The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

by Sunniva Dee

  Her eyes go dreamy. “If Ricardo proposed, I’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

  “But you wouldn’t marry, say, someone you met on the plane here.”

  I have no idea why that’s my example.

  “Wait. Who did you meet on the plane here?”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Omigod, you met someone!”

  How did this shift from non-executed nuptials to flights with strangers?

  “Tell me!” Cass bounces on the chair. “Someone hot? Where’s he from? Do you have his number?”

  And that’s the thing. I do have his number. But after our airport goodbye, it doesn’t feel right to call him.

  Victor’s mother picked him up after baggage claim with an air so cool it’d refrigerate penguins. That air was clearly aimed at me. She walked off with his suitcase while he stayed behind to say goodbye. We hadn’t done much talking on the plane, even after the night we’d shared, but then, he stopped, reached out to take my hands, and studied my face.

  “Helena, I want you to know that you can call me whenever you need me. I’m right here in Tampa.” He shrugged those brawny shoulders I knew the feel of by then. “I like you. Hell, I like you a lot. The least I can do is to help you settle in.”

  I caught the concerned glance he sent after his mother. She reached the exit and didn’t hesitate as she continued on, spine erect through the sliding glass doors. “You also know about my goal. It doesn’t allow for much slack, even when I meet amazing people like you.”

  “I know, fighter boy.” I slapped his arm, putting a distance between us that had been present since we got on the plane anyway.

  He laughed a low, relieved laugh.

  Victor puckered his mouth and kissed me on the cheek, not on the lips like the night before. Was it because the doors were opening and closing on his mother? It must be her way of drawing him out, to stand there, unfazed until he came.

  “Keep me posted,” he murmured, eyes soft before he moved toward the exit, one backward step at a time.

  “I will.”

  I meet Cass’ happy attention. “Yeah, I have his number. I won’t be calling him though.”

  “Why not?” Her legs jiggle on the balls of her feet under the table.

  “Because he told me straight out that he’s busy. He’s an MMA fighter, and all his focus is on that.”

  When I look up, Cass’ hands have formed a muzzle over her mouth. Said muzzle does not, however, muzzle her; she lets out a squeal at the level of a strangled bird. “Seriously? I love MMA. What’s his name? You have to call him. Oh and we could go see him fight. Those guys come to Hooters all the time, where I work, and they’re freaking hawt!”

  “Victor… something. Arquette?”

  She narrows her eyes, thinking for exactly two seconds. “Nope, never heard of him. Cute though?”

  “So cute. And hard-bodied like you would not believe. I swear, he was all muscle everywhere.”

  “And how do you know this?” She bites her lip, readying herself for my gossip, butt wiggling on the chair.

  “No, I mean, you could see it on his biceps and stuff, when he was wearing a T-shirt.” I ruin it by erupting into a grin, because she just knows that I’ve seen so much more of him.

  “Riiight. Did you go all mile-high-club with him, maybe? Is it possible to fit into one of those tiny bathrooms with a big MMA fighter?”

  I’m giggling. I can’t help it. “He’s not that big, not a heavyweight or anything.”

  “Oh my God, you did, didn’t you?” She’s squealing without muffling herself this time. Angelo pops his head into the kitchen, beady eyes studying us.

  “Everything okay here? She bugging you?” He juts his chin toward Cass.

  “Ah no. She’s funny,” I say, and Cass bobs her head at first, turning it into a headshake as soon as Angelo leaves.

  “I’m funny, huh? So how about his penis. Was it muscular too?” she whispers. “I mean the penis you saw in that bathroom?”

  It’s been a stressful couple of days, which makes the much-too-nosy treatment from my new friend absolutely hilarious. It’s a relief to laugh this hard.

  “We did nothing on the plane.”

  “Where then?”

  “An airport.”

  “Airport sex? I had no idea that was a thing. Where, in a bathroom?”

  “What’s with you and bathroom sex? Is that what you do with your boyfriend?” I ask. Inwardly, I congratulate myself; it was time I paid her back.

  “What? No!”

  “Hotel. It was some very good hotel sex.”

