The Frog Prince (7 page)

I think about it. “Won’t that ruin the fun for you?”

“I’m having fun spending time with you,” he says. After a short pause he admits, “Okay, maybe a little bit.”

Roman has these dark, thick lashes like the cilia on a Venus flytrap leaf. The deep blue sort of lures you in. I peek for a second or two and become trapped like a bug.

“You can surprise me if you want,” I say. “I’ll survive it.” I would probably have continued making googly eyes at him like a middle schooler if the rest of the table hadn’t chosen that moment to suck us back into their conversation.

“No, Leigh and I win that prize,” says Kat.

I tear my eyes away from him. “What prize?” I say half-heartedly, my interest level an obvious zero.

“Most interesting job.”

I look back at Roman. There is no trace of curiosity on his face so I assume that someone has already told him, probably my cousin, Christine.

“That’s right!” he says, leaning forward and smiling. “Sex research, right? How’d you end up doing that?”

I take Roman’s question in stride. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he found out and, honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t bring it up on the hike. “Well, it was sort of a lateral move from doing adult films,” I joke, not bothering to screen my reply through my Creep Factor filter. This is my standard response to anyone who asks why I’m doing human sexuality research. It always gets a chuckle, and Roman doesn’t disappoint.

“Tell him about our last study, the prolactin study,” says Kat, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She turns to Roman. “We paid people a thousand dollars to participate, only Leigh couldn’t do it because–”

“No sex talk at the dinner table,” says Lydia, who has conveniently morphed from an urban cougar into an old fuddy-duddy.

I am grateful for her sudden prudishness. It will save me from telling Roman that heterosexuals find sexual intercourse four hundred percent more satisfying than masturbation, according to post-orgasmic prolactin measurements. Since I don’t have enough recent experiences of the former to make a statistically sound data set, I have to blindly trust the study’s conclusions.

“How early can you be ready tomorrow?” asks Roman.

This strange question throws me, and serves to narrow down the list of birthday surprises. Bank heist and fishing are the only two things that come to mind. “How early do you need me to be ready?” I say. As an afterthought I throw out, “And what should I wear?”

“Hmm…” Roman seems to be deciding if answering my last question will give anything away. Finally he says with a smile, “You should pack for every contingency.”

Every contingency
.
Pack
. The words imply either a military operation or a long trip. “Uh, can you be more specific? Are we talking ball gown or bathing suit here?”

“Both,” he says, a Kris Kringle-like twinkle in his eye, “although a ball gown would probably be a little excessive. Definitely bring a bathing suit. Also, bring a cocktail dress, jeans, hiking boots, and something business casual.”

I say nothing, giving him a moment to retract this bizarre list of sartorial requirements. “Are you serious?” I say when he doesn’t. “Should I leave letters of farewell for my family too? Update my will?”

“No, but Monday is Labor Day. Tell them you won’t be back until Monday afternoon.” Roman crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "It's going to be a
great
time."

Chapter Six

I realize too late that people’s definition of "early" on a Sunday morning differ wildly. Ten o’clock was my guess for how early I would need to be ready for Roman's birthday surprise. It turns out that he meant more like six o’clock.

A.M. That’s
ante meridiem
–Latin for “at the crack of ass.”

I slump over in a kitchen chair, my head buried in my arms on the table next to a travel mug of steaming green tea I'm too exhausted to drink. I lift my head and blearily eye a pile of luggage by the front door: a full-sized rolling suitcase, a carry-on, a garment bag, and two purses. I am now fully prepared for a Renaissance festival, a deep-sea dive, or an audience with the Queen of England. It's amazing what you can accomplish with only five hours to pack for a mystery trip.

A short rap at the door startles me awake, and for one confused second I wonder why I'm not in my bed. I jump from the chair and stumble to the door.

“Good morning!” says Roman, all smiles and wakefulness in a T-shirt and jeans.

My initial reaction is relief that he hasn't shown up in a tuxedo. “Hey,” I say tonelessly. I motion to the luggage, waiting for a few sarcastic comments about women and over-packing. I figure that, like most men, he was able to fit everything he needs into a zipper sandwich bag.

