Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

by Damian Bloom

  When I reach the coffee house for my noon shift, I’m as troubled as when I left my grandmother’s house, if not more. Throughout the workday, I allow myself to switch to autopilot. My hands do the work, while my mind plays back Grandma Hattie’s words again and again until I can no longer tell what came from her mouth and what was later provided by my imagination.

  Sitting by the window, a couple catches my eye. They’re tangled up in whispers and snickers meant only for each other’s ears. With every word, they lean in until their faces almost press together. Cloistered in their little world, they seem untouchable. As I go around the coffee house and water all the potted plants, I keep an eye on them, analyzing all their moves. To my virgin, no-relationship-having ass, they’re as fascinating and as challenging to understand as a scientific experiment. Once I run out of plants, I return behind the counter, prop my chin on my fist, and sigh. Damn, they seem so in love.

  “If you stare any longer at them, I’m calling the police.” Lena tugs on one of her violet locks of hair. She grins when I turn to her. “What’s up with you today? Something on your mind?”

  “Hmm, so you don’t read minds after all.”

  Lena and I are in the clumsy stage of work friendship. I see her every day, she’s funny, reliable, and interesting, but we’ve never taken our interaction outside of the workspace. So it’s not very clear what I can or should or even want to tell my coworker about today’s events.

  Even so, it was silly of me to believe she wouldn’t pick up on my weird mood. While there are people like my friend Eric, who wouldn’t notice if you snatched the ground from under their feet, others catch everything, like Lena.

  I believe Lena is the closest that humans can get to reading minds. She is so crazily perceptive that a look, a micro-expression, or half a sentence I might absent-mindedly murmur to myself would most times be enough for her to guess what I’m thinking.

  Now, she gives me an intense look as she leans against the counter. “Your mind is a little murky at the moment,” she says. “Difficult to read.”

  “Yeah, murky feels pretty accurate.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  The hanging bells chime above the entrance door when two new customers walk in. Preparing their coffees gives me enough time to think about what I’ll say next.

  It’s a family rule, dictated by common sense, that we should keep Grandma’s strange gift a secret. I stick by it because I know I wouldn’t like people to think either I or, worse, Grandma Hattie are crazy. But there’s a weight pressing on my chest, and speaking to someone—anyone—promises to ease it.

  I sigh. “Have you ever had your heart broken, Lena?”

  I think I see her shudder. “Oh, yes.” She stares off into space, and whatever passes before her eyes isn’t pleasant.

  “What was it like?”

  Pressing a finger to her chin, she thinks about it for a second. “I’d say it was probably the worst pain I’ve ever felt.”

  It’s my turn to shudder now as Lena echoes Grandma’s prediction. My heart sinks. “I’m sorry.”

  Lena shrugs. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t change anything about it, even if I could.”

  “How come?”

  Something undefinable flashes over her face. “It only hurt so badly because of what he meant to me.”

  She pours herself a coffee while I try to make sense of her words. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “If I hadn’t had my heart broken by him,” she says, speaking slowly, the way one would explain a complicated notion to a child, I would have never known how deeply I can love.”

  The couple I’ve been observing stands up. One of the women holds the other’s jacket open while she slips her arms into the sleeves, then takes her hand as they leave. While the smile they share is only meant for each other, it could brighten up the entire city. That’s the way I’ve always dreamed I would smile at that special someone one day.

  With an equally dreamy look on her face, Lena watches them leave. “It taught me a lot about myself.”

  “But it hurt. A lot, right?”

  Her wavy locks of hair jiggle as she shakes her head and sighs. “Some people are worth hurting for, Luis.”

  Inexplicably, her words annoy me, and my desire to talk—especially to her—instantly evaporates. People make up many crazy ideas to cope with their pain. They delude themselves; they force a purpose, a reason, or a pay-off where there isn’t any. What purpose can love have if it’s not forever? If it’s not true love; us-against-the-world, larger-than-life, burning, maddening true love?

  What can a broken heart teach you other than that you’ve wasted your time on the wrong person? My heart squeezes for the hundredth time today under the threat of being shattered.

  More than anything, this has always been the reason for me to keep myself in check. No boys, unless I could picture myself by their side for the rest of my life. You need to protect your heart viciously, Grandma says, keep it whole for the one who deserves it and will watch after it just as carefully.

  And now it turns out that all of this effort was for nothing.

  My vision turns blurry with tears. Keep it together. Squeezing my lips tight and grinding my teeth, I get a hold of myself.

  For all my caution, for all the smart choices I’ve made, I’ll still trust the wrong person. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m utterly powerless in front of fate.

  True love may find me afterward, but will I still be ready to receive it? Or will I be a heap of bitterness, sadness, and trust issues, masquerading as a person?

  This is where my beliefs differ from Grandma’s. To her, true love is rare but imminent and invincible. But to me, it’s always seemed fragile in the way all the most valuable things are. As delicate as life itself.

  At nine, when I get off the clock, I hail a cab. By the time I finally get home, I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically drained. The only thing that’s kept me going for the last few hours was the promise of a warm bath.