  I’m on the beach, spread out on a cheap beach towel I bought at a souvenir store a few streets up. My roommates work during the day now that school is out for the summer. I bet they have jobs during the rest of the year too. Me, I have no job, no studies, just a college fund that I’m slowly draining while I lie around doing nothing.

  I think about Victor. I think about him much more than I think about my ex-fiancé. Gunther Wilhelm and I never even had sex. Perhaps that’s why?

  Outside of the emails I sent from the hotel in Amsterdam, one to my parents and one to Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth, I’ve yet to communicate with them. I’m postponing it because I don’t know what to say besides what I already put in the emails: that I couldn’t go through with it; that I know I’ve made a fool of myself and of our families; that I’m sorry.

  It’s been three days since I landed in Tampa. I bought a phone on the first day, but it would be nice to find out what I’m doing with myself before I speak with my father. I guess I need to suck it up though, hear him out—I haven’t even borrowed a computer to check if anyone has emailed me back.

  That small university where I found Gun’s ad has a business program. Angelo says they’ve got foreign students attending. He knows a couple from Naples there. It’s probably not that easy though. A foreigner on a tourist visa can’t just sidle into their offices and tell them she wants to get into their master’s program.

  I doze off with the sun scorching my skin. There’s no wind, the tropical heat beating down hard, and already I’ve learned the ocean doesn’t cool you down in this part of the world. I wake up to the unfamiliar ringtone of my new phone. Dizzy from what could be the closest I’ve ever been to a heat stroke, I press it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Helena! It’s me, Cass.”

  “Hey.” My mouth is dry. I should have brought something to drink.

  “So we haven’t discussed your plans for the summer yet, but I was wondering if you want to work at all, or are you just spending the entire time on the beach?” She drags out the word entire as if that would be ridiculous.

  She’s right though. Two whole months alone on a beach would be nuts. My stomach stirs at the prospect of no plans, no future, and a ton of burned bridges at home.

  “I would like to work.”

  “So, literally two of the girls at work have gotten themselves knocked up—now, granted, Liz is married, but Marla isn’t. Anyways, Marla throws up all the time and doesn’t want to be around food and beer, while Liz’ husband has put his foot down on her. She’s a sucker, for listening to him just like that. What’s with obeying, right?” she chatters.

  “So Johnny-boy, the boss man, he needs help ASAP. Have you ever worked in a restaurant? It doesn’t pay much, but it’s cool. Tips can be good. Plus it’s Hooters, ya know, so fun. You get to wear sweet little tees and hot pants. Only issue is the nylons.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m a foreigner. I can’t work here.”

  “Bah! Johnny-boy hires Mexicans all the time, of the kind that really have no papers. It’s cool. Just come in, I’ll get you all dressed up so he can see you’re exactly what he wants dancing around here with your little tushy.”

  “Tushy?” I’m supposed to dance around with my—? “That’s butt, right?”

  She giggles merrily. “Yep, we flaunt ass and boobs. Nothing bad though! Seriously, it’s just fun. Like we’re on the catwalk or
whatever.”

  I need something to drink. My mouth goes drier for each word she chirps into my ear. “I’m packing up here,” I say about my flip-flops, single towel, and sunscreen. “I’m feeling horrible. The sun’s too hot today.” As lame as that sounded, she buys into my message faster than they would at home.

  “Oh are you about to have a heat stroke? Hold on, I’ll text you directions. Hooters is closer to the beach than the apartment is. I’ll have something really cold and nice ready for you. Probably water first,” she thinks out loud while I start the walk up the wooden path. “But then I’ll make you a blue curacao drink. Ice. Lots of ice,” she continues. “Maybe you want ice cream. Yeah, I’ll make you a nice, cold dessert.”

  HELENA

  Cass’ workplace is interesting. It boasts all new décor, but the colors, design, and materials scream seventies. She really is wearing hot pants. They’re orange, and that white tank top with the restaurant logo on it is skintight. Most of the girls here seem to wear pushup bras, which causes their boobs to become the focal point as they strut around.

