I get to my feet and wander to the window. My breath catches. The view makes me wonder just how close I am to the top of the world—to floating in the clouds. The mountain vista is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. They start wide and sprawling with a band of evergreens at the base, graduate to sheer rock, and then disappear into the heavens.
The mountains loom. They stand sentry. They’re magnificent. I stare at the scenery and decide that I prefer it to flat land and the humidity that I’d left behind. Although I do miss Etta Jo and even Giselle. I snap a photo and send it in a group text thread to both of them with the caption: not a bad view.
With one last glance out the window, I spot Declan in the garden speaking with Arthur Fitzgerald, the butler. Leave it to him to make friends wherever he goes.
The valet stowed my belongings by a silk upholstered sofa. I plop down because I need a moment to catch my breath. To think. Must be the high elevation and this fresh mountain air.
I’m not thinking about Declan or how he may have recognized me as the Cinderella character who fell into the fountain from the viral video. Okay, maybe a little.
Humiliating much? Yes, a lot.
When we first met, we were instant friends, like we’d known each other for years, hadn’t seen each other in a while, and then picked up right where we left off. That’s the way it was. I expected that when we reunited, it would be like that again, but something is different now. I can’t pinpoint what it is, though.
My thoughts dip into the past and worry grips me in its calloused hand. What if, between the last time we saw each other and now, he also saw the embarrassing home video that put my face on national television when I was too young to speak up for myself? My parents knew it would boost the ratings of their show, so they humiliated me, their only daughter.
Early on, all I wanted was their attention, but after that incident, I did my best to be as invisible as possible.
However, lately, it’s like the real me is trying to dig her way out and reveal herself.
When Declan commented on doing histhing, I couldn’t help but wonder what my thing is. Trying and failing at all my jobs? Falling into fountains? Running? Hiding?
Baking when I’m upset? That’s exactly what I want to do right now. Oh, the reliable rhythm of adding ingredients. The soothing stir of batter or the kneading of dough. The scent of something comforting in the oven. I want to mix flour and sugar and vanilla. Add butter, eggs, and oil and achieve a wonderfully delicious outcome.
I’d once dreamed of having a cake shop, which had morphed into a mobile bakery. Though that business venture failed like everything else.
I have to focus on my new job and my future. Not the man who attacked me with water guns, developed a haughty celebrity attitude, and doesn’t care that he showed the world his backside.
The truth is, my tolerance is rock bottom for people who put the attention of strangers, fans, likes, and follows over what is important. Family. Integrity. Faith.
Declan is no exception, but I have a pretty good idea of who he is, at least deep down. In addition to being a stinker, he’s also a good person, reliable, thoughtful, and gives the best hugs. It’s the part he hides from the world, instead, showing them what they want to see. I hope.
I also noticed that he has muscles everywhere—new ones since we last saw each other in person. No surprise, given he works out multiple times a day. He probably also has them in his pinky finger. His hair is dark blond with a hint of red, but his beard is reddish brown. He has straight teeth with a narrow gap between the front two. His nose is crooked, but that’s old news. In another life, he may have been a boxer or a Scottish Highlander.
All of it together makes him unique. Like he has stories to tell and isn’t just another rough, tough, hot, bad-boy, football player.
I try to sink into the couch, but it isn’t the cushy, soft kind like Etta Jo’s, and resists me as though bouncing me back to the last words I’d thought like a Word Scramble.
Hot football player.
Declan, hot? Let me clarify. He’s objectively hot. Half the country would agree. I lightly scold myself because not only does the mere thought of that tread on best friend territory, but threatens to trample our relationship in a professional capacity. I’d lose my job over our friendship, but I won’t lose my friendship by crossing that line and letting myself think that Declan is anything other than a cave-dwelling man-beast whohappens to have a great smile and unnatural ability to make me laugh—except when he blasted me with water.
If Giselle, Etta Jo, and I were placed on a dating life scale with it running from prolific to scant, Giselle would be toward the former and I’d be on the latter end with Etta Jo sitting squarely in the middle. The couple of guys I’ve gone out with have been toads—and not the kind that turn into a prince when kissed.
But the last one, Larry, had also worked on the cast. It turned out he had a list, literally, and was checking off all of us ladies so he could boast that he’d dated all of the Disney princesses. Before him, I’d been set up by a coworker at my previous place of employment, with a guy who’d learned who my parents are and was more interested in them than me. I moved to Orlando after that to avoid any further association. Then there was Sylvester, who ruined everything.
I shake those failures from my thoughts and Declan replaces them. The way he looked at me with his soft brown eyes that are at complete odds with all his sharp edges. The way he’d saiddate.
I blame it on the jet lag, the abrupt transition, and the shock of seeing someone familiar in a foreign place. I’m not here to check out football players. That’s Giselle’s territory. But I have no business entertaining these thoughts about my best friend, and especially not a guy who is mischievous, famous, or any other -ous.
Bottom line, I’m not interested in dating and even if I was, I wouldn’t risk it. I have to keep my new job at all costs. There’s nowhere left to go. I gave up my apartment in Florida and I have little more than the belongings I brought to Concordia.
More than anything, I refuse to turn to my parents for help.
The little girl from the airport floats into my mind. She’d saidI want to be just like you when I grow up. The comment lodges itself in my mind.
It’s not that I’m irresponsible. I’ve completely supported myself since I was eighteen. My independence didn’t so much go against my parents’ wishes, not that they ever really cared. Rather, they couldn’t fathom why I’d give up a life under the lights, the Honey Holiday credits to my name, and the endless quest for more fame and fortune. They just wanted to use me to keep the cash and cameras rolling. But it’s hard, being on my own.
My inner goblin stomps around, trying to find a way in, along with loneliness. I trace the stark, empty feeling back to my earliest memories.
