Page 79 of His Royal Highness

“Yup. I’m eating. Just working a lot.”

“Oh? Well, that’s good. Is Carly still working with you?”

He means Carrie.

“Yes.”

“What does she do again? Does she make the shoes?”

Yes, Dad. She’s a cobbler.

“Costumes, actually. Dresses.”

He’s not listening to me. Now that we’re in the cab, he’s too busy arguing with the driver about a better route to take, talking over me until I just decide to shut up.

“Dammit,” my dad says. “We missed our turn.”

I sit in the back seat, stewing in regret. I should have stayed in a hotel. I should have waited and flown up on Friday with Derek so I could have used him like a human shield. Or, even better, I should have just not come at all.

After we finally arrive at my parents’ apartment building and I tip the cab driver heftily while my dad isn’t looking, we trek up to their eighth-floor walkup while my father starts to lay out our plans for the next day.

“Avery has time for breakfast if we wake up early and go to her, so I hope you didn’t plan on sleeping in?”

There’s a long pause and I realize he expects an answer from me.

“Uh, no. I’m fine with an early breakfast.”

“Good, because then we can walk with Avery over to the theater for rehearsals. After that, your mom and I have to get to work.”

This revelation presents a classic conundrum for me. I should want them to leave and go to work and get out of my hair, but in reality, I’m upset that they didn’t even consider taking the day off to spend time with me. We haven’t seen each other in a year. It hasn’t felt like that long, but I checked my calendar, and it’s true.

A year.

In their apartment, my dad fixes up the sofa bed and I glance around the room. Not much has changed since I was last here. Their apartment isn’t so much a home as it is a shrine to my sister. Her production posters are signed and framed and hung on the walls. Her official headshots rest on the TV stand beside a basket filled with fifteen remote controls. What could they possibly need them all for? Who knows.

I doubt I make even one appearance in the place, but I’m wrong. On the fridge, half-hidden behind a magnet for Anthony’s Pizzeria, they’ve hung a photo of me from my high school graduation. They weren’t there when I graduated from college—Avery had a big audition—so this is it, apparently. Chubby-faced Whitney with a pepperoni pizza covering her hair.

I want a shower, but my dad shakes his head and warns that my mom is a light sleeper these days. Wonderful. I’ll just carry airport gunk on my person until the morning. After he goes to bed, I stand at the kitchen sink, cast in shadow—“Light keeps her up too.”—as I rinse myself off as best as possible, using my phone’s flashlight propped against the backsplash. I wash off my arms and lean over to rinse my face, but that’s about all I can manage without standing up on the counter and shoving my foot under the faucet.

As I brush my teeth in that dark lonely kitchen, spotlighted by my phone, I feel an overwhelming sense of hopelessness.

It’s silly.

I don’t know why I expected anything to be different.

Time and time again, I foolishly allow myself to be let down by my parents, and that hurt only makes me angrier. The vicious cycle loops around on itself. How do they still have the capability to inflict damage? Why do I give them that power?

I finish up at the sink, and then I dig around in my suitcase for a change of clothes. Everything is a jumbled mess because I packed last minute and I can only find one sock knotted around some underwear, so I give up and decide to sleep in my dirty peanut-salt-covered airport clothes like the heathen that I am.

After I climb under the sheet of the sofa bed, I rest my head on the lumpy couch pillow and call Derek.

“Hey,” he says, answering after the first ring.

His voice is a melody, one syllable that rips straight through me. I love him for answering right away. It’s like he’s been waiting by the phone for my call. It’s like we both hate that I’m away even though I was with him just a few hours ago. He insisted on driving me to the airport. We kissed at the security checkpoint until a little boy yelled, “Ew!” and we broke apart, laughing.

“Hi,” I whisper, knowing my parents have paper thin walls.

“How was your flight?”

I want to tell him about my seatmate, and my dad, and the sink bath, but I can’t do it.

I sit there, silent, throat closing tight.

“Whitney?”

The concern in his voice strikes a chord, but I will myself not to cry.

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