by Laura Kenyon
If words were visible to the naked eye, all five kingdoms would have seen the mushroom cloud of outrage billowing into the sky following this statement. Belle looked mortified as the others pounced on her for details. It was cruel, perhaps, but Rapunzel had played therapist, cheerleader, and emotional referee for over a week now. It was starting to take a toll.
Murmuring something about the sangria, she scooped the dwindling pitcher off the table and slipped inside. To say she was a little bit “off” would be a massive understatement. But unlike Belle, Rapunzel didn’t want to talk about her romantic dilemma. Unlike Cindy, she didn’t want to silently obsess over it either. She’d dealt with this feeling once before, and intended to overcome it the only way she knew—by getting drunk, flirting with strangers, scribbling out her emotions, and remembering that the only guaranteed result of love is pain. Unfortunately, she’d yet to complete the first step. She needed more sangria.
On autopilot, she splashed another bottle of merlot into the pitcher, added a healthy sprinkling of whiskey, dumped in some pre-cut limes, and reached for the oranges. The first slice she made was clean—like the one her drugged-up parents made when they traded her to Grethel, in infancy, in exchange for a pound of rampion. She was fine not knowing a thing about them—though she did wonder, every so often, if they ever wondered back.
Shaking her head, she grabbed one of the slices and squeezed it over the pitcher. Bright yellow drops fell into the dark red liquid and disappeared. It was ten inches, maybe, from her fist to the wine—nowhere near the thirty feet she would have had to fall to escape Grethel’s tower. The thirty feet she’d dragged that so-called prince who found her one day, spoke loving words of rescue, and then mashed her heart into a black, gooey mess.
“Dammit!” she cursed her brain and crushed the orange slice completely. Bloody pulp gushed up from the cracks between her fingers.
None of her friends knew the reason Grethel finally released—no, exiled—Rapunzel from her tower all those years ago. Between Dawn’s coma, Donner’s curse, and Cindy’s magical transformation, the world had all the tall tales it needed. Besides, minus Grethel’s lineage and the way that bastard ascended the tower (by climbing her ponytail, lengthened by an enchanted cosmetology kit), hers was just another exhausted story of girl meets boy; boy promises to love girl forever; girl gets stood up; girl’s guardian finds out she tried to leave and kicks girl out on her ungrateful ass.
The story had been done. And Rapunzel didn’t get where she was today by wandering down Memory Lane. To the contrary. When she first landed on her rump in that alley, she was a mess—heartsick over the pain she’d caused Grethel and furious that she’d fallen for a strange man’s lies. In order to survive, she’d had to shut all that off. She’d had to become the feisty wild child the world knew and loved—and that she loved, too. Now, she had fame, fortune, friends, and a heart that seemed immune to the weakness of love. She was happy this way. But someone had put all that in danger. Someone—with a bewitching accent, salt and pepper locks, and scruffy three-part facial hair that few men could pull off—had disrupted the balance.
- -
It happened three days earlier, after Cindy raced out of sculpture class leaving a mass of clay manhood on the table. The stranger Rapunzel had been eying made his move.
“What sort of vase is that?” he asked, peering down at the monstrosity. “I don’t mean to offend here, but is it for a hen party? Or an anatomy lesson, perhaps?”
Rapunzel’s insides tightened and twirled a few times purely based on his voice. He had a loose, bouncy way of speaking that pointed immediately to Stularia, an island realm on the other side of the world known for hopping marsupials and a vast orange outback. It was widely considered home to the smoothest, sexiest accent a man could have. She wondered if it was real.
“In my experience,” she said, giving him a sly, sideward smirk, “the two are usually one and the same. In fact, they go together quite nicely. Like peanut butter and jelly.”
“Well, then, I believe a rephrasing is in order. I much prefer peanut butter and honey anyway. How about, ‘We go together like peckers and pink tiaras.’” He flashed the sort of wide smile that sells picture frames. “How does that sound?”
Rapunzel turned fully around and pushed some teal-streaked bangs out of her eyes. She gave him a slow, concentrated once over, and felt another twirl. “I think that sounds prite quomising.” A nervous laugh popped off her lips. “I mean, quite promising.” Well, that was unusual. So much for her slick banter.