Instead, Roman scoops up everything but the two purses and bustles out the door. I grab my tea and the purses and follow him.

In the car, Roman takes a small plastic bottle from one of the cup holders and rattles the contents in front of me. "Christine told me last night that you sometimes get motion sick. If that's true you might want to take this."

“I didn't pack for skydiving,” I say, taking the bottle. “Or roller coasters.”

“Nice try,” he says. “It's none of the above.”

I have a few choice words I want to say about Christine and her meddling, but she's dead-on about the motion sickness. I sometimes get nauseous when
I’m
driving, especially at night, when it’s hot, or when it's raining. Just to be safe I throw two tablets into my mouth and chase them down with a gulp of tea.

We exit the interstate at Arapahoe Road and turn off into a cluster of treeless business parks. I look around at the nondescript buildings, wondering what out here could possibly make me motion sick other than spinning in an ergonomic leather executive chair.

A bulb-shaped tower over the building-tops catches my eye, and I freeze. One part of the mystery is now crystal clear. No, we wouldn't be throwing ourselves from airplanes, but airplanes would definitely be involved.

My face breaks out into beads of sweat, like someone has flicked double handfuls of water on it. My stomach decides it is no longer a team player and does a slow, sideways roll into my liver. I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else as we get closer and closer to the control tower.

“You okay?” says Roman, his voice tinny, and very distant.

I inhale a long stream of air through my nose. “I'll be fine.” Which has a high probability of being true, as long as our departure doesn't take place immediately. The longer the medicine has to work, the better.

Roman pulls the car up under a canopied drive connected to one of the many anonymous glass and brick buildings. A sign reads “Centennial Airport.”

"It’ll be about thirty minutes before we leave,” he says. He points to the group of couches in a lounge-like area through the windows. “You can wait here while I do the preflight.”

“The preflight? Doesn’t the pilot do that?” I say, wondering what kind of cutting corners, self-service airport this is.

Roman laughs. “I
am
the pilot.”

“
You're
the pilot,” I say, pointing at him. He gets out and when I don’t follow suit he peeks his head back through the driver's side window. “
You’re
the pilot?” I repeat, rephrasing it in the form of a question.

“Leigh, I've been flying since I was sixteen.”

“What are we flying in? And where?”

“A Citation Mustang. And you said I could surprise you.”

I mull over the words
Citation Mustang
. It sounds like something cobbled together by cannibalizing parts off a Chevy and Ford and slapping a pair of wings on it. Roman’s head disappears from the window. He walks to the back of the car and pops the trunk. I scramble out of the car and join him just in time for him to hand me the carry-on and the two purses.

“This is a
plane
we’re talking about, right?” I say, as he snaps the trunk shut.

“Christine said you would be a little panicky about flying.”

“I'm not panicky," I say in a sulky voice. “I'm just not used to flying in planes named after automobiles.”

He laughs and slides back into the driver seat. “Go watch some TV in the lounge. I'll come and get you in a bit.”

The car pulls away, leaving me standing next to my luggage. I lean sideways to adjust the strap on my shoulder when I suddenly feel like an ocean swell has rolled over me. I stand up straight, trying to orient myself again in relation to the ground.

What is wrong with me?
Suddenly I feel…heavy. Using all the willpower I can muster, I manage to get myself into the airport lounge before collapsing onto one of the beige couches.

I feel someone shaking me by the shoulder and I reluctantly open my eyes to see Roman leaning over me. “Everything’s loaded,” he says. “You ready to go?”

He pulls me to my feet and I try not to stagger like a drunk as he leads me back outside, towards what looks like a fleet of small aircraft. I follow him to the only plane in the row that is not lashed to the ground. The door is open, and a set of stairs extends down to the ground.

Roman enters before me, turning around to take my hand as I ascend. “You can either sit in the cockpit with me, or if you want to sleep there's plenty of room for you to spread out back here,” he says, pointing to the two sets of passenger seats facing each other in the rear of the plane.

