Royal Pain (3 page)

The Bag Incident transpired thusly.

Having just disassembled said pretty-perfect New York City life and made the great sacrifices of quitting job and leaving family and friends, but still feeling pretty heroic and grand-gestureish about the whole thing, Bronte landed at Chicago O’Hare airport. She made it through to baggage claim and, not seeing the promised welcome wagon of Mr. Texas anywhere in sight, set about the awkward task of hauling her bag off the luggage carousel.

It was an enormous, army-green duffel bag—looking back, it kind of screamed
refugee
—that was stuffed to bursting with every last-minute thing that had not made it into the final boxes that she’d shipped the week before. Then she turned and he was there—her big, brawny, blond dream, waiting for her, right across the security barricade and just outside baggage claim.

How sweet was that? Coming to the airport? He didn’t need to do that in the middle of a busy workday, right? So Bronte dragged the massive duffel over to where he was standing, dropped the body bag on the ground with a thud, reached up to hug said dreamboat, and was greeted, instead, with a quick peck on the cheek and a terse, “I am in a no-parking zone so let’s step it up, darlin’.”

Those pearls of tender welcome were immediately followed by a quick pivot, the sight of a man’s strong, wide back making its confident, blond way out of the airport, and a woman and her enormous bag—and unkissed lips—left standing in said airport.

Gutted.

She always thought of a Haida dugout canoe when she thought of that word. Perfect.

Fucking gutted.

He may or may not have come back to help carry the bag—her well-honed wolf whistle may have alerted him to his slight oversight—but that was irrelevant. The reality (why hello! Nice to meet you!) slapped Bronte so hard that she never really got over it.

He didn’t give a rat’s ass whether she was there or not. If she wanted to shack up for a while, that’s cool, whatever. Move in with me. Move in across the street. That’s cool. Wherever it leads. Yeah. Right.

Wrong.

In the end—for surely The Bag Incident was the beginning of the end—it wasn’t even his fault. He had never said, “Move in with me and it will be hell-fire-kick-ass-knock-your-socks-off sex day and night followed by a lifetime of more excellent sex and marriage and children and more great sex.” Bronte had simply hoped.

She had hoped hard.

She had hoped that because she was twenty-eight and smart and independent and tall and
all
that
, and he was thirty-five and approaching a certain age and had always told her she was cool and how they were really great together and, yeah, well, you get the picture. One of his favorite compliments had always been to tell Bronte that she was “a bit of all right”—as in “you’re a bit of all right, darlin’.”

In real life, however, it turned out that the weight of any lasting commitment could not be borne by a bit of all right. It required a boatload.

By early November, after she had tried every desperate, craving, begging thing to keep them together, bitter understanding dawned. It turned out that all of his winking and thrumming and complicit Texan drawling was not in the least bit exclusive. Not that he was cheating on her, exactly—it was just that he made every woman feel like she was the only person in the world on whom he would bestow the shining light of his goodwill.

Unfortunately, Bronte did not grasp that germane fact until she had left her perfectly good life in New York and entered his world in Chicago. She was no longer the special weekend treat but the daily routine.

Was all that shit about getting the milk for free really true? No, in her case at least, it wasn’t that—Bronte was already happily giving him the milk for free in New York and on sexy weekends elsewhere, after all—but when she was right there every minute of every day, asking about groceries and dry cleaning and whether he wanted to go to the movies on Thursday night? That just wasn’t special enough.
She
just wasn’t special enough.

Within days of moving to Chicago—within minutes, really—Bronte knew for certain that she had made the biggest, whoppingest, ball-out-of-the-park, shit-show mistake of her young life. The fact that
whoppingest
was not a word didn’t stop her from using it (repeatedly) to describe the extent of her folly.

A mere eight months ago, she had been a chic, independent junior advertising executive, dating her long-distance dream man (successful, complimentary, magnetic,
all
that
), while living the high life in New York City: at the top of her game, so to speak.

So.

To.

Speak.

The top of her game, in retrospect, was really her ability to sustain the belief that her feelings were shared when reality lent no such credence.

Mr. Texas had even had the gall to suggest they might want to continue “fooling around” after they broke up, you know, as one does. She had never gone for the friends-with-benefits idea and certainly wasn’t going to start with, the bad boy from Midland. First of all, they were never really
friends
to begin with, and second of all, there was no
benefit
to spending time in bed worrying over why he never wanted to be
more
than friends.