The man cleared his throat as she analyzed his hair, ragged and dark with a sprinkling of premature gray; his backlit eyes, swirling with bits of green and brown; and his lips, puffy with a mysterious slant, as if they were holding back a particularly tantalizing secret.
“Prite quomising, ay?” He laughed and plucked a fleck of clay from her hair. “Better lay off those morning cocktails.”
“Oh, I don’t drink in the mornings,” she answered without thinking. “At least not on Mondays.” Her toes balled up as she laughed again. Her eyes darted to the door. What was wrong with her? He was obviously joking, not looking for her life story. She was Rapunzel Delmonico, dammit. Ice cold and molten hot at the same time, remember?
Mercifully, the man moved on and introduced himself as Ethan Wilkins. He’d missed the deadline for Professor Limon’s spring class, he said, and had come to put himself on next season’s list. “But it seems that’s already full up too.” He flicked the inside of his palm. His hands were quite … large. “Shame. These fingers don’t get used like they did back home. They could really do with some exercise.”
A thrill shot into the base of Rapunzel’s stomach and ricocheted around. This guy was good. She instantly pictured him under the hot sun “back home,” patting sweat from his chest with one hand and roping a horse with the other. That’s what they did in Stularia, right? Either way. Her fantasy, her rules. And with that chin beard, soul patch, mustache combo he had going on (not to mention the mysterious scar running halfway down his cheek), he fit it perfectly. He was mouth-wateringly rugged with a suave, authoritative polish as well. Oh, he’d have no problem tying her down and—
“I’ll talk to Limon.” The four words rushed out involuntarily, instantly breaking two of her golden rules: Don’t date someone with a common boss, coach, landlord, professor, or anything else that could make the escape less clean; and don’t muddy up the waters with favors (except, of course, on his part). Thankfully, it took barely a minute for her to convince Professor Limon to push her new friend to the top of his summer roster, and half that time for Ethan to repay her with a drink at the Waldorf Plaza.
“Well you obviously know how to get your way,” he said on the walk over. “I guess I should be extra careful.”
She shrugged and flashed a coy smirk. In all honesty, Limon hadn’t hesitated for a moment at her request, though he did seem surprised it was coming from her. “Well, I did once pose for Maxistam covered by nothing but a purple swan,” she said as Ethan’s toe caught the sidewalk. He made a quick recovery and tried to disguise it with a cough. “So I don’t usually have to say much.”
Rapunzel knew exactly how this evening was going to play out because she’d done it a thousand times. There would be too many drinks, spontaneous dinner reservations, a thinly veiled comment about “dessert,” and a passionate flinging of clothes in the bedroom belonging to whoever lived closer.
As predicted, the drink at the Waldorf turned into a bottle of champagne, then a two-hour dinner, and finally a moonlit walk through Capitol Park. But there was something very different. Whereas most of her dates spent their time comparing her eyes to the moon, Ethan asked questions about her life (most of which she skillfully avoided) and her dreams (which she hadn’t thought much about in years). She countered by making up funny stories about the lives of passing couples and people walking their dogs.
“You sure do ask a lot of questions,” she said as he weaved his fingers thro
ugh hers. She resisted for a moment but then gave in.
“You’re a mystery,” he said. “And I simply must figure you out.” Gently, he pulled her hand up to his lips. Then he swung the rest of her swiftly in the same direction. Rapunzel felt the world spin. She lost her balance for one exhilarating moment, but Ethan’s arm swept like an anchor behind her back and pulled her close.
“You caught me,” she said, turning her face to catch her heartbeat. It was thumping a mile a minute.
“No,” he said as his lips edged closer. “You caught me.”
Their eyes locked. Rapunzel felt her heart rush up her throat. There was something about this man that made her feel snug, and safe, and terrified all at the same time. He didn’t quite fit into any mold she’d encountered before. She didn’t know what to make of it. She breathed him in. His free hand moved up the back of her neck. She melted a little while standing, waiting for his kiss.
