Charming: A Modern Day Sexy Cinderella Story (2 page)

The feelings are so visceral that it takes everything I have to keep them reigned in. Yet, somehow I manage. Barely. I keep it together as I check in my luggage and obtain a boarding pass. I exude a false calm as I go through security, removing each item I’m carrying to be inspected, take my shoes off and wait patiently for my turn. I even manage a smile when the customs agent greets me and I get randomly selected for a more detailed search of my items. The official pulls everything out of my carry-ons, almost making me laugh at the look on his face when he sees the results of my hurried packing. He opens things and peers inside like I might have contraband hiding. In lipstick tubes? Geesh. Finally, he concedes that I am harmless and stamps my passport while ushering a sigh. What? He’s disappointed? I continue to keep it together, though I swallow repeatedly to keep the emotions from being emitted. Proceeding to the gate area, I search the corridor for the nearest restroom, rush inside, lock myself in a stall, and finally cry unrelenting tears.

My cries and sobs become howls at some point. Not intentionally; but I produce babbly, high pierced sounds like a dying animal. I become aware of this because a few people knock on the door to ask me if I’m okay. One asks if there’s anything she can get me, or anyone she can send in after me. It’s nice of them and I appreciate the kindness. But it also further humiliates me. I manage to utter syllables meant to tell each I’m fine, but I’m not sure the message is clear. Perhaps it is betrayed by the immediate resumption of wailing. Grabbing a handful of toilet paper, I blow my nose loudly, dab at my face, and try my best to quit crying, knowing that it’s not helping or changing anything. Logic, however, gives way again to emotion. I try another rational approach. There was no other option. Leaving this way is easier – simpler – and the right thing to do. Saying goodbye in person would have broken me beyond repair. Especially if I saw in his eyes that my leaving wasn’t as hard for him as it was for me. There’s no way I could face the, “thanks for a great time,” line I’d been likely to receive – not when for me it was so much more than that. Tears set in yet again. Where do they all come from?

I’m being ridiculous – I know this. I’ve told myself repeatedly that any kind of relationship or legitimate feelings for someone after a mere week is ridiculous. I need to simply be thankful for the time we had together, the fact that he helped restore my confidence and made me feel beautiful and cherished when I needed it most. I need to move on – to get back to my life and remember this time with fondness. If only my heart – and wherever these tears get formed - would listen to my head.

“Gabriella Barrie, please proceed to gate 18C. Again, this is the last call for Gabriella Barrie. Please proceed to gate 18C. Your plane is leaving.”

My eyes widen at the words I hear through the intercom. How long have they been calling me?
Oh my god!

I claw at the roll of toilet paper to clean up my business. How could my bladder have had anything to empty after all of the water I used in tears? And what timing. Fate – you really are a bitch. I take another large bunch for good measure since I don’t have any tissues. I jump up and lift my undies and jean capris over my hips and begin fumbling with the buttons. In my haste, my fingers decide to quit working properly and I fumble like an idiot. It doesn’t help that the buttonhole always seems too small for the button and I struggle every time I wear these. With a curse, I give up and tug my zipper up and leave the button for later. I’ll fix it when I’m on the plane. Grabbing my things, I spring through the open stall door, hurriedly wash my hands, and dry them on my pants as I make a mad dash for the door.

Maybe it’s no surprise that running through the airport as fast as you can while simultaneously trying to keep your pants up is not an easy thing to do. Maybe later I’ll laugh about what a hot mess I must look like right now. Huge bag over my arm, wild hair flying about my face, a hand at my waist holding up my pants while my other hand wheels a bag behind me that keeps toppling over. Heavy beads of sweat form and begin to fall from my red swollen face and I feel trickles of perspiration making a mad dash down my backside. I’m the only person alive, late for her own flight while sitting
in
the freaking airport. How long was I in that restroom anyway? Clearly, it’s a black hole in there. These are travel hints they should tell people.

Leaving my pants undone was clearly a mistake. With each slap of my feet on the ground, I can feel my zipper sliding down tooth by tooth. My jeans get looser and looser around my waist. Gripping them tighter, I continue to run, muttering apologies as I bump into other passengers and almost take a woman with a small dog out. Seeing the gate ahead, I move faster and yell to the worker at the door, letting go of my pants, I start waving my arm in the air hoping to attract her attention.

“Wait! Please! I’m here!” I yell, feeling panicked, my breath coming in pants. She smiles kindly when she sees me, which is more than I deserve considering I’ve likely held them up. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. Lo siento,” I add for good measure considering I’m at the airport in Mexico. Handing her my boarding pass, I watch her scan it before she looks up. I’m not sure what she sees in my face, but there’s kindness in her eyes as she gestures to the door.

“It’s okay,” she says, her Spanish accent thick, “Go. Vamos.” She tells me with a smile and gives me a wave. Tossing her a quick, “Thank you!” over my shoulder, I run down the jet way toward the plane’s door.

“Hi,” I tell the exceptionally pretty flight attendant breathlessly as I get to the door. My breaths are ragged and I feel slightly dizzy from the chaos.

“Gabriella Barrie?” she asks as she takes in my appearance, her gaze resting at my hand where I’m once again clutching my pants that now sit a bit lower than my waist, before returning to my eyes.

“Yes. I’m so sorry I’m late. I was in the restroom for a long time.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel my cheeks flush. “I mean, not because I was going to the bathroom all that time. I mean, I guess I did pee. But that’s not what took me a long time. It was because I was sad. Crying. Men, what are you going to do?” She continues to stare at me, and it increases my discomfort. Clearing my throat, I shrug, “Uh, thank you. Thank you so much. Sorry again,” I tell her feeling like a complete fool and apparently unable to just shut the hell up.

She smiles tightly, “Please find an available seat. Fortunately, our flight isn’t full.”

