American Royals

by Katharine McGee

  “Honestly, no. I hate caviar.” Nina’s voice was barely audible over the ambient classical music. “Jeff, you shouldn’t have done all this.”

  “I told you, it’s a special—”

  “No,” she insisted. “This date is …” Extravagant, glitzy, over the top. “Thoughtful,” she said, compromising. “But it isn’t me.”

  Jeff blinked at her in astonishment. Nina wondered if she’d upset him, after all the money and planning he had obviously put into the evening. Then his eyes brightened, and he laughed.

  “You want to know something? I hate caviar too.”

  The prince stood in a single motion, tossing his napkin onto the table next to the half-eaten tower of toro and caviar. Nina hurried to follow. Seeing their movement, Matsuhara swept out of the kitchen in evident dismay.

  “We’re so sorry, but an emergency came up. We won’t be staying for the rest of the meal. Of course, you’ll still be paid in full,” Jeff announced to the startled chef.

  “But Your Highness—all the food …”

  “You and the staff should eat it. I bet you never get a chance to enjoy your own cooking.” Excitement blossomed on the chef’s face.

  Jeff waited until they had slipped out the shadowed side door before turning to Nina. “Where to? I have to admit, I’m still a little hungry.”

  Nina gave an appreciative laugh. “I know just the spot.”

  The incredulous delight on Jefferson’s face was totally worth it—even if his protection officer did look like he wanted to throttle Nina in retribution.

  They had walked to the Wawa from Salsa Deli, Nina’s favorite taco shop, where they’d sat at a plastic-covered table and ordered carnitas tacos. In the low light, no one had cast them a second glance. Especially after Jeff borrowed the navy sweatshirt that his protection officer kept in the trunk of his car.

  Eating chips and canned salsa was the opposite of the five-star dinner they’d just abandoned, but it was much more Nina’s speed. Free of all that expectation and gourmet food, she and Jeff had finally been able to relax, and just talk.

  When he asked where they could get dessert, Nina led him across the street to Wawa.

  It was cold inside; fluorescent lights beamed down on aisle after aisle of brightly colored packaging. The store was empty except for the cashier, who barely looked their way before returning to her magazine. Nina had to bite back a laugh when she saw the cover: a WHO WORE IT BETTER? review of the gowns from the Queen’s Ball. If only the cashier knew that a Prince of the Realm was in her store, his features hidden behind a navy hoodie.

  But Nina knew the hoodie wasn’t the only reason Jeff had gotten away with this. It was simply a matter of context. The cashier didn’t expect to see Prince Jefferson at the Engletown Wawa, which was why she failed to notice his presence right here before her.

  And now Jeff was running around the Wawa like … well, like a kid in a candy store. He kept pulling items from the shelves with gleeful abandon: flaming hot potato chips, a frosted Tastykake, jalapeño poppers.

  He turned to her in delighted confusion, his arms brimming with packaged foods. “I don’t understand this place. Is it a fast-food restaurant or a convenience store?”

  “Both. Wawa is where those two worlds converge.”

  Jeff grinned. “I feel so cool. So hipster and bohemian.”

  “To a boy who wears a tiara, I guess everything looks bohemian,” Nina teased, and Jeff reddened at her reference.

  “It’s a circlet, not a tiara, and I haven’t worn it since I was ten!” he protested. “Just for those portraits my mom made me take as a kid!”

  “It sure looked like a tiara to me.” Nina ducked as Jeff tossed a bag of chips in her direction. “A rose by any other name …”

  “Let’s look up some photos of you when you were ten. I seem to remember that you went through a rough patch of your own.”

  “I think you mean my infamous bowl cut. Also known as my bad hair year.” Nina laughed.

  “At least your photos weren’t circulated worldwide,” Jeff pointed out. “Besides, you were still cute, even with that terrible haircut.”

  His voice had softened. They both fell still.

  Nina felt a sudden need to say something, anything, to break the moment. “We came here for dessert, and all you’ve gotten are salty snacks,” she pointed out.

  “Fair enough.” Jeff veered toward the freezer section and grabbed a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

  Nina made a face. “There are dozens of flavors to choose from and you went with mint chocolate chip?”

  “What do you have against mint chocolate chip?”

  “Nothing should be that shade of green. It’s unnatural.”

  “Fine, then. More for me.” Jeff smiled: a lopsided, genuine smile, which was how Nina knew that the other one—the one he showed the rest of the world—was false.

  It gave her a stupid rush of confidence, knowing that she was the one who’d elicited that smile. Nina found herself desperate to see it again.

