Page 22 of Prince of the Sun

“Of course not.”

“It’s okay, Mother Dearest.” I pushed the dresses back into her arms. “Just remember: denial is the first step on the path to acceptance.”

Now, staring down at the limp, wrinkled dress stuffed into the back corner of the bottom drawer, I have to admit: Mom was right. I should have brought more than one.

“Cara?” I yell at the open door across the common room.

“What?” she calls back.

“I need your help.”

“Can it wait? I’m planting naked photos of Angela Merkel in Bernie Sanders’s personal server.”

“As important as that sounds.” I step over the nest of clothes on the floor and stride across the common room. “This is even more important.”

She pouts over her screen. “But I think the two of them would be cute together.”

“Let’s not start any world wars this week, hm? Listen.” I glance over at her perfectly-organized closet. “Do you have any dresses?”

“Ahh.” She pushes back her desk chair and stands, shooting me a knowing glance. “Speaking of royalty. Tonight’s the night, huh?”

“Tonight’s the night. And I have nothing to wear.”

“Well, then. You’ve come to the right place, darling.” She sweeps over to the closet and pushes the door farther back. “Behold! The hidden stash.”

In the back left corner of Cara’s closet, obscured by a row of long-sleeved flannels and black leggings, hangs a department store’s worth of chiffon, lace, silk, and sparkles.

Hidden stash indeed.

I wander slowly over, running a hand along the fabrics.

I know I’m technically dressing for a date right now, but I’m not worried about falling for Daerios. First off, there’s the matter of me detesting the entire elvish population. Of my mission to dig up their most closely-guarded secret. But beyond that, there’s this one simple fact:

By now, I’m utterly convinced that, romantically speaking, I am dead inside.

Before Dad and Michael, I caught crushes like the common cold. There was Tommy from the back of the school bus, Phillip with the paint smeared across his nose, Matthew who ran faster than anyone on the playground. They changed with the seasons, emerging and brightening and withering as the leaves did.

Then Dad died and Michael vanished, and with them went any attraction I felt toward men. Boys passed me in the hallway, tousle-haired and sculpted with the muscled hands of adolescence. I viewed them with distant interest, the way one might look at an intriguing portrait.

I cannot have sex. Every time I try—which, admittedly, isn’t often and is typically fueled by alcohol—I fail. A boy reaches down to touch me, and I’m afraid that I’m going to be completely dry, and then Iam, and I feel bad about it, thinking I’ve offended the boy with whom I’m attempting to sleep, and I want to yell,It’s not you, it’s me!Because itisme. It’s my dry, broken, busted body.

So, I feel perfectly safe as I run my fingers over the fabric of the beautiful dresses in Cara’s closet, imagining which one I will wear, because I know I cannot develop feelings for the man who will see me in it. I cannot develop feelings foranyone.

“What the hell,” I say, tugging out a silver scoop-neck cocktail dress that sparkles in the setting sun, “are you doing with these?”

Cara shrugs. “I’m a woman of many interests.”

“Clearly.” I flick through all of the options. “When do youeven wear these? During lecture in the Science Center?”

She snorts. “No. I save them for section. Give the TAs something to look at, you know?” She picks up her coffee—her second cup since 4 p.m., not that I’m counting—and shrugs again. “Nah. I just like to keep them around in case something interesting ever happens.”

“Interesting,” I repeat.

“Right.” She takes a sip and grins. “Like my roommate getting invited to a final club ball by an elvish prince.”

I tug the silver dress from its hanger and toss it at my roommate’s face. She laughs, batting the fabric away.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s find the one.”