  Cloaked by darkness, the house is as silent as a tomb, which is highly unusual, but my brain is fried by worries and overthinking, and I’ve already forgotten it’s my birthday today, and, frankly, I just can’t put two and two together.

  So the surprise is a success.

  When the guys jump out from their hiding places, I stumble a few steps backward. My heart thumps at the base of my throat when I reach for the light switch. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  Keith throws an arm around me and squeezes me into a tight half-hug. “Now that you’re twenty-three, I guess that’s something you should start worrying about, Grandpa.”

  Childish birthday decorations—helium balloons, streamers, banners, and garlands—fill the living room. It’s a hard-to-miss statement: I may be turning twenty-three, but I’ll always be a kid to them.

  Tanner sneaks up behind me, which is a feat for a giant like him. He’s wearing a paper birthday hat tied under his chin with a string. “What do you want to drink, Luis? There’s beer, gin, vodka.”

  My head spins just from inspecting the alcohol collection lined up on the kitchen table. “Wow, you guys went all out.”

  “Yeah, we even got champagne, but we’re popping that open at midnight.”

  “You mean I have to stay up till midnight?” Horror flashes over my face before I get it back under control. When I see a few shoulders slouch with disappointment, I hurry to backtrack: “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. A screwdriver would be nice.”

  Tanner mixes up some vodka with a pinch of orange juice before I can say booze, and my mood improves quickly afterward.

  The guys then give me their presents, which add up to about forty books, all of them off my To Be Read list, which they must have stolen from my nightstand. I almost faint from pleasure when I see them. But, oh man, where will I store all of these?

  We drink and dance and laugh until our bellies hurt, and for a second, I forget anything that’s not happening here and now. The pa
rty flies by like a midday nap and leaves me just as dazzled.

  The alcohol has calmed me down a little, turning me contemplative rather than anxious. Out on my balcony, I’m small under the infinite night sky. I feel the stars up there, watching over me, but the city lights block them out.

  Tipsy and sad, my untethered thoughts float to my soulmate, wherever and whoever he may be, and I allow myself to believe that he’s gazing at the same sky now and thinking of me. “Hurry up,” I whisper up to the invisible stars. The words burn like a prayer.

  I’m not gone for more than a few minutes before Peter finds me. He’s holding a beer bottle, and he’s found a party hat, too. “There you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “I thought I’d find you reading three books at once for your readathon.”

  I bring my feet up on the chair to rest my chin on my knees. “I didn’t feel like reading.”

  “Uh-oh.” He lays a hand on my forehead. “Someone call an ambulance. Luis must be sick.”

  I try to smile, but it comes out sad and pathetic, so I drop it. Out in the street, a car honks, and I’m tempted to start shouting; if only so I have something to take out my frustration on. “You didn’t tell the others about what Grandma said, right?” I know my friends wouldn’t laugh at me, but they also wouldn’t understand.

  Peter shakes his head. “Dad said you sounded sad when he spoke to you on the phone today.” He sits down and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “You still thinking about what Grandma said, huh?” He smells of beer and cologne and home.

  “Yeah.”

  “You really believe in this stuff, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  Peter feels so bad for me that I can almost feel it. It weighs me down like a wet sweater. He’s always thought Grandma and I have our heads in the clouds. All this talk about the one true love and Prince Charming, it’s just romance tropes, for God’s sake! You can’t let life pass you by while you chase illusions.

  My brother squeezes my hand. He’s only ever wanted to protect me. At times, even from myself and my impossibly high expectations.

  “Are you that scared of getting your heart broken?” He looks somber in the almost complete darkness.

  I nod, then ask him the same question I asked Lena earlier: “Did anyone ever break your heart?” In his case, I think I already know the answer, but maybe there’s more. Perhaps there are parts of my brother I don’t yet know anything about, and I don’t know if I like the idea or if it upsets me.

  At the complete opposite end of the spectrum from me, Peter has dated more people by the age of twenty-seven than most people do in a lifetime. I suspect him of a similarly fiery longing for love like the one I feel. Only his approach is much more active. And…uh, less committed.

  His longest relationship lasted for five months. Without fail, around the one month mark, a dozen reasons why whoever he’s dating is not a right match for him magically surface, and there’s nothing left for Peter to do but put an end to the relationship. Because of this, he’s often been accused of shallowness—even by me. Sometimes, of being a fuckboy.

  But in reality, I can’t believe these things about my brother because I know what a giant heart he hides in his chest. One day, he’ll find a guy he’ll be able to give this heart to for the rest of his life. All I hope is that he’ll be able to recognize him.

  Peter squirms under the discomfort of the question. “No…I guess I was always the one breaking the hearts.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  His hand clenches the bottle tighter. “Sometimes you can’t help it, you know? There’s nothing you could do differently.”

  “But do you feel bad about it?”

  Grabbing the hat by its pointy end, he pulls it off and tosses it at our feet. “I do, yes.”

  From around the corner, Eric’s voice floats to us through an open window. He’s singing a song I’ve never heard before, and although he’s too far away and the street is too noisy to make out the lyrics, it’s mesmerizing.

  Peter’s thinking the same thing as me. “He’s amazing.”

