ME, CINDERELLA?(46)

The cameras kept flashing.





Dizzy with champagne, I was completely unprepared for Eliot’s breakdown, for his attack on the photographer.

My head had been swimming nicely in bubbles as Eliot danced with me, and then he kissed me, or I kissed him, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt right to be held by him, to press my lips to his, and I could feel the need inside of him as he pulled me tightly into his arms. Everything was perfect and right and good, and then he exploded and security guards swarmed around us and Eliot turned and left me alone. I remember the photographer coughing as he helped the man out of the river, his teeth chattering with cold.

I held out my hand to stop Eliot, but he was already gone. Tipsy though I was, I remembered to get my purse and coat before following him out the door. People around me stared and talked in Hungarian, and I had no idea what was going on.

I stumbled down the street, my heels slipping on the icy sidewalk, and almost passed by the bridge where Eliot sat crouched fifty feet away, huddled against the cold granite. Shaking his head, he clutched his arms around his knees.

“Eliot?” I called out to him from across the street, but he did not hear me. I waited until the cars had gone, then made my way across to him.

“Eliot?”

Eyes tightly closed, he muttered something under his breath, his head still shaking from side to side. I leaned down, but the words were Hungarian, and I could not understand. I touched him on the shoulder and he started backwards, hitting his head against the side of the bridge.

“Nem!”

I knew enough Hungarian to know what that meant—no.

“Eliot, it’s me.” Eliot’s eyes were wild, terror still written on his face.

“Clare.”

“It’s me. It’s Brynn.”

The light in his eyes dimmed to a frown. He refocused his gaze on me.

“Brynn.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Brynn, I—” He went to stand up and tottered, his arm shaking under my grasp.

“Easy, there.” I helped him stand up and looked around. A crowd had gathered at the end of the bridge, waiting. Watching us. I saw a cab turn onto the street and darted to the curb to hold my hand out. The cab pulled over.

“Come on,” I said.

Eliot looked back over the side of the bridge, to the icy river below. I came over and took his hand, and he swallowed hard. When he turned back to me, his face was glassy with sorrow, his jaw set in a hard line.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The cab driver was silent the entire way back, although when he drove up to the estate entrance he let out a low whistle between his teeth. I gave him a big tip and thanked him as best as I could in Hungarian. Eliot didn’t say a word as we entered the house, but when we reached the top of the stairs where we were to part ways, he paused.

“Brynn,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said, not knowing what he was apologizing for. Running away? Freaking out over the photographers?

“I don’t—I can’t explain…”

“It’s okay,” I repeated. “Really. You don’t have to.”

“This is my fault,” Eliot said. He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “All my fault. To bring you here, to take you out to this party. Brynn, it was a mistake.”

No. I didn’t know if I whispered the word, or if it was just my mind that was screaming it. This wasn’t a mistake. My first kiss, that I had thought so perfect, broken to pieces. I wanted to cry.

“Please, Brynn, I’m sorry.” He looked so forlorn, so unhappy. I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him and hold him and tell him that everything would be alright. I wanted to caress his dark hair and smell his cologne. Instead I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to keep from shattering.

Eliot reached out and pressed his hand on my shoulder. It was not unkind, but now I wanted so much more from him.

“Forget this, please,” he said. “All of this.” His face was dark with sorrow, and I nodded. With those words he turned and left me in the dim corridor at the top of the stairs. I saw him turn into his study and look back, and my body ached to scream, to run forward to him, to do anything. Calmly I walked the few steps to the guest room and closed the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the huge canopied bed and watched the bedroom door, as though if I willed it hard enough the door would open and Eliot would be there, arms wide and ready for me.

Soon I undressed and got into bed. I clutched my pillow hard to my chest and tried not to let my sobs escape. Stupid, so stupid. I was a poor girl, and he was a prince. I scolded myself for all of my desires, telling myself not to think about him. For hours I lay there and listened for his step outside the door and cried, so many tears that I thought there would be no more for the morning, and I could escape back to the apartments, and perhaps leave altogether, leave Hungary, once I had visited my mother.