Chapter 4 Maggie #2
“The last time I saw him...it’s been a minute.
” I tap my chin, thinking back. “When we both went to college—then he was recruited—things gradually tapered off. Our regular time together came to a logical end. We replaced early morning runs along the Charles River, fish and chips on Fridays, and our regular hangouts with texting.” My reflexive shrug drops with a little pebble of disappointment landing in my belly.
“You mean you haven’t seen him in how long?” Etta Jo asks.
“When I was at CU Denver, the Bruisers played the Colorado Crush. We got together for pizza. Couldn’t see the game because I had a final. Also, he’d periodically send me concert tickets or gift certificates for pizza—that was our thing.”
“Diggidy do, that’s so sweet.” Etta Jo whacks me on the arm.
“Did he surprise you and show up?” Giselle asks as if waiting to hear a romantic meet-cute.
I shake my head slowly. “It was always a solo show. Just me. He was busy building his career.” That little pebble sends out ripples when I remember how much I hoped he’d be there and now realize how disappointed I was when he didn’t appear.
“So, let’s get this straight. You hung out with this guy every day and you’re not married and don’t have a bunch of his babies?” Etta Jo asks.
My lips lower with a frown.
“Just saying, I’d marry him and have his babies.” Giselle nods.
Etta Jo looks me over. “Wait, hold up. Maggie. Did it never occur to you to marry him and have his babies?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re friends.”
Giselle shakes her head as if I passed over a treasure chest. “You’ve stressed that, repeatedly.”
“When Declan got drafted to the Bruisers, I knew he’d soon be famous.
How could he not, with his natural charm and charisma?
His personality spans city blocks. Fills arenas.
It should probably have its own postal code.
” But if he were going to be a household name, I had to create some distance to maintain our friendship before it got swept away.
“And that’s a problem because...?”
I have to divert the conversation before we get too personal. “To answer your other question, it’s been about three years since we saw each other in person. It was his twenty-first birthday party.” I stuff a chocolatey chip in my mouth and hope their imaginations do the rest.
Jaws dropped, they stare at me.
“I took a risk and accepted Declan’s invitation, knowing I’d be lucky if I got a hello and a hug. He was so mobbed, there were so many people at the party.”
I only saw him from across the room, surrounded by gorgeous women and football bros, before I signed the guest book and dipped out of there like a melting ice cream cone.
“But you’ve stayed in touch,” Etta Jo asks.
“By text.”
Absorbed by the game and lit by the stadium lights, text messaging seems safest. Because if there is one thing I’ve had to protect myself from, it’s the spotlight.
Even by proxy. Plus, there is the fear that under the pressure of fame and fortune, he’s changed.
I’m afraid to witness it in real-time, so a text-based relationship seems like the obvious solution.
Over the years in Hollywood, I’d seen that scenario play out enough times, and didn’t want to lose what we had.
The girls look at me as if waiting for me to explain.
“When Declan got drafted, I knew our friendship would take a hit, but I wanted what’s best for him. That’s what friends do, right?”
“Sounds like love to me. Just saying,” Etta Jo says.
“Just friends,” I sing-song. “I thought you had to work?” I ask Giselle.
“More like work the football field. I want a football player, too.” Etta Jo pouts.
“I don’t have a football player. I have a best friend.
” I take another big bite of a chip with a double scoop of frosting as a hedge against further questioning, even though my teeth feel itchy.
The tag on my shirt pokes into my skin. Maybe I’ve had too much chocolate (is such a thing possible?) or perhaps the discomfort I suddenly feel has something to do with the conversation.
I shift as if trying to edge away from these unknown and unnamed emotions.
Etta Jo pours more chips into the bowl. “Okay, if Maggie won’t share some juicy stories, the mic is yours, Giselle.”
She’s completely immune to Giselle’s magically sensational love life and seems quite content with her own, but there’s no denying we’re both mystified by how she always seems to find herself in the right place at the right time.
