Chapter 13 Felicity
Felicity
When my alarm went off this morning, I bolted out of the hotel room like my life depended on it. My sanity definitely depended on it, because I was about to go crazy from lack of sleep, tossing and turning over what happened with Cupid last night.
Not what happened, but what I let happen with Cupid. I totally let down my defenses with him. And for what—one measly orgasm?
Okay, that’s not entirely fair to him. It was an amazing orgasm. Everything about the experience had been amazing.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because I’m not supposed to be letting my guard down with this guy. When he first shot me with that arrow, I thought maybe I got lucky and was immune to it. But after those first few hours, I started acting strangely. Not at all like myself—so it must be the arrow’s doing.
That ends now.
I have a conference to attend and a presentation to nail. I don’t need this extra distraction right now. Just keep it together for another six hours, at least. Don’t screw this up.
My head is scrambled, my body is still vibrating, shot full of a potent mixture of arousal and adrenaline—and a poisonous fucking arrow. It’s safe to say I don’t check into the conference with the best mindset.
I’ve spent my fair share of time at these tech conferences over the years I’ve been in the industry. As much as they try to bill themselves as new and exciting and different, they’re all fundamentally the same.
You have: a sad continental breakfast of filmy half-size pastries; endless mediocre coffee; hours of sessions in windowless rooms where the drone of presenters is the only thing between you and falling asleep.
However, at the end of the day, these events aren’t about professional development so much as they’re about meeting other people.
Networking. An opportunity to step away from work (unsupervised) and talk to people in the industry who have aspirations like yours.
Other programmers, founders, even investors.
That’s the real reason I’m here. The key advantage of getting this speaker slot isn’t just to stroke my ego; it’s making myself more visible to people who want to invest in my vision.
But do you know what’s definitely not the point of attending a conference in Vegas? Banging the near-stranger you met the other night, who’s the real-life, actual Cupid sent on a mission to change your mind about dating and love.
With that in mind, I throw myself into the next few hours with an enthusiasm I usually reserve for watching bad horror movies and eating junk food at home alone on a weekday night.
I introduce myself. I hand out business cards. I attend the sessions. I knock my presentation out of the park. I even make connections with a couple of potential investors. See, Cupid? People agree with me—maybe you should shoot them with your magic arrows too.
And then, when I think I can’t be doing any better, that thought goes flying out the window. Because I spot him: Bryan McCoy.
My ex.
The one who broke my heart so thoroughly and completely that I swore off love forever.
In a small, perverse way, I think that perhaps I should thank him. For showing me in my twenties how cruel men can be, how much time and energy and effort they’ll suck from you without giving any in return.
For revealing the true nature of love: that it takes and takes and takes.
In that way, Bryan set me up for who I am now—independent, successful, determined.
But in a larger way, Bryan made me someone else—closed off, suspicious. Determined to the point of being unyielding.
Which is better? Which is worse? And how will I handle coming face-to-face with the man who changed me so much, for better and for worse?
I’m thinking all of this, mind whirring, as I watch him approach the refreshment table. Here I am standing alone, refilling my coffee cup for the fourth time that day, hopelessly praying that he notices me—and that he doesn’t.
I’ve become so absorbed in my runaway thoughts that I forget I’m pouring very hot coffee into a cup.
When it overflows and runs over my fingers, I let out a loud “Ouch!” and jump back from the offending liquid.
And when I look up, I see Bryan see me, take in the scene, appraising, before letting his eyes float right past me. As if I don’t even exist.
Like a punch to the gut, all of those feelings from that night five years ago—when I realized our relationship was over for good—come flooding back.
I turn on my heel and book it out of the room, conference-issued tote bag connecting with my abandoned cup of coffee and leaving a mess behind. Whatever. I can’t be bothered. If anyone knows about leaving a mess behind, it’s Bryan. This time, maybe he’ll clean it up.
Everything was going so well, I thought.
I had turned the trip around, despite my mistake with Cupid last night.
In less than a minute, I came undone—because of a look from my ex.
Now all I want, I realize, is to find Cupid and seek his comfort.
I want him to tell me jokes and do sweet things and look at me the way he looks at me, like he sees me.
Pathetic. I’m pathetic. I couldn’t control myself with Cupid, and now I can’t control myself without him.
Stubbornness, at least, comes naturally to me. It’s this stubbornness that keeps my legs moving, carrying me from place to place as I pretend—toward myself and others—to be a tourist.
Here I am, a sightseer in Las Vegas for the first time, just taking in the attractions. Nothing more. Oh, do my eyes look watery? That’s the reflection of the lights. My face looks red? That’s the heat. I’m walking with the air of the terminally broken-hearted? No, no.
You must be mistaken.
Like this, I wander to a hotel that looks like New York City, another that looks like Venice, then Paris.
And I think about how I’ve never been to those cities in real life—how I’ve barely traveled at all.
About how much of my life has been dictated by the path set out for me by someone else, by what was expected of me.
Ruled by school, then work, then Bryan, and then work again.
And how comfortable I was—am—with yielding control to others.
The product I’m building, this thing I conceptualized and developed myself, was supposed to be the one thing I’ve done completely by and for me. But at the sticky core of it, haven’t I let someone else—Bryan—dictate that direction?
I don’t know what I want, I realize. I don’t even know how to know what I want, because I’m a jumble of too many thoughts and ideas and conflicting emotions.
So with these feelings tumbling around my head like balls in a bingo cage, I do one thing I know is just for me: slip into a store to buy a box of cigarettes.
It’s been years since I’ve smoked, and even then, I hardly did it with conviction. But it was a habit I picked up honestly, and one I quit on my own. There is a forbidden appeal in the self-destructiveness of tapping out that first cigarette and bringing it to my lips.
When Cupid finds me, hours later, I’m standing outside the hotel smoking a cigarette, facing the miniature Eiffel tower just a few blocks away. The lights of the tower twinkle whenever I blink away fresh tears.
“How did you find me?” I ask, voice hoarse.
“Does it matter?” he asks back, and it doesn’t.
For some time, Cupid doesn’t speak—just stands next to me and leans back against the railing, crossing his legs in front. I think he’s trying to get the measure of me before he breaks the silence.
Good luck, I think.
“I thought those things were bad for you,” he says quietly, but without malice.
And, ridiculously, this is the moment I finally begin crying in earnest.
Cupid takes the half-smoked cigarette from my mouth and ashes it. He pries the pack I’m clutching in my hand and tosses it in a trash bin. Then he throws an arm over my shoulder and another around my waist, and points me toward our hotel.
“Come on, Love. Let’s get you back to the room.”
I don’t speak. I don’t resist, either. I don’t do anything except follow along beside him.
Typical me.
When we get inside an elevator, finally alone, he lifts my chin and tries to get me to look him in the eye. I let my eyes slide past his. I stare unseeing into the mirrored wall of the elevator car.
In our suite—this stupid fucking honeymoon suite, a shrine to so-called “love”—Cupid sits me gently down on the edge of the bed. He makes a cup of tea at the coffee bar and hands it to me. I take it in both of my hands.
“Who did this to you, Love?” My eyes snap to him. How does he know? How does he know this is because of a person? “Tell me. Please.”
Maybe it’s because he’s being so sweet to me that I tell the truth.
Maybe it’s because he’s the only one I can talk to right now.
I know I could call Janae, but she’s already heard enough about Bryan for two lifetimes.
She was there for all of it; she’s heard all of it.
I’m not sure why I decide to open up to Cupid, but I do.
“My ex,” I croak. “Bryan.” Then I let the story pour out of me.