Instead, he smiled and spun her back around. The white lights in the trees blurred and multiplied, echoing her fuzzy mind. Her next move floated just out of grasp as he raised his arm to the street. Then she saw the taxi.
“Good idea,” she said, slipping inside and fixing her hair. “Your place or mine?” But when no answer came and she rotated around to ask again, the man with the debonair scar was still standing in the street.
“Thanks for a wonderful evening,” he said, one arm on the door and the other holding her headrest. She just stared back, dumbfounded.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, searching her with his eyes. They seemed to be reading a stock ticker. But what was so complicated? She was Rapunzel Delmonico. The Mirror was obsessed with tracking her love affairs. She’d written two bestsellers redefining chivalry and heralding the age of the “knight-less woman.” Her evening ending in meaningless sex shouldn’t be a surprise. “Did you forget something?” he asked, setting her up for the perfect, mushy fairy tale reply.
“Yes,” she could have said. “You.” But this would go against everything she stood for. She just had to suck it up. He was playing her, wasn’t he? He wanted her to beg him to take her home. Well, fat chance, buddy.
“Nope, nothing,” she said. “Just thought we could share a cab.”
Ethan smiled. “Actually, I’ll walk. I’m just a block away.” Her insides ignited, but she didn’t let it show. He lived a block away? And she was sitting alone in a cab why? “But I’d really love to see you again.”
Yeah, I’ll bet you would. How about in five minutes? She screamed inside. Naked.
Rapunzel Delmonico didn’t do the whole “call me tomorrow” thing. Rapunzel Delmonico did the “let’s have breakfast in bed since we’re already here” thing. Rather than answer him, she peered down at her nails. Her day-old manicure was already starting to chip. She’d have to get a new one tomorrow. Maybe Cindy would have time to—
It all happened in an instant. Something warm hooked beneath her chin. Her neck tilted commandingly upward. Her lips fell smack into Ethan’s, then ceased belonging to her. Every inch of her began to swirl. She could have sworn she heard something crash. She felt suddenly dizzy … and hot … and … as the kiss continued … like she could have melted into him and been happy forever. Then she heard him say something, felt him put something into her hand, and saw the scenery change as the car drove off.
This stranger had wined her, dined her, and kissed her in a way that no man had ever kissed her before. Then he’d disappeared, leaving her with a phone number and a longing that she’d never wanted to feel again.
- -
Rapunzel knew her friends would either knock this down as alcohol-induced lust, or start planning her wedding. That’s why, after stirring the newly refreshed sangria and loading a tray with carrots and more fruit, she tossed Ethan’s number into the trash and vowed not to tell them a word.
“In case anyone wants to avoid diabetes,” she explained, setting the tray between the macaroons and dark forest brownies.
Cindy smiled at the sangria and held out her glass. “You know,” she sang, “as crazy as things are right now, I’m just so happy we’re together. Friends are so important, you guys. Really.” The other women exchanged amused smirks. “I love you.”
Rapunzel proudly noted that at least one of her friends was buzzed. Sentimentality was Cindy’s sure-fire tell because it was the complete opposite of her usual high stress and paranoia.
“Speaking of crazy,” Penny said, her voice suddenly serious and her focus on Cindy. “I’ve been trying not to ask, but what was it we saw the other night? Please tell me Aaron was—”
“Oh!” Sangria rocketed from Cindy’s mouth as she grasped for words. “Oh, everything was fine.” She pointed her chin not-so-subtly toward Belle, who thankfully wasn’t paying attention. “Total misunderstanding. How’s Letitia’s party coming?”
While Penny launched off on the predictable rant about her mother-in-law, Cindy grabbed Rapunzel’s sleeve and yanked her close. “I do not want Belle to know about Aaron,” she whispered, “but I can’t stand being near him right now. Can I stay here tonight with you guys? Please please please?”
Rapunzel thought for a split second. What wouldn’t she give to have someone else man Belle’s emotional rollercoaster for a night? “I think that’s a great idea!” Her voice echoed off the surrounding rooftops and reclaimed the spotlight from Penny. “Cindy’s just had a wonderful idea,” she said. “Spur-of-the-moment girls’ night. Belle’s already here and Cindy’s in. Dawn? Penny?”