“Well, Garrison Wheeler and I met at table number nine.” Giselle practically swoons.
The thing is, Giselle always swoons, but the relationships never last. What do I want? Don’t laugh or judge. I want a Cinderella romance—minus the family drama. I’ve had enough of that already.
Etta Jo playfully rolls her eyes as if to say, Stock up on tissues, everyone, in about a week, girlfriend will have her heart broken.
My woes, along with Declan, mostly forgotten, we discuss Giselle’s love life.
Etta Jo doesn’t know the full story about how I feel about the rich and famous—not even Declan knows why I keep my distance from fame and fortune.
But she is aware that I’m not interested in bling, but in the unbroken circle of the ring and what it symbolizes—a long-term, meaningful relationship.
I’ll take the fairytale romance, but not necessarily with an actual prince, because renown and recognition eventually bring trouble, which I know firsthand.
“Giselle, does that mean you quit your job?” Etta Jo asks. “Big day. Maggie did too.”
“I didn’t quit, I resigned,” I correct because I can’t stomach the idea of being a quitter and repeatedly failing, even though it’s my recent reality.
Giselle shakes her head. “I didn’t quit either. I have a shift tonight.”
“You weren’t fired for taking off with a football player?” I wonder if Declan knows Garrison Wheeler.
“No, my boss is a Riptide super fan. I got her a bunch of merch and that did the trick. She was very understanding, probably hoping that free tickets to a game come next.” Giselle coyly lifts and lowers one shoulder. “She said she would’ve done the same thing.”
“Giselle has the best luck,” Etta Jo mutters, then gives her roommate a recap of what happened to Cinderella at the fountain—aka me—who has the worst luck lately.
Giselle wrinkles her nose in a way that makes me think she saw the footage on the internet but didn’t recognize me. “How awful. I’m sorry that happened. But if you need a job, my cousin is hiring.”
Knowing Giselle, it’s probably something wacky—lion tamer, rare stamp collector, door-to-door dog food salesperson.
“My cousin’s pride and joy is the Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette in Concordia—”
“Sounds fancy,” Etta Jo says.
“The school specializes in image consulting, public relations, and social skills commonly known as etiquette. She recently expanded to include digital etiquette, but includes the classics too, like dining etiquette, social skills, and both traditional and modern manners.”
“Like a finishing school for debutantes?” Etta Jo asks.
“More like celebrities and other high-profile figures. Her clients include baboons and cavemen, mostly.”
We both laugh.
“Not actual baboons, I hope,” Etta Jo says.
As Giselle goes on to describe the finishing school and the open position, it actually doesn’t sound half bad, except for the celebrities and high-profile figures part. All the while, they both encourage me to go for it.
“You were a princess. Of course, you can teach classes at a finishing school,” Etta Jo says.
I bite my lip, unsure. But the rent is due, and given Giselle seems to stumble across opportunities and windfalls, perhaps I should give it a shot. Worst case scenario, I don’t like it and I quit. “If I’m going to keep a roof over my head, maybe I should apply.”
Etta Jo picks up a chip slathered in chocolate, offering a toast. “To Princess Maggie and a bright future ahead.”
We clink and say, “Cheers.”
Giselle holds up her finger. “There’s just one thing.”
I tip my head to the side in question.
“It’s in Concordia.”
I’ve been all over the country and traveled abroad numerous times. It feels like my eyebrows burrow together on my forehead because I’ve never heard of Concord-what’s-it. “Where is that?”
“I have family there. Well, my cousin Cateline—Cate for short. Actually, she’s originally from France like me.
She got a cushy position at Blancbourg Academy d’Etiquette of Concordia.
When the former headmistress retired, Cat took over.
” Like all of Giselle’s stories, there are a lot of glamorous details—she grew up in Paris after all.
The difference between Giselle and other people that float in her atmosphere is that she’s the real deal, works hard, and isn’t shallow.
