Duke, Actually

by Jenny Holiday

If a man was wearing a suit, he should wear a suit—all its pieces, not some haphazard, choose-your-own-adventure version of it.

“Ah, yes, the puzzling American tradition of bankrupting its young people before they even begin their careers.”

He was tempted to say that a person could be lucky and unhappy, that those two qualities were not mutually exclusive,

The answer was that indulging in snow angels and impromptu outings to the ballet felt like exposing herself somehow. Putting on display the tender, inner part of her that was capable of taking delight in innocent pursuits, and that, in turn, felt like she was setting herself up to be mocked.

“The trick is to have a big enough patch of fresh snow.” She waved her arms like she was doing jumping jacks. He did the same, positioning himself so he was next to her. “And keep your legs spread,” she added, stepping wide and ignoring the stabs of pain in her pantyhose-clad ankles. He cracked up. “Keep your legs spread. Yes. A particular motto of mine.” “Oh, shut up. No off-color jokes allowed during snow-angel-ing.”

She could picture him in a cottage. As worldly as Max was, with his designer suits and his razor-sharp wit, she could also see him pottering around a library, drinking tea. “But what do you do all day?” “As little as possible.”

It was the summer version of Central Park. A stumble had turned into a hug. Except instead of wearing winter coats, they were skin to skin. Goosebumps rose, though he wasn’t cold. He pulled his hips away from her even as he kept hanging on to her upper body. He didn’t want her to feel his embarrassing erection. He felt like a teenager. Except not, because he had never been this carefree as a teenager.

“Whoever came up with the notion that one should feel guilty about things that bring one pleasure should be shot.”

He wouldn’t be surprised to suddenly hear David Attenborough’s voice narrating. Notice how the European male stakes his claim by straightening his spine and throwing his shoulders back.

“People don’t change overnight,

“Eventually, the bitterness will fade, and you’ll be able to look back with equanimity. He’ll be a colleague for whom you have some fondness, or at least a colleague for whom you hold no rancor. It will just take a little time.”

“We’re not that far out of town,” Max said as the stone buildings started to thin and eventually disappeared in favor of countryside. “It’s a thirty-minute walk if you’re ever inclined to make a prison break.” “If you’re ever inclined to make a prison break, you merely have to call on me, Daniela,” Sebastien said with exaggerated courtliness.

If the past week, with all its talking and cavorting, felt like a movie montage, he knew what kind of movie it was. A romance. Or, worse, one of those dreadful Hallmark movies Americans seemed to love where they just made up a fake European country so they could have a fairy tale free from the inconvenient constraints of reality.

If Dani gave him her heart, he wouldn’t break it. He would actively do everything in his power to not break it. No matter what it cost him. If he could have that vision, her in a white dress, her eyes finding him automatically in a room full of people, he would do anything. Dear god.

“You looked at me first.” “What?” What was he— Oh. Oh. She gasped as goosebumps rose on her skin. He remembered. She was frozen in place, shivering with his hand on her bare shoulder, his skin on her skin. She was his prey, and she could no sooner move than if he’d literally caught her in a trap. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

is that fear worth more to you than what’s potentially on the other side of it?”

I was coming to New York to tell you that. Because at Christmas you tell the truth, and the truth is that I’m in love with you. I’m sorry I proposed to you. Well, I’m not sorry, but you know what I mean. I hope you don’t think this is creepy like in the movie.

He moved his hands around so that he was ready to catch her Dirty Dancing style. She burst out laughing and called across the space between them, “Are you kidding?” “Would I kid about something like this?” “I suppose not.” “We have practiced it in the water twice.” “We’re going to look like fools.” “That’s true,” he said cheerfully. Oh how she loved him. Her funny, kind, beautiful Max. “Well, all right, then,” she said, and she took off running.

“Look,” he said, as they lolled around in the bed in the attic. “I want it noted for the record that I mucked it all up in Innsbruck. I got my argument mixed up.” “What do you mean, ‘your argument’?” “You’re the English professor. You know. You’re supposed to open your essay with a topic sentence that’s your argument.” He grabbed her palm, opened it, and pretended to write on it. “Then give supporting statements.” He mimed writing lower on her palm. “I skipped the topic sentence. I confused you.” She laughed. “So what was the topic sentence supposed to be?” He closed his hand over hers and squeezed. “I love you, and therefore I want to marry you.”

She had learned from Max that sometimes you had to let yourself feel what you felt, even if what you felt went against all reason. Sometimes you had to let yourself change course. Sometimes you had to let yourself love people, even if they had the power to hurt you.

“I only caught the tail end of that conversation, but I have to say you sounded remarkably like a person with a job.” “I did, didn’t I?” He grinned against her lips. “You know what people with jobs make?” “No. What do they make?” “They make excellent husbands. Will you marry me?” She laughed and kissed him again. “Not yet.”

He set down his sandwich and raised his glass without breaking eye contact with her. “Happy New Year, Dani.” “Happy New Year, Max.”

She did not succeed when it came to Max Maximus, who opened his eyes and smiled sleepily at her. He didn’t move, though, as he knew how important her coffee was to her—and he knew that if he dozed and kept the dog asleep, he’d be rewarded in a few minutes with a cup of his own, delivered to him in bed.

“Will you marry me?” There it was. She turned. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, bending over as he pulled his underwear on. She smiled. “Yes.” He fell off the bed. “Did you just say yes?” He popped up to standing. “I just said yes.” “Shit!” He started scrambling for his pants, even though he only had one leg through his underwear. “I’m not ready!” “You’re not ready? You’ve only asked me a million times.”

“Dani,” Max said, his voice all scratchy, “I love you. I love your dog. Will you finally marry me?” She smiled down at Max, her Max, her blue-eyed, dukeish casual best friend, protector, and lover, and said, “Yes.”