  “He is.”

  I lean my head against his shoulder, and we listen to our friend sing for a while. But then Eric shuts up and closes the window, and Peter speaks again: “Even if everything Grandma said is true, you’re luckier than anyone else I know.”

  I squint at him in the almost complete darkness. “How exactly?”

  “You’re guaranteed to meet the love of your life afterward. Most people don’t have that privilege. They get their hearts broken for nothing.”

  It’s been a long day, full of overthinking, and my chest feels hollow. I’m not in the mood to count my blessings. “I guess…But what if it will be too late? What if this first dude screws me up so badly, he ruins my chance at true love forever?”

  Peter squeezes me closer. “You’ll have to do what everyone else does, Luis. Hope for the best.” The bustling city quiets down for a moment. “But seriously, if I were you, I’d be out in the street, searching like a mad man for someone to break my heart. Just to get it over with. Quick and easy. Like pulling off a band-aid.”

  This makes me laugh, and it helps ease some of the tension in my shoulders. “You know what I don’t understand?”

  “What?”

  “How I’ll be stupid enough to let anyone break my heart, knowing damn well it’s coming. Like, how will I trust someone I know will hurt me? I’d have to be stupid to do that.”

  Peter shrugs. “Love isn’t rational. Sometimes, you just fall in love, even if it’s the last thing you want.”

  I clutch the blanket in my fist. “That asshole will have to try his damn hardest to make me fall in love with him.”

  Letting out a hearty laugh, Peter squeezes me closer to him.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t care if it’s fate. I promise I’m not going down without a fight.”

  “And I promise that if he does break your heart—or when he does—I’ll give him the ass-kicking of a lifetime.”

  I smile. “That makes me feel better.”

  The night squeezes around us. I yawn loudly when my exhaustion catches up with me, eyes watering.

  Next to me, Peter shifts his weight in search of a more comfortable position. “Would you have preferred not to know all this?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I think. Or maybe not. Ugh, I don’t know. I guess it’s more stressful this way.” I chew on my cracked lip, tasting copper. “Like being held at gun-point, expecting the bullet.”

  Peter pats my back. I know that deep down, this is another thing he would like to protect me from. “You’ll be okay.”

  We share a long silence in the way that only two people who are entirely comfortable with each other could—a brother’s silence.

  “What plans do you have for this year?” he asks. “Twenty-three. That’s a nice age.”

  I haven’t thought about it until now, and now it hits me that I’ve spent the biggest part of my birthday like an inmate on death row, anticipating disaster. Today should mark a beginning. I’m young as hell, and even if sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, life continuously unfolds in front of me with endless possibilities.

  On the other side of the wall we’re leaning against, I can feel the heavy presence of hundreds of books. “I’d like to try to write that novel I keep putting off.”

  Peter breathes a hefty sigh. “Finally…”

  “What?”

  “Grandma and I have been wondering when you’d start writing. She owes me twenty bucks, by the way.”

  I blink up at him with bewildered eyes.

  “What?” he says. “It was obvious that at one point, you’d get tired of reading other people’s love stories and want to write your own. Grams thought it would take you at least two more years to gather up the courage to try it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t promise anything, though. I’ll just try it out.”

  “Good. You don’t have anything to lose, anyway.”


  I appreciate him not pushing the topic with further questions, simply because I don’t have any answers. But just by making the decision, it feels like I took an enormous step tonight, and I’m excited for the rest of the journey.

  Back in my room, I discover two new matching light brown shelves have been installed on the less crowded wall. I must have been in a shitty mood to miss them on my way to the balcony. Just the forty books I received tonight could swallow up the entire space. I look around the room at the crazy amount of books I’ve collected and try not to feel like a Hoarders case. Thank God I’m not claustrophobic.

  “If you stopped buying books for a month, you’d be rich,” Peter loves to say sometimes, even though that’s far from the truth. My job at the Hazelnut pays pennies, even if the tips help, and most of the time, buying books requires some sacrifices. However, not paying rent has been a blessing that has made my life so much easier.

  Together with my brother Peter and my closest friends, I live in Tanner’s house—a modern, two-story building, with as many bedrooms as a small hotel, a luxurious amount of bathrooms, and common rooms so large there’s an echo. A wealthy family’s home.

  Three years ago, when, tired of working and wealthy enough not to have to, Tanner’s parents, Mr and Mrs Prince, withdrew to the French Riviera for early retirement, he was left with this enormous house and an enviable trust fund.

  However, the bigger the mansion, the more pressing the loneliness, I suppose, because Tanner asked Keith and Peter to move in with him after only a month of living alone. Eric and I followed soon after. From the beginning, Tanner has bristled at the mere thought of accepting rent money. Although we still lovingly call the house the Prince Castle, Tanner’s been very good at making us feel like this is every bit as much our house as it is his. Beyond any doubt, without Tanner, none of our lives would be this comfortable.

  Our group is a motley one. With such different personalities and backgrounds, it seems unlikely that the five of us would have enough in common to tie a friendship. However, life has gradually pulled us together, strapped us to each other with ever-tightening bonds. As far as I’m concerned, the guys are my family.