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I saw that cover at the pharmacy earlier this week. Beau was photographed between two buddies, arms slung around each of them, cheeks flushed with liquor, and eyes glazed against the camera’s flash. It was nothing particularly scandalous but simply another example of his party-boy image.
“He’s still a prince,” I pipe in, and immediately regret it as my mother starts speaking at me again.
“Don’t let him make a fool of you, Briar. That boy can afford whatever reputation he desires to spread, but you, cannot. The most charity work he’s been known to do is bringing unworthy dates to parties they’d otherwise never be invited to.” The disdain in her voice is so potent I can taste the bitterness on my tongue. “I told your father he should talk to Harold about that, but he’s refusing.”
As he should.
While my father and the King are the best of friends, I don’t think he would handle being told where his son can and can’t be, especially in regards to their shared organization.
“I’ve got it handled. Today went smoothly, and I spoke with him after the event. I don’t think he’s there to make trouble.”
“Trouble follows that boy around like a rotten stench.”
The rest of the phone call doesn’t go much better. My parents continue to bicker about the change in plans, while I ask questions that they continue to ignore or dance around. Before the call ends, I’m issued one last warning about behaving myself, which I grumble my agreement to, and they hang up with my father promising that he’s going to see what’s going on with Lock.
It’s a relief when the call ends. The empty quiet of my flat swallows me whole, and it would be so easy to fall asleep here, dressed and all. But I’ll regret not washing my face in the morning, so I force myself up and into the bathroom to shower.
Once I’m done, I wrap myself in a fluffy robe, shivering against the air-con. Exhaustion weighs my shoulders down with each step into the bedroom. I finally slump down at my vanity and brush my hair.
A framed photograph of me and Beatrice from when we were five and seven rests atop my jewelry box. I stare at it, at the carefree smiles we flash at my father behind the camera. Her hair, a few shades darker than mine, blows across her face. My arms are wrapped around her, and she has one arm slung across my shoulders. We’re in matching purple dresses.
I always wanted to dress like her. Always wanted to be like her. She was kind, bubbly, and cautious even as a child. It’s what made her accident all the more tragic.
One minute she was taking off down the road riding her bicycle with a few of her friends, hair blowing in the wind because she didn’t want to take out her butterfly hair clips for her helmet. And the next I heard sirens peel past our home and my father was running out the door.
She loved to let my mother do her hair and begged to wear high heels like all the big girls. Anything girly and frilly and pink was her favorite. She would’ve loved my dress today. Probably would’ve tried to sneak it out of my closet when I wasn’t looking.
She was meant to be there today. Meant to be dressed up and polished for the Crown Prince. Meant to sit on the throne one day beside Lock.
Now it’s up to me.
I swallow past the lump that’s lodged in my throat. I change into PJs and slip beneath the covers. The curtains stay open at night, allowing the moonlight to cast a cool glow over the room.
My mother’s words replay in my mind as I toss and turn, failing to get comfortable. If Lockwood has really been meant to be reaching out to me for the last year, what’s been stopping him?
Maybe he’s disinterested? And that’s why he didn’t come today either. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been hard for him to come up with an excuse and find other business to attend to.
But he doesn’t even know me. Not really anyways. Has he seen enough though to know I’m not his type? He’s hardly ever been photographed with women, so I don’t even have anyone to compare myself to.
He’s clearly aware of our parents’ expectations of us, though. Surely he knows everyone is waiting for him to make his move.
Maybe he’s not ready to settle down. Maybe he’s buying as much time as he can until his hand is forced.
Stop. Stop thinking about it so negatively.
He’s the Crown Prince. He’s busy, he has obligations. Romance is likely at the bottom of his list of priorities.
I need to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’ll reach out when he’s ready. And until then, I’ll fulfill my promise with the Caulfield-Penner Scholarship.
And keep my distance from Beau throughout the process.
Four
Fifteen Years Ago
The marble floors are slippery beneath my ballet flats. If my momma or Beatrice notice, they cover it well even though they both get to wear heels. Beatrice strutted around all morning in hers. I eyed them with envy, but Momma said I need to wait two more years until I’m ten years old, like Beatrice, to wear some of my own.
“Remember the curtsies we practiced,” Momma says quietly. She holds my hand on her right, Beatrice on her left, and our father stands on the other side of her, farthest from me.