Nodding, I turn away from her and flush deeper when I see the passengers in the front have heard every word I just babbled. Lifting my head and faking confidence I don’t feel, I pass them, making my way down the aisle, looking for a seat. I carefully avoid the eyes of other passengers, their ire and annoyance palpable due to waiting on me. Part of me feels like I should grab the intercom phone and make a formal group apology. Lifting my chin, I try to roll it off my shoulders and see a row that has only one woman sitting in the aisle. She’s smiling widely at me and she’s the first kind face I see. “Hi. May I please sit here?”

She smiles, “Of course, dear.”

“Thank you.” Reaching across her to set my purse in the seat I’ve claimed, I swing my carry-on up to the open overhead bin. There’s plenty of space available, but my soft sided bag is stuffed and doesn’t slide inside easily. Hoping it’s pushed in enough, I try to close the bin, but it won’t latch. Even when I give it an extra slam and a few pushes for good measure. With a sigh, I let the bin open back up, then start shoving and pushing my bag roughly with both hands in an attempt to rearrange its contents to get it back a couple more inches. Feeling additional penetrating stares of passengers and the flight attendants alike compound my frustration.

“Ugh,” I yell and look around for an airline attendant for help. “Excuse me,” I call to a blonde one down the aisle a bit. She is poised in a selfie pose, twirling her hair around a finger while she speaks to an attractive man. He’s smiling at her and I realize she not only didn’t hear me, but it’s going to take a miracle to get her attention. Rolling my eyes, I turn back to my bag and start shoving it again, harder this time, both hands beating against it in annoyance as continuous beads of sweat fall down my nape. It’s immovable.

With a curse I yank it out, turn it around, and give it another hard push. At the same time the bag finally slides back into position, I feel my jeans slide down my hips and a ceremony of gasps fill my ears.

With embarrassment I realize I could be partially mooning my fellow passengers behind me. Quickly lifting my pants, I will myself to believe that no one actually saw anything, but must forego the masquerade, clearly aware of the definition of their gasps. Under my lashes, I glance behind me to see one woman looking away, her shoulders shaking in what I assume is laughter. Laughter at me. The sight causes my face to flush redder, which is a feat given that I know I’m already bright red. Another woman, older, catches my eye and then touches her forehead, sternum, and each of her shoulders in the sign of the cross – likely saying a quick prayer to cleanse my soul or to protect her from me. A quick glance to the row behind them finds me meeting brown eyes of a man who looks to be around my age - mid twenties. He grins widely at me, and even winks. Why I’m regarding their expressions I do not know – it’s like I’ve been paralyzed. Shaking my head as if to wake up from this nightmare, and turning hastily, I scoot past my row companion hitting my leg on the armrest on the way. Falling into my seat, I struggle to fix my pants, then buckle my seatbelt across my lap. With a sigh I turn to look out the window as feelings of total mortification and humiliation wash over me warring with the brokenness I’m already struggling with today. Funny how earlier I didn’t think this day could get any worse.

As if on cue, tears start streaming from my eyes, and I’m sniffling in no time. I pull the seat back toward me in hopes that an unused napkin resides there but seeing none, reach for my purse, rifling through looking for a tissue in what is likely to be a vain attempt, lucidly aware that I threw the toilet paper I had grabbed in the bag that now resides above me – what was I thinking? A tap on my arm gets my attention and I turn to see the woman next to me holding out a tissue. With a shaky smile I take it from her and wipe my nose, “Thank you.” She hands me another.

“Of course, dear. Are you okay?”

The simple act of kindness, the concern in her voice, and the fact her salt and pepper hair, dark eyes, and soft smile reminds me a little bit of my beloved aunt, makes the tears flow faster. “No, not really,” I respond honestly.

“Do you feel like talking about it?”

Twisting the tissue in my hands I force out a laugh, “It’s a long story.”

“Oh honey, we have nothing but time.”

She isn’t wrong; we have a long flight ahead of us. Still. Turning my head to the right at the crazy thought of spilling my guts to a stranger, I begin to shake my head no, but something stops me. Truth is, I feel like I want to tell her. She’s someone that has no idea who I am or anyone I might speak to her about. Baring my soul to her is more than intriguing, it feels necessary, and safe. Maybe she sees that I’m considering it because she smiles warmly at me, “Who knows, dear, maybe talking to me will be like confiding in your very own Fairy Godmother, and I’ll be able to help make your dreams come true.”

Laughing softly at the mirth in her eyes, I sniffle, “Well, that’s a nice thought. If only it were true.”

She smiles and holds out her hand, “My name is Faye, love. And you are?”

“Gabriella, but my friends call me ‘Ella’.”

“Well, Ella, will you please tell me why you’re so sad?”

I begin shredding the tissue in my hand and I watch as the pieces fall like snow into my lap, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well that’s easy, love. At the beginning of course.”

With a nod and a small smile, I take a deep breath, and begin.

When I was a little girl, Cinderella was my favorite princess. I loved watching her dance at the ball in the arms of Prince Charming – it’s still my favorite part. Even though it was a cartoon and not an animated version like we have today, you could clearly see the love in Cinderella’s eyes, a small smile of happiness upon her lips, and even a look of stunned disbelief at times on her face. Looks that told me she couldn’t believe how happy she was and that she was dancing in the arms of her love.

Looking at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the vision, I focus intently, desperately searching for a look just like that princess in blue. But, there isn’t even a hint of a smile upon my lips or a trace of a twinkle in my eyes. Instead, there’s uncertainty, desperation, and perhaps a twinge of fear. I’m wondering for the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing. Am I sure that I want to walk down the aisle? Is this really the man that I want to be with for the rest of my life? Is Jeremy my real life prince? Are these thoughts normal to have on my
actual
wedding day?