DAY 18.

We’ve been force-fed happily ever after.

From the minute we could walk, it was instilled in us that our life goal would be to find the Prince Charming. We scrutinized our feet, hoping the glass slipper would fit. Our mothers bought us things that were pink. They hoped we’d grow up to be intensely feminine. We were to be the babies they’d pictured as they ran their fingers down the list of popular girl names for the year 1988.

We imagined the large castles, the chance meetings, the star-lit skies and a full moon, the roses. We wanted Disney. We wanted romance. We wanted it all.

We waited, when we were younger.

We’d sit on our porch steps and stare down the roads of our neighborhoods. With each passing car, we held our breaths that one would turn into a horse-drawn carriage. We imagined what he’d look like. Tall, definitely. A smile full of straight teeth. His hair would be sculpted just so. He’d save us from peril. We were old enough to believe that dragons wouldn’t be swooping down on us anytime soon. But there were other dangers. He’d save us from being the last one picked at dodge-ball. He’d share his extra pudding cup on the back of the bus.

Most of us haven’t found our Prince Charming now. Those fantastical notions have been rubbed away by reality. The dashing man in the suit and tie in our business class may not be what he seems. We don’t trust those bright smiles anymore. We won’t follow when our prince tries to drunkenly lead us up the stairs. No castle awaits us.

We’ve read all of the magazines that tell us how to reel in these imaginary men. Some of us cut out articles to keep for later. Tips for how to do our makeup. A bonus list of how to please our men in sixty-five different ways. But there are always sixty-five diferent ways to please him with every issue. We don’t know how to keep up. There is too much to remember. We’ve lost sight of Prince Charming.

We sit at home some nights, nursing our broken hearts. Our magazines lie scattered around the floor. We’ve tried to do what they’ve told us. They guarantee that happy ending. But the question is still not answered: when will our fairy-tale really begin?

DAY 17.

She understood. Or at least, she wanted to.

When he said he wasn’t looking for what she was looking for. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for. Hasn’t known for a while.

All she knows is that she’s been searching in all the wrong places. With all the wrong people.

There is a pattern here that she’d like to break. But bad habits die hard.

This was never a habit she intended to begin.

“This won’t change a thing,” he says.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s his voice.

She believes him.

Maybe this time will be different, she thinks to herself.

He has a nice smile. His teeth are brilliant.

There is something about him that is innocent. When he stares down at her, the look in his eye doesn’t terrify her. There’s some respect there. There’s feeling.

Unlike so many months ago. When it was a different person. He had different interests. A different past. Different hair. A different name.

When it mattered so much more. When everything was heightened and out of control and new and scary and wonderful and horrible and intense.

“It’s going to be so much harder for you to stop now,” that one nameless boy had said to her in the tiny hours of morning on Halloween.

His bed was a full, instead of a twin. They could stretch out to opposite ends. They never had to touch. But they did.

In the end, he left a scar.

And now the scar has still not healed. The wound is still open.

This night is different from that night. This boy is not the same one who made her distrustful. This boy is better. Infinitely.

The thought crosses her mind that he would make a good husband. She wants to take it back.

His mouth is on her mouth and he bites her lip.

She doesn’t hate it.

She doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t hate it.

The night stretches out like a tightrope.

This is a balancing act. One wrong move, and they both slip off the edge into oblivion. There is no safety net.

She wants to forget that nameless boy. Wants to tear him out of her memory and leave no marks.

It’s definitely the wine.

Defenses are down. Inhibitions are gone. She’s so tired of the thinking. Of planning out each move. Rationalization.

He handles her with care. She hasn’t felt this safe in months.

He could stay forever, if he wanted.

“It won’t change anything,” she whispers back to him.

In the morning, they’ll be friends.

At parties, they’ll share a secret.

There might be a knowing look here, a brush of skin there. But this won’t be talked about again. Not in public anyway.

“It doesn’t have to be awkward between us. We can be okay,” he says before he leaves. He kisses her once more.

There is sunlight creeping through the blinds.

There are people passed out in the living room who will demand an explanation.

There is a hangover and a pounding headache.

There is a fleeting feeling.

There is a scar that still hasn’t healed with time.

But there is no regret.

Everything looks different with the lights on.