ME, CINDERELLA?(47)

Forget this.

I might never be able to have Eliot take me in his arms again, but there was no way that I would ever forget that kiss.





The kiss, that’s what changes everything. In fairytales, that is. The prince kisses the princess, and suddenly she is awake after all these years, or brought back to life, or gets her voice back. Or the princess kisses the prince, and he is transformed from a hideous creature into a handsome man, waiting to dash her into his arms.

I had never been kissed before Eliot. In kindergarten a boy pressed his lips on my ear and nearly deafened me, and it was all downhill from there. I grew up in the most awkward way—sometimes pudgy, sometimes geeky, never popular. In high school, the most guys would do was gawk at my cleavage. One time in college—well, it was the last time I let myself be dragged to a party. I’d say my resume was lackluster in the romantic department, and that was being generous.

And then Eliot kissed me.

While it changed me in some ways, it wasn’t as dramatic as being woken up from a coma or transmogrified from a frog, and when he told me it was a mistake, I cursed myself for thinking that it could be anything more. In some ways, his kissing me made me even more withdrawn, self-conscious. I didn’t get my voice or life back; what I got was a crippling sense of unease whenever he walked by, knowing that we couldn’t be together. The kiss didn’t help with our secret. It just made it worse. Here, Brynn: here’s something you can’t have, something wonderful and beautiful and perfect that you can’t keep.

But it did something else, and maybe that’s the part that they talk about in fairy tales. It woke up a feeling inside of me, an emotion that I didn’t think I had. An emotion I didn’t know I was capable of having.

Desire. Fiery, erotic desire.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN



The next day Eliot made me breakfast and told me that the landlady had arranged the apartments to be ready. He looked away when he told me, as though he was ashamed of sending me away. I called a cab and left, feeling like I was losing everything wonderful that I had ever known. Well, everything but one.

I hugged Lucky inside the cab. He sat peacefully, purring on my lap, as I rode away into the heart of Budapest dry-eyed. After last night, I knew that Eliot didn’t want me, and it tore me apart inside. The first man that I had ever truly desired, and the wall between us cemented shut. I shook the thoughts out of my head and tried to focus on the beautiful, snow-capped city that I would now be living in. I thought about the cemetery that my mother was buried in. I would have to make plans to visit there. Perhaps this afternoon, once I had settled into the apartments and had some time to breathe. I cursed Eliot for not having taken me there during my stay, then forgave him—he didn’t know, and he didn’t know how important it was to me. It was up to me to make that clear.

The apartments had been cleaned, and heated, and there were already two students there by the time I arrived. The landlady had moved out half of the bunkbeds—to another set of apartments? I didn’t know—and the rooms looked larger, more inviting. I slung my suitcase, heavier now from my trip with Marta, over onto the bunk next to the window.

“Brynn!” A familiar voice at my back caused me to spin around.

“Mark!”

I ran toward him and barreled into a hug. It had been only a couple of weeks since we had last seen each other, but in my mind it felt like forever had passed. He smiled at me, awkwardly, and I thought that he seemed younger than I remembered. Probably, though, it was just the contrast of spending time with Eliot and Marta.

“How have you been?” he asked. “This place looks cool!”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I said. “I haven’t seen that much of the city.” Just the castle that Eliot lives in.

Mark left to unpack in the guys’ room, and we spent the rest of the evening with the other students who trickled in from the airport. Some carried huge suitcases full of clothes, pictures, and reminders of home. One guy arrived with just a backpack over his shoulder and immediately went to sleep in one of the kitchen chairs. All of the girls in my room seemed nice enough, although one shy brunette shook my hand, said “Hello” in Hungarian, and immersed herself in a book in the corner of the bedroom.

Chatting with Karen, another California girl, I finally was beginning to find myself somewhat at ease. She reminded me of my roommate, Shannon—artsy as hell, and passionate about her photography. She was in the middle of telling me a story about her freshman linear algebra professor when another girl stepped into the middle of the doorway of the bedroom. Her heels clicked loudly on the floor, and she dropped her suitcase with a loud thwack, tossing her perfectly slicked hair behind her. One hand on her hip, a scowl on her face, she reminded me of nothing else so much as a pissed off supermodel.