Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

TINA

Blake looks tired when he slips into the seat next to me in the theater seating for our class. The little things bring me to that conclusion. After a few weeks of our trade, his usual attire—business slacks and a button-down shirt—no longer look so crisp. The cuffs aren’t perfectly ironed. His hair lies flatter against his head, and he doesn’t smile at me in that same cocky way. Instead, he slouches in the seat next to me.

If this attraction were just a matter of social programming, those small changes would break down the desire that I feel. Now that he’s not sending off those same power signals, I shouldn’t want him so much.

Instead, the moment feels intimate, like I’ve caught him off his guard. Like we’re both off guard, floundering, reaching for each other.

I glance over at him. “Hi, Blake.”

His eyes meet mine. God, I can’t stop thinking about kissing him. About his hands on my body, about the heat that sparked up between us. It’s been two days since I kissed him, two days during which I’ve tried to draw the line back to where it was before I crossed it. Two days in which I’ve tried to pretend that this—whatever this is—is not happening.

“Tina.” He takes out a pen, some paper.

No matter what I told him, no matter what I said, I know I’m in trouble.

I need to build a wall between us, a wall that shields me from hope. Right now, my fantasies are whispering. What if I just…let it happen? What if the stars are wrong? What if it doesn’t end?

Every little girl dreams of a prince to take her away from the drudgery of life, someone who will sweep her off her feet and take care of her. It’s something that comes from that first swell of Disney music that we hear as children. And the truth is, Blake would be such a prince. He’s sweet. He’s caring. He looks at me like there’s nobody else in the world. And he kisses like…

But, I remind myself, that’s all it is: cultural programming. It’s the effect of too many animated movies watched at too young an age. It isn’t real.

In fiction, the story ends when Prince Charming whisks Cinderella away to his castle.

But there’s a reason why the poor girl who wins herself a prince is usually an orphan. Because if she wasn’t…

“Darling,” Charming would say in the scene after the end, “you know I love you, doll. But we have to talk about your parents. I’m thinking I should buy them a cottage, maybe something high up in the mountains, yeah? Don’t worry. You can always call. You can even visit them when I’m busy with my affairs of state.”

Even with Cinderella’s essentially family-less status, the story always ends before the painful, embarrassing scenes that come a few years in.

“Darling, I never meant to fall in love with Snow White. I swear it. But she was raised in a castle as a princess, you know? She gets me in a way you never will.”

Blake interrupts my reverie with a note.

There’s something you should know, he writes. You do mean something to me.

I crumple the paper and turn my attention back to my notebook. At least I try to. But no matter how much I stare at the professor, I can scarcely pay attention to what he’s saying.

There’s a reason the hero is always called Prince Charming in all the stories. It’s not just an interchangeable name. It’s the same damned knight on a white horse, looking for a girl who’s grateful to be rescued. Once he’s managed the deed—and once she’s forgotten what she has to be grateful about, and started to realize that this is the rest of her life—there’s nothing left but regret. Snow White will have decades to remember that at least the seven dwarves said “thank you,” goddammit. And then there was that nice woodcutter boy who worshipped her. He never would have looked down on her, not once.

My life means something to me. I’ve been on this track for years. I’m not about to mess it all up just because a man is good at kissing.

Beside me, Blake lets out a sigh.

I don’t look in his direction. I can’t. I’m afraid he’ll break me down. If I meet his eyes, I’ll remember that I like him, and once I remember that…

God. If it’s like this between us when we’re not together, how much more will it hurt if I let it happen?

He starts to write again.

I’m trying to block out my awareness of him. Really. I’m trying. I’m trying not to wonder. I’m trying to ignore that tight coil of nervous anticipation that is building. I’m telling myself that whatever he says, whatever he thinks, it’s not going to change my mind. There’s nothing he can offer me in the long term—just a chance to feel ashamed of who I am and where I come from.

I have to hold onto that. I have to hold onto myself or I’ll lose everything.