Tangled Games (Dating Games)

by T. K. Leigh

  “Do you have room for two more?” Izzy asks.

  “For you girls? Always,” Chloe answers.

  They barge into the hospital room that now feels on the small side. Visiting rules typically limit it to the spouse and two additional people, but since Izzy’s a nurse here, still wearing her scrubs from her shift last night, I doubt anyone considers her a visitor.

  “I’ll let you all have some time together,” Lincoln states. “I could use a shower anyway. It’s been a long night.”

  “Get ready,” Izzy taunts. “They’re all going to be long nights from now on.”

  “If Eloise is as much of a handful as this one…” He hitches a thumb toward Chloe, “I have no doubt.” He gives her one more sweet kiss before turning toward where I sit with Eloise.

  I stand, allowing him to take her from me.

  “See you soon, baby girl.” He kisses his daughter’s forehead, lingering for a beat to breathe her in, then hands her back to me.

  I hold her in my arms once more, making sure to cradle her head. Then I look at Evie and Izzy. “Who wants her next?”

  “Me! Me! Me!” Evie waddles across the room, ready to pop any minute herself. “At least before I need to pee again, which will probably be in mere seconds at the rate I’ve been going lately.”

  She lowers herself into one of the chairs. Once she looks as comfortable as she can when eight months pregnant, I hand her little Eloise. Much like me, she nuzzles her, inhaling that fresh baby smell.

  “What’s in the bags?” Chloe asks.

  “We brought some essentials,” Izzy states, handing over a bag. “When Lincoln called to say you’d gone into labor while at dinner and didn’t have time to head to Rye, then back to the city again, we figured you might need a few important things. Like nipple cream. Breast pads. Lotion for your hands.”

  Chloe exhales in relief. “You guys are a godsend.” She grabs the lotion, smoothing it on her hands and arms. “I swear. The air in hospitals is so damn dry.”

  “How do you feel?” Izzy asks.

  “Some irritation, but surprisingly okay. She’s worth it.”

  I beam at my friend, marveling at how far she’s come since our freshman year of college. Back then, she ran as far away from anything remotely resembling any sort of committed relationship. Now she’s officially a mother, something she swore she had no interest in being. It’s amazing how meeting the right person can change your outlook on things. Soon we’ll all be mothers — Evie in a matter of weeks, me in about six months, and Izzy a month or so after that, having shared the news of her pregnancy with all of us last week.

  “I’m happy for you.” I squeeze her arm and give her a sincere look when the television catches my attention.

  I blink, my heart dropping into the pit of my stomach, all my focus drawn to the man on the screen.

  “What is it?” Chloe asks, noticing my expression. When she glances at the TV, she sucks in a breath.

  I’d purposefully avoided all social media and any cable television since returning to New York, not wanting to flip through the channels and stumble across some news story about me. Or, worse, Anderson.

  “Can you turn that up?” I ask softly, although part of me doesn’t want to listen to whatever this is, especially when I notice Anderson sitting in the same chair as my mother did a few weeks ago during the interview that cost me everything.

  But it’s not just Anderson who has my curiosity piqued.

  It’s who’s sitting beside him.

  Mary and Benjamin Copeland. Hunter’s parents.

  Chloe grabs the remote, raising the volume.

  “Thank you so much for being here today, Prince Gabriel.” Carly’s voice grates on my skin, especially considering the last interview of hers I saw. “I have to admit, I was a bit surprised when my producer told me you’d agreed to sit down with me.”

  Anderson laughs. “I almost didn’t. But then I realized something.”

  “And what’s that?”

  He looks from Carly to the camera. People may think he’s talking to them. But I know that look. It’s his Anderson look, the one reserved for me.

  “Sometimes you need to break the rules.”

  “And being here today is breaking the rules for you?”

  “Giving an interview like this is generally frowned upon for members of the royal family. Sure, I’ve done a few interviews with the occasional magazine, but a live television interview is a big no-no. But I needed to set the record straight, despite strong opinions from within the royal household that I not. That I continue to allow them to use Nora Tremblay as a sacrificial lamb of sorts.”