She told him it was simply because he was a horse’s ass. The truth was that his greatest crime was being a too-potent reminder of Bronte’s emotional immaturity, but she would not come to admit that for ages.

He had been as ambivalent about breaking up as he had been about getting together. Her histrionics about the shattered pieces of her perfectly good life seemed nigh on hysterical compared to his blasé “Aw, babe, come on. It’s just fading out.”

Having no firm opposition against which to batter her breakup frustration was, at times, as depressing as the very failure of The Relationship. He did not even care enough to break up with fervor. In December, when Bronte finally accepted complete defeat, she told him, with a surprising absence of drama, that she would prefer if they never spoke again.

Bronte decided to render him permanently nameless, thus—retroactively at least—relegating him to that part of her brain reserved for The Purposely Forgotten: the bitch from tenth grade who lied and told everyone Bronte was sleeping around; the guy at Cal who had pursued her for months, finally seduced her, then never called again. Those types of people, in Bronte’s opinion, deserved perpetual anonymity. Her joking epithet, Mr. Texas, was now his permanent soubriquet.

The lingering misery came more from Bronte’s having to finally admit the extent of her own delusional stubbornness (real and vast), rather than trying to pin her heartbreak on his broken promises (essentially vague).

He loved her. So what, y’all?

January found her immersed in her new job by day and a fetid depression on nights and weekends. Carol’s words were her constant companion:
Just
you
wait
and
see.

By the time spring rolled around, Bronte was feeling almost forgiving (of herself, for her own idiocy). It turned out that Chicago, the city, was really not to blame for her debacle either, at least not during the months between April and October. (November through March might have added to the depth of her wretchedness, but that was just sour grapes.)

With the birds singing and the buds just beginning to bloom on the tree-lined streets of her new,
cool
neighborhood (worlds away from his
supposedly
cool but really just antiseptic, middle-aged skyscraper neighborhood), Bronte was returning to her heretofore typical optimism.

These days, she was even starting to look at the bright side of her hibernation-cum-depression of the past few months: because all food had tasted like sawdust as a result of her self-loathing—she had lived almost exclusively on a menu of Grape-Nuts for breakfast, tuna salad (with Dijon mustard, no mayonnaise) for lunch, and the occasional salad for dinner—she was now the new-and-improved, super-skinny Bronte.

She had also managed to thrive at her killer job (what with all that free time in the evenings and on the weekends, she was like a goddamned drone). The small ad agency had a fabulous roster of clients, primarily in the fashion and travel industries, and she was just about to snag another hot new client, her fifth since moving. All of which meant if (when!) she moved back to New York, to her
real
real life, she wouldn’t have to do so with her tail entirely between her legs.

Relationship-wise? Yes.

Career-wise? No.

She tried to let all of that put a smile on her face as she strolled into her favorite used bookstore in Wicker Park and then wondered absently if she was too skinny. From the head-to-toe perusal she got from the Goth, pierced guy slumped over his comic book at the unvarnished plywood checkout counter, somebody seemed to think she was looookin’ gooood.

Perfect
, thought Bron.
Just
what
I
need
is
to
be
attracting
lascivious
looks
of
approbation
from
pale, pierced twentysomethings
.

Great.

So it happened that she turned toward the science-fiction section with a bit more snooty-toss-of-the-head-toward-Goth-Guy than she had intended, which just goes to show that you shouldn’t spend too much time dissing the Marilyn Manson checkout dude because your face may look bitter and pinched like that when you turn into the narrow science-fiction aisle and bump into someone actually worth smiling about. That would be the someone with the slow smile and the how-are-you, blue-gray eyes looking up from a squatted position near the bottom shelf, an open copy of
Hyperion
in his strong hand.

And
that’s
the moment Bronte thanked her lucky stars that her college boyfriend actually demanded that she read
Dune
,
Shibumi
, and
Hyperion
to have true insight into the male mind. Because, thanks to that college boyfriend, she would now be able to say something witty about Dan Simmons and how she preferred his earlier work to his later terror stuff.

That was all great in theory. In reality, she stood there totally tongue-tied and just sort of stared.

Idiotically.

“Do you need to get past?” he asked politely.

Was that a British accent? Please. Yes, please.