  Hooters doesn’t entertain many customers at the moment, but then again, it’s three p.m., which should be somewhere between lunch and dinner. There are two men with a few open seats between them at the bar, both nursing a beer. A sunburned couple share fries and down drinks at a window table. That’s it.

  As I pull ice-cold liquid in through a straw, I shut my eyes, relieved over my situation despite it all. Things could have been much worse: I found a place to live almost instantly; I have a friend, a girl, not just some guy who could end up wanting more than friendship. And now she thinks I can work here?

  If I get a job, I’ll call my father.

  “Feeling better?” she asks me after I’ve eaten an entire banana split and downed two glasses of water. The tumblers they have in this country are enormous, by the way.

  “So much better. Thank you.”

  “You don’t look like you were just boiled in hot water anymore,” she reassures me.

  “Yay.”

  “So listen.” She leans over the counter between us, lowering her head for a quiet conversation. I hunch down to be at her level. “Johnny-boy should be here in ten minutes. He’s always punctual feeding his dogs, and when he returns he wants his cheesy-fries and burger. Now, you and I are going to surprise him.”

  Hmm. Is it wise to surprise my potential boss? I don’t know. Maybe this is how they do business in this country. I guess I’ll trust Cass.

  She drags me into the back, tosses me a plastic-wrapped pair of hot pants and a tank top. I look around for a sink, water, soap—something—I’m not in a presentable shape at all.

  Cass flings a clean dishrag my way and points at a bathroom. “Hurry, okay? Oh, and here.” She wiggles a small, golden beauty bag in front of me. “My makeup. Doll yourself up.”

  “I can’t do anything with my hair though,” I say, holding up a long, woolen lump of it for her to see.

  “He’ll love it. Don’t worry—you’ve got fairytale hair. What guy doesn’t love that? He’d probably hire you for the hair alone.”

  Geez.

  I remain in front of the mirror a little too long. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything this bizarre. How the heck do the girls out there pull off adorable in this outfit? I look like the Eiffel Tower—tall and lanky. Obviously, I have no pushup bra with me, so I’m wearing my bikini top with no padding, and my breasts do not look anything like those bopping around outside this bathroom door.

  I try to rectify my appearance with makeup, but I just look like one of those apple-cheeked wenches who aim at sophisticated by painting their faces. There’s no way I’ll be hired. Plus, I only have flip flops.

  “Cass?” My voice sounds squeaky.

  “Yeah?”

  “Nylons don’t work with flip flops.”

  She snorts out laughing. “Open. He’s here already—let me in.”

  I’m really nervous now. I feel like I’m about to head into an exam. I barely crack the door, just in case Mr. Johnny-boy happens to stand behind her, ready to peruse the train wreck—as in me—camping out in his restroom.

  Her stare moves from my boobs down my legs to my camel-toed flip-flop feet. “Okay, that looks so funny I’m tempted to send you out there with them on.”

  I suck in a panicked breath. Cass lifts a hand, palm flat against me. “I said ‘almost.’ Here. Put these on.” White sneakers dangle in front of me.

  “Really? Are they my size?”

  “What do I know? Just make them work for now. You only have to wear them until you’re hired.”

  And that’s how I squeeze my size 8 ½ feet into size-7 sneakers and waggle my way out there to meet “The Boss Man.”

  “Don’t do that,” Cass hisses. “Straighten up. You don’t even seem like you realize how drop-dead gorgeous you are.”

  I blink.

  “Hold your head high, like your hat is a stack of amazing romance novels and you don’t want to drop them. You know? Think catwalk; you need to appear confident. Especially since you don’t have a work visa or anything. He needs to really want you here.”

  I suck air deep into my lungs. Peek over her shoulder and into the bar area. Only one of the former customers remains at the bar, and apart from him, there’s a fifty-something man, slimmish with a bit of a potbelly, a familiar shape in the men at the taverns back home. I’m thinking he’s had a few beers too many over the years. I take in the crinkles at the base of his sunburned neck, the rim of short, grey hairs below an overly obvious toupee.

  “Is that him?” I ask.

  “Yep, that’s the boss man.” By her tone, she likes him.