  “And what do you have to say about Nora Tremblay? As you’re aware, her mother gave quite an explosive interview. Claimed her daughter is a known manipulator, someone only out for money. Voiced her suspicions that Nora had killed her ex-fiancé, making it look like an accident, as well as intentionally ended her pregnancy.”

  I watch as Anderson fights to keep his anger in check. His jaw ticks. Fists clench. Muscles tighten. But he does his best to remain calm under pressure, offering Carly a smile that’s a mixture of forced and annoyed.

  “I didn’t come on here today to badmouth anyone. Although there’s quite a bit I’d love to say to Dr. Harcourt if she ever dares show her face around me. I came here today to tell the truth about the woman I love. The woman I’m still desperate to call my wife, my queen…” He turns back toward the camera, his eyes pleading. “If she’ll forgive me for being such a daft knob.”

  I choke out a laugh through my tears, my heart brimming with an emotion I can’t quite explain — a blend of love and forgiveness, and everything else that makes us who we are.

  “Daft knob?” Chloe asks.

  “Stupid dickhead.”

  She processes this for a moment, then nods. “Sounds about right.”

  “The truth is, Nora had no involvement in the accident that took her fiancé’s and unborn daughter’s lives.”

  “How do you know that for certain? After Dr. Harcourt sat down with us, I did some digging of my own. Spoke to some law enforcement professionals familiar with the accident. According to them, the police reports were inconclusive. There was no evidence that her version of events was true. But also no evidence it wasn’t.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  She looks at Hunter’s parents. “Her fiancé, Hunter Copeland, was your son. You put out a reward for any information about a so-called Good Samaritan Nora claimed pulled her from the car moments before it burst into flames, killing Hunter. Isn’t that correct?”

  Mary swallows hard, the loss of her son still affecting her. “We did. To the tune of $12,000. But no one came forward. At first, we questioned why someone would want to remain quiet about it, especially with a reward of that amount of money.” When she glances at Anderson, a grateful smile pulls on her lips. “But it turns out the Good Samaritan truly had no need for the money.”

  You can practically see the lightbulb go off in Carly’s head, her wide eyes returning to Anderson. “It was you,” she breathes. Then she quickly rummages through the pages of notes in front of her. “Of course. It makes sense now. Your girlfriend at the time, Kendall Davies, died the same day in a hospital mere miles away from the scene of the accident.”

  He nods. “That’s correct. I pulled Nora from the car. But that’s not all I did.”

  I suck in a breath and shake my head, my hand covering my mouth. “No. Nonononono. Please, Anders. Don’t do this.”

  But my pleas fall on deaf ears.

  “I caused the crash.”

  “What is he doing?” I mumble to myself, heart hammering in my chest.

  “Remember what you told us your first night back?” Izzy asks. “That there were too many obstacles between you?”

  I meet her eyes.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, Nora, it looks to me like he’s removing those obstacles.”

  Speechless, I look from her to Evie,
who simply nods in agreement. Then to Chloe, who does the same.

  When Anderson and I said goodbye, I thought that was it. That there was no path forward for us. That no one would allow him to do something like this. That they’d protect the king at all costs. That’s what every chess rule book would say to do.

  Then again, Anderson and I have never been a couple to follow the rules.

  “What does this mean?” I ask frantically.

  “We can’t tell you that,” Chloe replies. “But the one person who can is only a quick cab ride away. If I were you, I’d get moving.”

  “But you just had a baby,” I protest. “I can’t leave you.”

  She throws up her hands. “Oh, shut up and get out of my room. I’m officially revoking your invitation to be here.”

