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Chapter 17
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Almost a week had gone by since that show, and we were now friends. Because of my schedule, I had to fly up and down during the week for shows, and each time, I just imagined him in the front row, calling out to me, and I was able to get through it. We spent most of our time talking on the phone and having dinner. There were no more flowers or letters, and it bothered me how I clearly noticed and kind of wished they hadn’t stopped, even though I was the one who had told him not to continue. Why couldn’t I be like normal girls? Why did I overthink everything? This was one of the reasons why I didn’t bother or even want to get married. How could anybody put up with me and my confused self for a lifetime? It was better just to be alone.
Shifting my bag and laptop onto my other arm, I put the key into the lock and opened the door.
“Mom, I’m back!” I called out, dropping my things by the stairs and taking off my coat. I missed my apartment, but since Gale was there, I figured I would just stay at her townhouse for now.
“Welcome back, sweetheart. How was it?”
“Good, actually. The guys were all cheering afterward, and I even went on to do an encore in San Francisco,” I replied, checking through the mail she had allowed to stack up so much they were almost falling over themselves. Lifting it, I saw why. They were all bills. Most were for her, but some were for me, too.
“You’re over your stage fright?”
“Not sure if I’m over it, but thinking of a princess throwing a tantrum really works,” I replied, picking up the invite from the company that was buried in the stack before walking toward the living room.
“A princess having a tantrum?”
“Yeah, something Gale said. Did you see this—” I stopped midsentence at the sight in front of me.
There, sitting on one of the kitchen stools, was the prince himself. However, it wasn’t just the fact that he was there. It was the fact that he was sitting as my mother adjusted a wig on his head. He glanced up at me and nodded.
“Welcome back. I’m glad the advice helped,” Gale said as if he weren’t wearing a wavy, brown, lace-front wig.
My mother, who still had scissors in her hand, clipping away and cutting layers into it, said, “Did I see what, honey?”
“Wait. What is happening right now? Am I dreaming, or do you have him in a wig?”
“Come closer,” he said to me.
I was not sure why I did so, but when I did, he reached out and pinched me.
“Ouch!” I yanked my hand away.
“What? That’s how you prove to someone they are not dreaming in this part of the world.” He grinned, clearly remembering when I said the same thing to him.
