Page 7 of King of the Crease

“Love you,” he says over his shoulder.

I close the car door. He’s fully capable of doing it himself, but every so often, I like to still feel useful.

I stand in the road, in a patch of slush, watching them drive away. And I can’t help thinking… what if she’s right about this whole main-character energy stuff?

Maybe I’m destined to be the funny side character. The best friend. The comic relief. That’s been my role throughout my life. Where do they wind up at the end of the story? Probably where I am right now: alone.

I guess Mario is the only plumber who gets to be the hero of his story.

3

NICK

Grace was lovely. I would be thrilled to work on committees with her. But would I want to, for lack of a better phrase, stick it in her? Unfortunately, no.

I spend the night in a sleepless rustle.

This wasn’t my standard bout of insomnia. This was the full royal spiral variety: staring at the ceiling of a five-star hotel, mentally drafting abdication speeches, and wondering if anyone would notice if I disappeared into the night wearing a borrowed hoodie and someone else’s life.

I’ve known from a young age that I wasn’t like the other boys, and that it was something to keep secret. Little me really really wanted to be friends with certain boys and would follow the cute ones around the playground. At boarding school, teenage me would make sure to walk behind athletes on the rugby team in between classes to check out their asses.

Mindful of the crown at all times, I never let it progress past clandestine longing. But when I lost my mother to cancer at fifteen, I became vulnerable and incredibly lonely. At university, I had a sexy lab partner named Vincent who rowed crew, played guitar, and was fond of wearing puka shell necklaces. My urges won out. Sex with men was truly as wonderful as I’d dreamed.

Vincent told me he loved me right before he sold our story to the tabloids. My father had to personally step in and bury the article. The glare of disappointment in his eye made me feel…disgusting. Dirty. I lied and told him I was experimenting. A dumb phase that was now over.

And it was dumb. Dumb to think I could ever enjoy love.

From time to time, I’ll go on a few dates with a woman to keep the press and my father satisfied. When I go on vacation, Agnes will help arrange a sex worker (with an NDA, of course) so I can get off. My sex life has been reduced to a pressure valve that needs to get relieved every so often.

By three in the morning, I’m still sleepless, so I turn on the TV and catch a rerun of Friends, the background noise making me feel less alone in this cavernous space. No matter where I am in the world, there is guaranteed to be a Friends rerun on some channel. The gang is relaxing in Monica and Rachel’s apartment. Joey barges in wearing Chandler’s entire wardrobe. “Could I be wearing any more clothes?” he says, imitating Chandler’s cadence.

“Could I be wearing any more clothes?” I repeat, in a decent Chandler imitation.

I close my eyes and imagine myself in the Friends apartment. Maybe lounging on the white couch in the arms of my boyfriend, Ross or Phoebe coming through the front door with a funny story. Yet even in my happy place, I can’t fall asleep.

By four, insomnia officially wins out, and I decide to start my day. I go to the hotel gym for an early-early morning workout, then to the hotel restaurant for breakfast right when they open. Amazingly, Agnes is there ready for me. Sometimes I wonder if the woman sleeps more than three hours a night.

“Your Highness, if I may say so, you look a little tired,” she tells me over eggs Benedict. She’s one of the only people who can get away with such honesty.

“I had an off night.” I shrug and dig into my food—in a classy manner, of course. I’d been through so much meal etiquette training, I could eat primly and properly on autopilot.

“Is everything alright?” She peers into my eyes in a deeper way, like how my mother used to when I sulked during dinner.

“Yes. I’m fine, Agnes.”

“Seeing Ms. Hobbs today should be fun.”

Simply hearing Millie’s name makes my chest unclench.

“Would you like me to send Ms. Muldoon a bouquet of flowers today?”

And just as quickly, my chest clamps back up. “Sure.”

I shovel a heaping of eggs into my mouth, etiquette be damned.

By nine, I’m in the backseat of a limo headed north out of the city, watching the skyline thin into trees and hills, and feeling—against all logic—lighter with every mile.

Sourwood appears the way quaint towns always did, sneaking up on you in the middle of nothing. We turn off the highway, drive past a few empty farmstands, and find ourselves on a main street lined with brick buildings, wreaths on lampposts, a bakery advertising Hot Cocoa Inside! in looping chalk handwriting. Snow clings politely to rooftops, as if it had been instructed not to inconvenience anyone.