“Uh…”
Bronte, come on, you can do this. He did not propose—he just asked if you needed to pass by to get down that part of the stacks.

Another smile. “You all right, then?”

Definitely British. Definitely all right. (And way more than a bit of it.)

Air, please.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ve been spending a lot of time alone lately, so when I go out on Saturdays, it’s kind of like I’m on parole.”

Spending
a
lot
of
time
alone
lately? On parole? From the psych ward most likely. Are you kidding me? Oh, Bronte, tell me you did not just say that desperate sentence!

“So, yeah… excuse me… thanks.” And with that, Bronte turned sideways (
am
I
emaciated?
she wondered again) and made her way toward contemporary fiction. She was going to need a heavy dose of Lionel Shriver or Ian McEwan to remind herself that there were absolutely no happy endings in this life.
Leave
your
bliss
at
the
door, you optimistic fool!

Okay, well maybe just a little Eloisa James thrown in for good measure. She tucked a couple of romances between the contemporary novels and headed for the exit.

Bronte ended up buying four books, gave the Goth teller a genuine smile for his troubles, and walked directly across the bright, busy avenue and into her favorite diner. A few minutes later, she was surprised to find herself to be nearly content, a huge mug of steaming coffee clutched firmly in her hands and an order of buckwheat banana pancakes on the way. The embarrassing loss of her powers of speech with
Hyperion
Man started to smack a little less.
Spending
time
alone?
Why not just wear a T-shirt that says
I
Am
Lonely
… or
Pity
Me
.

The following Saturday, she returned to the bookstore around the same time.

Was she hoping to accidentally bump into
Hyperion
Man?

Duh.

She ignored the vampire at the cash register and made her way toward sci-fi and—la!—there he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor reading. It was like reverting to type, but in a good way. She
did
like readers.

He looked up then and smiled broadly. “I was hoping I might bump into you. Are you on parole again?”

“I am actually. Good behavior and all that. Especially on bright spring days like this, the warden thinks a bit of fresh air is good for the inmates.”

“What did you think of the Ian McEwan?”

“The what?”

“The one you got last weekend,
On
Chesil
Beach
.”

“How do you know what book I bought?”

“I asked the creep at the checkout counter.”

“Isn’t there some sort of attorney-client privilege at points of sale?”

“Not as far as the sales guy is concerned.”

“Hmmm. I feel mildly violated.”

His eyes sparked a happy flicker at the mention of Bronte’s ostensible violation.

“Okay. So maybe by next week I will have sorted out my command of the English language. Until then.” She smiled and moved past him, making a beeline for the romance section. No point in pretending her mind would be inclined to any other genre, what with that velvety British voice and those icy gray eyes to ponder.

And so it went for the next six weeks. Every Saturday at ten thirty, Bronte would make her way—casually, of course—into the science-fiction section, and every Saturday, the lovely young gentleman from England would ask about what she had read last week. By the third week, she realized he was buying the same books that she was and reading them over the course of the intervening week. Sort of an imaginary book club of two.

Without all those annoying discussions.

She liked the idea of him reading contemporary romance novels. One week, she chose a particularly erotic one and then felt compelled to offset it with a dismal dirge of a novel that had won all sorts of literary awards, just in case he thought she was merely depraved.

And then, every Saturday after her pass through the stacks, she would cross the street and sit at the same small table for two in the front window of the café with a clear view of the bookshop entrance. If he happened to walk out, and she happened to get another good look at him, then so be it.

Sometimes he waved.

Usually, she started reading one of the books she had just purchased and missed his exit from the bookstore altogether.

Then one morning in early May, she was turning the page of her latest penny dreadful and shaking her head with a final, self-deprecating snort, momentarily reliving her tongue-tied foolishness, when that deep, sweet voice asked, “Is this seat taken?”

And Bronte could do nothing but sigh inwardly with a victorious,
Yes!
As in:
Yes, there is a benevolent power in the force and I am not frigid or emaciated and I may make a new friend-who’s-a-boy today who even pursued me all the way across the street from the bookshop.

But of course it came out as, “Yes.” In answer to the question, “Is this seat taken?” So she started laughing and then blurted out, “
No
, the seat is not taken.
Yes
, I would like you to sit there.”

And so it began.