  I glance down at my wardrobe. It’s not exactly anything remotely close to what I should be wearing if going to see Anderson. I’m fairly certain the royal household would lose its mind if they saw me in my jeans and Mets t-shirt, my unwashed hair in a messy bun, face mostly devoid of makeup, apart from a bit of powder and eyeliner around my eyes. This is how I’ve blended in this past week. How I’ve gotten away with no one recognizing me. People are used to seeing the future princess with her hair perfect and makeup impeccably applied. Without those things, no one gives me a second glance.

  “Go!” my three friends shout at the same time, Izzy pushing me out of the room.

  I pause as a few brief thoughts of inadequacy run through my mind. Can I really put myself through all of this again? Allow myself to have hope? Is Anderson worth it?

  When his voice fills the room as he shares our love story, I have my answer.

  He will always be worth it.

  “I love you girls,” I say quickly, then whirl around, ignoring the demands from the nursing staff to slow down.

  But I can’t.

  I race out of the building as quickly as I can. Luckily, there’s always a line of cabs nearby, and I dart into one.

  “Rockefeller Plaza,” I say breathlessly. “As fast as you can.”

  The driver nods, starting his meter. He merges into traffic, then steals a glance at me in the rearview mirror. “Do you know who you look like?”

  “Grace Kelly?” I mutter under my breath, having gotten that most of my life.

  “No. The American girl who was supposed to marry that European prince but her mother sabotaged it. Probably out of jealousy.”

  I pull my hair out of the bun, allowing it to fall to my shoulders. “I am that American. And that prince is being interviewed by Carly Hart right now. So I really need to get to Rockefeller Plaza as soon as possible.”

  His eyes widen in surprise. Then he turns into the New York cab driver I know he is in his soul. “Of course, ma’am.” He presses his foot on the gas, not paying much attention to the rules of the road.

  I pull my phone out of my purse and bring up a browser so I can keep watching the interview. For all I know, it may already be over.

  But when I tune into the live feed, I blow out a relieved breath to see Anderson’s still there. I turn up the volume, keeping my hand on the door handle to prevent myself from sliding all over the back seat as the car’s tires squeal around a corner.

  I listen as Anderson shares how he was unaware he’d caused the crash until a year ago. How he’d experienced temporary blindness, what he now knows was a flareup of his MS, which was undiagnosed until last year. Then he shares how we met, something that’s been kept under wraps from the beginning. How he was on the brink of taking his own life after receiving his MS diagnosis, but saw me sitting in that Chicago diner. As he discloses how he felt when he realized who I was, a text pops up.

  Chloe: #TeamNora is the top trending hashtag right now. This interview is going viral, more so than your mother’s. Nora, people LOVE your story. So go get your man! And don’t give up until you have him!

  I beam, typing out a quick reply.

  Nora: I don’t plan on it. No more obstacles.

  I look up from my phone to see how close we are. There are still a few blocks to go, but with Midtown traffic what it is, it’ll probably be quicker if I just run.

  “I’ll get out here.” I reach into my purse and toss a $20 his way, then hastily push open the door, skirting through three lanes of traffic. People fill the sidewalk like ants, Rockefeller Plaza feeling so close but still so out of reach. Like it gets farther away with every step I take.

  Now I know how Terry McKay felt in An Affair to Remember when she was on her way to the Empire State Building to see Nicki Ferrante after their agreed upon six-month separation. Nothing else mattered except getting to Nicki. Just like right now. Nothing matters except getting to Anderson.

  When I’m two blocks away, I break into a jog, looking down at my phone every few seconds to see the interview still going. A few people look my way, seeming to recognize me. Some whisper and point, others begin chanting my name as I run past.

  By the time I reach the Plaza and can see the open windows of the studio on 49th Street, more and more people have joined in the chant. But I tune out most of them, all my attention focused on the large screens outside broadcasting the interview. Anderson’s voice fills the area as he confesses how he didn’t fight hard enough for me. How the reason wasn’t because of my mother’s interview but because he thought he was saving me from a lifetime of living with a cripple.

  I stop dead in my tracks, his words hitting me hard, knocking the air from my lungs.