Penny swiped a macaroon and settled back in her seat. “Anything to get away from Letitia.”
Rapunzel cocked her head. “Gee, that’s flattering.”
“You know what I mean.”
“How about you, Dawn?” Rapunzel asked. “Can’t have a slumber party without a genuine sleeping beauty—especially one with insomnia.”
“It’s not insomnia, it’s a side effect of the curse.”
“Either way, it’ll be so much more fun than staring at Hunter—or whatever it is you do—all night. We can teach Penny all the things she missed growing up in Vashia—pillow fights, Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever. By tomorrow, there won’t be a secret left between any of us.”
Dawn craned her neck against her shoulder. “I … I really shouldn’t,” she said. “Hunter has a big acquisition tomorrow and he insists that I be there, refreshed. Plus, Morning is entertaining a boy tonight, so—”
Cindy’s hand flew up and smacked Rapunzel square in the nose.
“A boy?” she exclaimed between coughs. “Morning is dating?”
Dawn rubbed her hands along her arms. “No. They have schoolwork to complete together. I believe it’s called a diorama. But I do think she has affections for someone. Kids seem to grow up too fast these days. Not like when I was a girl.”
Rapunzel rolled her eyes. She didn’t need another speech about how wonderful things were in the “good old days,” or how morals had degenerated during her slumber. “Dawn, weren’t you, like, twelve when you married Hunter?”
“I was seventeen,” Dawn grumbled. “Really three hundred and seventeen if you’d like to get technical about it.”
“Oh that’s right,” Rapunzel said, struggling to hide her irritation. Dawn played the stoic wife and mother card very well, but Rapunzel suspected there was someone very different under the mask. Deep down, she was pretty sure Dawn could barely stomach her husband, a real estate magnate on a mad quest to fill the world with hotels and casinos bearing his name. She was pretty sure that, had she not given birth exactly nine months after he found her (another reason the Miss Manners charade had its holes), Marestam’s “sleeping beauty” would be someone else entirely.
“Dawn, if you can’t stay, of course we understand,” said Cindy. “My oldest is only a year behind Morning and I certainly wouldn’t leave her alone with a boy.”
“Well, at least stay for a little while longer,” Rapunzel insisted, filling Dawn’s glass. "Now. Truth? Or dare?”
* * *
As the sunlight seared through Rapunzel’s bare windows the next morning, blurry snapshots from the evening festivities ricocheted through her mind. In one flash, she saw Penny passed out on the couch, cuddling with a bottle of raspberry lambic. She saw Belle sobbing (and then laughing, and then sobbing again) and stomping off to bed before the fun even began. She recalled a table full of the most hideous excuses for male body parts Cindy could sculpt from raw cookie dough. She remembered Dawn staying far later than she’d intended and rambling on about some “soulmate” she’d had back in Selladóre, a boy she feared never made it out of the Great Sleep. She remembered the kitchen … a slip of paper … and a frantic search through the trash bin. Then she remembered seeing the floor pan beneath her feet as she floated up to her bedroom … in Ethan’s arms.
She shot up with a gasp as reality flooded in. Her friends had met Ethan. Ethan had met her friends. Ethan had seen her drunk as a troll, constructing chocolate chip penises, and warbling like an incoherent teenager.
“Shit!” she barked at no one and everyone. “Shit shit shit!” She leapt out of bed and impulsively grabbed a silk bathrobe—before realizing she was still wearing her previous day’s outfit, still zipped, hooked and tied in all the right places.
“Now that’s no way to greet such a gorgeous morning,” a familiar voice bounced in, instantly stopping the room from spinning. Rapunzel rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t dreaming the shirtless man standing in her doorway with a tray of waffles and mimosas.
“Whashappen?” Her voice sounded like grating metal.
Ethan’s laugh expelled some of her grogginess. “Seems you had quite a rager last night. When I got here, you and your mates were on top of the table belting angry love songs. How’s your throat feel?”