I’ve waded into those waters and can attest to the fact that isn’t always the case.
“Do they speak English in Concordia?” Etta Jo asks as if fearing the opportunity will require French, Russian, Greek, or a combination of the three.
“Of course. Concordians have their own dialect, but it’s English—the country is a few clicks north of the UK. Most of the clients are American.”
Some people would think Giselle is a liar because she lives in this crummy apartment building and works at a restaurant while traipsing through life, collecting famous friends, stories of wild adventures, and so many boyfriends we’ve lost count.
The truth is, she was rich and a former European pop star who left that life for one of relative anonymity here in the States.
Hashtag relatable.
She doesn’t have to work another day in her life, but loves people. Just not the ones who mob her, ask for her to sign things, and follow her everywhere. She once said she just wants to be normal. I understand her aversion to the spotlight all too well.
“So, it’s overseas?” I ask, awash with uncertainty.
Giselle pulls out her phone, taps a few times, and then shows us the map.
Concordia is indeed a remote island north of England.
“You’re suggesting I move abroad? I can’t.” My mind races with the reasons that’s impossible.
“Not that I want you to leave, but answer this: you can’t or you won’t?” Etta Jo asks.
She has a point.
Giselle passes me her phone, showing me the email from her cousin with the job offer.
The pay is triple what I earned as a princess.
The catch is I have to work closely with the client on a one-on-one basis for thirty consecutive days.
Then I’ll have a couple of weeks off before getting a new client.
“What’s the currency conversion? Because that is a lot of zeroes.” Etta’s mouth forms an O.
“It’s in US dollars,” Giselle says.
“That’s probably the family rate.” My spirits dip.
Giselle shrugs. “You’re family. One of the Berghiers.” She winks.
But I’m not related to Giselle. I’m a Prucell.
Even though I don’t use my given name because of the connotations.
I use my mother’s maiden name, Byrne. The moment I made that decision, I also vowed to earn my own way in the world and not ride on my childhood coattails of fame or my parents dangling opportunities to earn money like a bunch of rotten carrots.
As if sensing my hesitation, Giselle says, “Come on, you’d be doing her a big favor. I’d love to jet over to Concordia and help, but I have to see how things go with number fifty-seven.”
Etta Jo waggles her eyebrows.
“Is your cousin desperate for employees because they quit like the previous eleven governesses in the Sound of Music?” I ask, hoping she gets the reference.
“The role isn’t for a nanny, babysitting children,” Giselle says.
“Celebrities are glorified kids,” I mutter.
“Cate needs extra help because she usually only has a couple of clients at a time, but just got four troublemakers.”
Etta Jo adds, “You can think of Giselle as your fairy godmother. It’s very Cinderella-esque.”
“I don’t want to think about Cinderella.”
“Concordia is famous for its chocolate cake,” Giselle says as if that sweetens the deal.
It kind of does.
“There’s just one rule. No dating the clients.”
“Not a problem.” I don’t want anything to do with celebrities or public figures.
“The palmetto bugs won’t miss you, but I will.” Etta Jo gives me a side hug as if taking the job is a foregone conclusion.
“Then go with her,” Giselle says. “Explore the island nation.”
Etta Jo shakes her head. “I didn’t tell you yet, but I got a studio space in the new artisan building downtown. I sign the lease on Monday.”
I light up, excited about what this means for her side hustle. We visited the old factory converted into an upscale mall for artists, craftspeople, and other creatives a few weeks ago and saw a space available.
“The light in there is amazing and—” As Etta Jo goes on to describe her good news, my mind wanders.
I’ve strived to become an independent person and the freedom it anchors me to. But right now, I feel untethered. A familiar sense of loneliness tiptoes close. I’ve managed to avoid it lately, but it’s looking for a way in, an open door.
But if I step through the one that leads to Concordia, maybe it won’t follow me.