I lurch to the cockpit, too disabled by drowsiness to even explain to him that I plan to do both: sit with him
and
sprawl out and sleep. I slump into the seat and buckle my seatbelt with fumbling fingers while he shuts the plane door.

“What did you give to me?” I try to say. It comes out instead as
Whudja gimme?

Roman fishes the plastic bottle from his pocket, looks at it briefly, and hands it to me. “It's just an over the counter anti-emetic. I didn't want you to yarp all over the instrument panel.”

I look over the label more carefully this time. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” Roman has donned a headset with a microphone. I do not tell him that he looks like a hard-core telemarketer.

"I haven't taken this stuff in a while because of the side effects,” I manage to say before my eyes drop shut.

“What side effects?"

I take a deep breath. “The reason people don’t get sick when they take this is because…”

By the end of my pronouncement, my words have turned to mush and I give up, choosing to simply demonstrate instead. My head flops to the right against the wall of the plane and I fight to remain conscious. I don't have enough energy to even get irritated when I hear him chuckle.

There is still amusement in his voice when he says, “Centennial Ground Control, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to taxi to active runway.”

This sounds very official, and my fears of dropping out of the sky and dying in a fiery crash begin to dissipate.

A voice from somewhere on the instrument panel replies: “Two-niner-three Juliette, proceed to taxiway Charlie, proceed to run-up area and contact Departure Control at one-one-eight point nine.”

I feel the plane roll forward just as I start to fade out.

*****

It seems like only seconds later when I hear Roman's voice again. “Aspen Approach, Citation two-niner-three Juliette requesting permission to land.”

“Citation two-niner-three Juliette turn right to heading three-three-zero, descend to eleven thousand feet, reduce to approach speed and intercept glide slope.”

I have no idea what a “glide slope” is, but I fervently hope we won’t be slowing our airspeed by doing a death spiral into the side of a mountain. I will my eyes open, and watch as the plane descends into a long valley. In the distance I see the runway and surmise that landing is imminent. I immediately shut my eyes and pull the plug on my brain.

The next thing I hear: “Citation two-niner-three Juliette, clear the active, contact ground control one-two-one point niner.”

This time I actually lift my head, automatically swiping my cheek for any drool that may have overflowed en route. We’re on the ground, taxiing off a runway to an airplane parking lot.

“And here I thought we’d be able to have some conversation on the way,” says Roman with a smile in my direction. The plane comes to a halt.

“Sorry,” I say. “That stuff knocks me out every time. And I was tired already so that didn’t help.” I watch as he removes the headset and pushes random buttons on the instrument panel. “So…is this your plane?”

“I wish I was in that income tax bracket. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s nice enough to let me borrow it whenever I want.” The engine whine slowly drops in pitch before going silent. Roman unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m going to pick up the car. We'll get some coffee for you in town–oh, wait…you’ll probably want tea, right? Wait here.”

My ears pop when he opens the jet door. I watch him walk across the tarmac. When he’s out of sight I dive into my purse. I chuck a napalm breath strip into my mouth, and while it’s killing bad breath germs and giving me pre-cancerous oral lesions, I flip open a compact and reapply my lipstick and powder my face. My impromptu nap has flattened the hair on the right side of my hair, I notice. Other than that the damage is minimal.

This leaves me with plenty of time to ponder my situation. Three days ago I was sitting alone on a couch in my Aurora trailer park home watching old
Sex in the City
episodes. Now I’m in a private jet in Aspen with the would-be Crown Prince of Austria. And if I play my cards right I may actually be having sex
near
a city soon.

I’m standing on the tarmac when Roman drives a Lexus sedan right up to the plane door. I wait in the car while he folds in the stairs and shuts the door, then throws some wheel chocks behind the tires. I guess it would be a little discouraging to come back to find that your friend’s multi-million dollar plane just sort of rolled away while you were gone.

Once in the car he flips his wrist to look at his watch. “Right on time,” he says, popping the car into drive. We exit the airport, slowly ascending as we drive through the valley, racing the Roaring Forks River that runs parallel to the highway.