  “My god, you are such a bloody wanker,” I muse, to which a few people around me laugh.

  “Men usually are, sweetie,” a woman says, encouraging me forward.

  I jog the last block to the studio, the growing crowd stopping to watch, their cell phones pointing in my direction, all of them cheering me on. It invigorates me, an infectious smile tugging on my lips. Days ago, I assumed I was hated. Maybe I never was. Maybe that was all in my head.

  Maybe I’d allowed my mother to manipulate me yet again.

  Shaking it off, I approach the windows of the studio. My pulse increases when I peek through them and see Anderson under the lights, his hair a bit more wayward than normal, a dusting of scruff on his face.

  Now that I’m here, I realize I haven’t thought this through. He’s on national television right now. What are the chances he’ll see me out here? Do I try to find the stage door? I doubt they make it easily accessible.

  Instead, all I can do is send him a text message, then watch. And wait.

  And hope.

  “Are you really her?” a woman asks me, eyes wide in excitement. “Are you really the American princess?”

  I smile. “I am.”

  The woman turns toward her friends. “It really is her!”

  The crowd cheers, several people asking me to sign their posterboards, some of which were obviously made with Anderson in mind. I can only assume these women are big royal watchers.

  While I’m more than aware that signing autographs is frowned upon, I no longer have to live by those rules. So I happily agree to sign their posters, taking their marker and scrawling my name on each. In the background, I hear Carly ask Anderson what he hopes to achieve by finally coming forward with the truth.

  “Nothing,” his voice booms in the Plaza. “But I couldn’t sit aside and let the world think the worst of Nora. She doesn’t deserve that. Her mother painted her in a horrible light. But that’s not Nora. Maybe that’s the Nora her mother wishes she were, but nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “Why don’t you share who Nora Tremblay is then,” Carly suggests.

  “She’s the love of my life,” he answers without hesitation, his voice wavering slightly.

  Hunter’s mother reaches for his hand and grabs it, giving him a reassuring smile. It melts my heart to see these people on the same stage together. Connected by tragedy but united for a bigger purpose… Love.

  The frenzied sounds of the city seem to disappear as everyone’s eyes remain glue
d to the giant screens overhead. It’s as if the world has stopped spinning to listen to the elusive Crown Prince Gabriel give an interview and speak from the heart, something no royal has ever done.

  “Nora Tremblay doesn’t have a vindictive or manipulative bone in her body. She’s one of the most honest and real people I’ve ever met. She doesn’t pretend to be something she isn’t, which I think was one of the hardest things for her about acclimating to life as a royal. Everyone tried to tell her how to act, how to think, how to dress. But Nora isn’t the type of woman you can fit into a mold. She’s warm, caring.” He laughs to himself, his brilliant, blue eyes sparkling. “This is a woman who saw a dog get hit by a car and made me pull over so we could take it to a vet, then paid for all the medical care he needed.”

  With each word he speaks, the more impassioned he becomes, his determination unwavering. Whereas my mother could barely look Carly in the eyes as she spouted her lies, Anderson’s gaze remains resolute.

  “This is a woman who has spent the past month taking the time to respond to each and every one of the hundreds upon hundreds of letters she’s received from across the globe, not wanting anyone to think she doesn’t care. I’ve never met any other royal who’s done that, who’s taken the time to interact with people.”

  “That’s Nora,” Mary says from beside him. “Always giving. Never taking.”

  Anderson gives her a small smile before returning his attention to Carly as tears fall down my cheeks.

  “This is a woman who spent nearly four hours in a pediatric oncology unit playing dress-up with a few of the young girls who are longtime patients there. She had other engagements that day, but that didn’t matter to Nora. She didn’t care about going to dinner with whatever celebrity we were supposed to be seeing that evening. All that mattered was staying with those kids as long as possible, making them happy.”

  “I remember seeing that on the news,” Carly says. “She certainly won over quite a few hearts with how she interacted with all those kids.”