Bronte felt so rusty at being cheerful, much less flirty, that her halting speech and inept repartee actually made it easier for them to get to know each other. His name was Max Heyworth. He was finishing up his PhD in economics at the University of Chicago before heading back to England in July to be near his family and resume his career in mergers and acquisitions at one of the top firms in the British utilities industry.

“I finally finished my dissertation last week, the written part at least,” he said, “and I have been thinking all these weeks that following you into this coffee shop today would be my just reward.”

She liked the idea of being Max’s reward, then felt a touch of melancholy that he would be leaving so soon. Two months was not much time for them to be together, but it was better than none at all. And as her friend April would have pointed out: since Bronte had failed so stupendously with Mr. Texas, she was no longer in the market for a life partner. She was now in the market for the perfect TM.

“What are you smiling about?” Max asked through his own smile, as he brought his coffee cup to his lips.
Strong, curving, kissable lips
, thought Bronte.

“I’m not sure I should tell you, since it will make me sound like a pretty cold customer, but in the interest of my newfound code of brutal honesty, here goes. I was just thinking that my friend April, in New York, has been slinging her own brand of self-help-hash lately, telling me that what I
really
need to get over my disastrous former relationship is a TM…” Bronte paused and looked into Max’s mischievous gray-blue eyes.
Killer
eyes
, she thought.

“And…” he prodded.

“And ‘TM’ stands for ‘Transitional Man,’” she added in a rush.

A year ago, Bronte probably would have blushed at her own forthrightness, but she had decided months ago that she no longer blushed. Mr. Texas had seen to that. No more speculative moments of potential romance in the eyes of that handsome passing stranger on the way into Water Tower; no more hopeful reveries while watching babies in strollers and children flying kites near the Lincoln Park Zoo; no more mooning over the pages of the eligible royal bachelors in the pages of
Hello!
magazine. No more dreaming.

She was all about the facts these days. After her colossal misunderstanding of the most basic tenets of her relationship with Mr. Texas, she vowed that from here on out, when it came to men, she would actually listen to the words coming out of their mouths (“Sure, if you want to move to Chicago, you should.” = “You’re on your own, sister!”) rather than the dream dialogue she was hearing in her brain (“Blah blah move to Chicago!” = “I really want you to move to Chicago so we can live happily ever after. I love you!”).

She could do this. She could stand firm and cool. All it required was honesty. Brutal honesty. Even while he was looking at her with those dreamy, gray wolf eyes.

Steady girl.

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly.

That was clear enough, Bronte thought. Then, “What had I asked? Sorry I wasn’t listening.”

“I think you asked if I wanted to be your Transitional Man, and I answered yes. Still yes.” His eyes twinkled over the rim of his coffee mug as the reflecting sun caught the long window of a passing bus on Halsted Street and flashed across Max’s face.

Nice.

Before Bronte could come up with a good retort, her cell phone started ringing. She glanced down, seeing Carol Dieppe’s name on the caller ID.

“Do you mind if I take this, Max?”

“Go ahead. No worries.”

She smiled and flipped open her phone. “This is Bron.”

Max looked across the café table at the fabulous view of Bronte Talbott swearing like a sailor into her phone. Her long, straight, chestnut hair gleamed as she swung it carelessly over her shoulder to position the phone next to her ear. The curve of her jaw rested on the palm of her other hand. She started to twist a strand of her hair absentmindedly, and Max wondered how soon he would be able to do the same. His fingers were already itching to run endlessly through Bronte’s hair, to caress the back of her long neck, to—

“No fucking way… he did not… are you going apeshit? Are you spending the whole weekend at the office?… Bullshit, he’s just jealous… right… uh-huh… well, that’s a load of crap and you know it… okay, I’ll talk to you later. I’d love to run some of my ideas by you about a pitch I’m working on, no specifics…” Bronte was half-listening to Carol’s response as she glanced up at Max, thinking she would sneak a look. But instead of the quick peek she had intended, she met a penetrating gaze that seared right through her. His eyes went a darker shade of steel blue and contracted for a split second when they locked on hers.

“Uh, yeah, I’m still here, Carol, but let me hop. I’ll call you later this afternoon… okay… bye.” Bronte ended the call and double-checked that the line was dead before she started talking about the person she had just hung up on.

She looked back up at Max with a sheepish smile on her lips. “So, by the way, as you might have just gathered, I like to swear. A lot. And most of my friends call me Bron.”