  Okay. It’s just a job, I think to myself, which wasn’t even on my list when I arrived here. It shouldn’t be a biggie. Even so, if this doesn’t work out, I don’t know when I’ll call home. I need this confidence boost.

  “Press your shoulders further back,” Cass says.

  I roll them into some abnormal position behind me, suck my stomach in, and start walking. Suddenly, I realize that I need to think “regal.” It’s what I’ve been cognizant of ever since I was itty bitty. The hours I spent between the age of four and seven, balancing my mother’s books on my head to get that elegant posture, were countless.

  As I step out onto the tiles of the main floor, I lift my chin. All I have to do is imagine myself with a tiara, a couture dress with a crystal-studded plunge between my breasts, far enough to be enticing, but too high to be slutty.

  It’s easy now. My gaze is on the window, over the head of our only customer, and when I’m right next to my potential boss, I let it float to him.

  He stands from his barstool. Dries his hands off on a napkin as he waits for us to approach him. A foot shorter than me, he straightens, eyes brightening.

  “Hey, Johnny-boy,” Cass starts. “My new roommate, Helena, came by for a drink, and she really liked our outfits. Turns out she wouldn’t mind a job either. You think we’ve got any open positions?”

  His stare lightens even more as it runs over my thighs, knees, and calves. Then it trails to my sneakers and back up to my face.

  “Helena,” he says, voice low and rich, making me think of radio hosts. I bet they’re way less impressive in person too. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you have any experience in the restaurant business?”

  Before I can reply, Cass jumps in. “She does. She did her bachelor’s degree in Germany, and she worked in restaurants the entire time there to pay for her studies. Right, dear?”

  That is the biggest lie ever; I so didn’t. I keep a straight face though, as I swing to her. From Cass’ stare, she’d throw grenades at me over the wrong answer. I take a second to return my attention to Johnny-boy.

  He’s expectant. Can someone’s personality be housed in a single expression? Johnny-boy likes me, and if I’m translating his vibe right, he wants Cass’ words to be true. He flicks a look her way too, a subtly good-natured one, like he’s aware she can’t be tr
usted.

  This isn’t how we operate back home. We’re supposed to be honest deep down to our core, and if reality doesn’t match our goal, we can’t do anything about that. I’m in a country I don’t know, a culture I don’t know. Cass nods to me, urging me to reply.

  Ballrooms. Big beautiful ancient ballrooms ornate with gilded moldings, mirrors, and ball gowns. I relax at the homey thought, my spine straighter than the queen of England’s. “That’s what I did. I served beer. Mostly beer anyway.”

  Johnny-boy’s eyebrows draw together. “That’s great. Are you from Tampa?”

  “She studies here,” Cass jumps in again, and all I can do is keep my head high to maintain my air of friendly but detached princessdom.

  “I do. Business Management.”

  “I see.” He’s the kind of person whose wheels you can see turning as he thinks. Two fingers go to his jaw, and he rubs it while those wheels turn. “Have you been in the country for a while?”

  I wonder if it makes a difference, until Cass lies for me again, telling him I came here four months ago and that now I’m on summer break from college. By the time all is said, I’m on the same shift as Cass for tomorrow, and we’ve had a small pow-wow, as he called it, in his office, where he’s frank about me getting the hell out of the way if anyone uniformed comes through the door.

  And there I go: I’m an illegal worker in the U.S. Only days ago, my path looked quite different.

  VICTOR

  I’m back in the groove again. Maiko keeps me on track, arms crossed and gaze steady as I ground-and-pound a small-time pro visiting from Chicago. The guy’s mainly here for me, Dawson says. He watched my last fight and loved my Muay Thai. He doesn’t have much finesse and can’t stomach full force on the strikes, but it’s okay. That’s not how I get him anyway. Today, I go with what flows.

  This game is all about instinct. Maiko once equated it to a dance. I laughed at the time, but it was when my father was alive, and he agreed, stare serious as she explained that in a match we’re willing adversaries, and all movement is choreographed on the go.

  I slap the guy’s shoulder and help him to his feet. We’re both breathing hard. Maiko hands me a towel, which stains red from the jab he got in against my nose. It doesn’t feel broken.