bliss by Dr. Margaret K. Maguire
IT’S NOT ENOUGH THAT MY SPEECH practically blew up the ship. I’m now the most hated woman on this barge. Let me add that a singles’ cruise after a bad breakup is not the place to muster abhorrence in others. Desire and passion, definitely, but not silent hostility with a side of loathing. Apparently there are three former Rockettes on board to speak about their life experiences at the Radio City Music Hall. These women have a larger fan base than one might think. Since their speaking stage is now a burned-out shell, their discussion panel has been tabled, and just like in junior high school, it’s the nerdy girl’s fault. It shouldn’t be. How hard is it to move a set of dancers to a different venue? Aren’t they bendable?
The bigger question in this floating universe is why they chose to plaster my picture all over the ship, rather than that of three women who were once paid to look enticing. I have to give her credit, Haley obviously is a better publicist than whomever the ex-Rockettes hired.
My speech—or, rather, the few sentences I managed to blurt out before the explosion—is now the scandal of the “New Year, New You” cruise, which might be better than the old scandal of the choking woman in the middle of the elegant dining room. Judging by the looks I’ve been getting, it’s like I’d been found on the lower level of the Titanic with a boy from third class. Why did I ever get off my sofa?
“Why didn’t that happen during the Rockettes’ talk? And why is my poster all over this ship instead of theirs? Who thought that was a good idea?”
“As your publicist, I did, and I worked very hard for that product placement. The least you could do is appreciate it.” Haley frowns. Kathleen stands behind her, like my father always did to back up my mom for a shaming session.
I backpedal. “Right. And you’re so good at what you do.”
It’s no use. I am a disaster. A disaster who belongs in sweatpants with a tub of ice cream on my stomach.
“You were kissing Sam. You’re not going to explain that?” Kathleen’s brow furrows. That’s never a good sign. “You haven’t even called your parents yet to tell them there’s no wedding to Jake, and you’re kissing some random guy on a cruise ship!”
“He’s not random,” Haley adds. “If only he were random. He’s actually her new boss’s brother. Way to make an impression, Maggie. Jules rushes to see if you’re all right after the fire and finds you desperately in her brother’s clutches. What on earth were you thinking?”
One could argue I wasn’t thinking, but why should I have to defend myself?
“Listen, Haley, I was happily shoveling ice cream into my mouth and living in a fantasy world through my television set, where everyone is sweet and kind. You bear some responsibility in this fiasco for taking me out in public before I was ready. On a singles’ cruise, no less!”
The Theory of Happily Ever After Page 12