  “If you insist upon that monstrosity”—she nodded at his ice cream carton—“then you leave me no choice but to get my own dessert. Watch and learn.”

  She marched to the front counter and caught the cashier’s attention. “Excuse me, could I get a chocolate milkshake with double M&M’s?”

  “Double M&M’s? That’s shockingly greedy.” Jeff came to stand behind her, close enough that Nina could have leaned back into him, if she dared.

  “Or it’s the secret to true happiness,” she replied, over the sudden pounding of her heart. “All I know is that when I need to eat my feelings, my feelings taste like Wawa milkshakes with extra M&M’s.”

  Jeff smiled. “Are you and Sam still trying to sample all the M&M varieties from around the world?”

  Nina was startled that he had remembered. “We haven’t gotten to all the countries yet. Turns out there’s a whole lot of world out there.”

  Something flashed in Jeff’s eyes at her words, and he nodded, thoughtful.

  Nina insisted on paying for their snacks. It was the least she could do, after she’d cut off the elaborate, expensive date that Jeff had planned. As she signed the receipt, she noticed that the cashier was looking at her companion in the hoodie a little too closely. The girl opened her mouth—but before she could say anything, Nina had grabbed their shopping bag in one hand and the prince’s arm in the other. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Should we make it a race?” Jeff asked, as playful and challenging as he’d been when they were kids and used to slide down the palace stairs on sofa cushions.

  “You’re on.” Nina took off sprinting down the street, Jeff running alongside her.

  When they reached the section of John Jay Park that stretched along the river, they both collapsed onto a bench, their breathing uneven. The darkness was broken only by pools of buttery light cast by scattered streetlamps along the footpath behind them.

  Jeff pulled the sweatshirt over his head and tossed it to one side. The moonlight gleamed on his dark hair, turning it into the silver helmet of a knight. “Sorry, Matt,” he told his protection officer, not sounding sorry at all. Matt just shook his head and retreated a few yards down the path, still in their line of sight.

  “That place was amazing.” Jeff reached for his ice cream carton before passing Nina the shopping bag. “Where does the name Wawa come from, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure.” Probably, like everything else in this country, it traced back to Washington.

  Nina pierced the lid of her milkshake with a straw. “I feel honored to have led you on your very first Wawa excursion,” she went on, in a lighter tone. “Promise me that next year, when you go to the campus Wawa for late-night snacks, you’ll remember that I’m the one who showed you how it’s done.”

  “There’s a Wawa at King’s College?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s always crowded, especially at one-fifty-five a.m., five minutes before closing time,” she told him. “Once w
hen I was at the front of the line, someone offered me thirty bucks for my milkshake.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “Absolutely not! You can’t put a price on this kind of happiness.”

  Jeff shifted on the bench, his leg momentarily pressing against hers. And even though there were two layers of fabric between them, his khakis and her black jeans, Nina still felt her face go hot. She took an enormous, unladylike slurp of her milkshake, hoping it would calm the clamor of her thoughts.

  The prince cleared his throat. “To be honest,” he said, “I don’t know if I want to go to King’s College next year.”

  The statement caught Nina off guard. “Really?”

  “I know, I know, it’s where my family has always gone. My parents keep pressuring me to sign on the dotted line and be done with it.”

  “But …,” Nina offered, waiting.

  “But I would rather go abroad. To Spain, maybe, or Australia. Not that they’ll ever let me. An American prince, studying in a country that isn’t America?” Jeff shook his head. “The press would lose it. I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me,” he hurried to add.

  Nina shook her head, surprised. She had assumed Jeff would automatically choose King’s College—because it was predictable and easy, because he could sail through his classes and be the president of a fraternity, just like his dad and uncle and grandfather and great-grandfather.

  Maybe she didn’t know Jeff that well anymore, or maybe he had changed. Nina wondered if it had happened to her, too—if Jeff was having just as much trouble reconciling the current Nina with the one he used to know.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Nina glanced down at the screen, only to see that it was a text from Samantha: Want to come over tomorrow?

  She quickly tucked the phone away. If this were any other boy, she would have surreptitiously tapped out a reply, then called Sam the moment the date ended to hash out every last detail. It felt strange, keeping something like this from her best friend, but there was no possible way she could tell Samantha that she was with her twin brother.

  At least, not until Nina figured out what this was between her and Jeff, and whether it was even going anywhere.

  Midnight arrived with a sudden chorus of bells from the capital’s churches, St. Jerome’s and Holy Rosary and downtown Liberty Church. The sounds chased each other through the streets and alleys of the city, ushering in a new day.

  Jeff started to rise to his feet, stammering something about how late it was, but Nina tugged at his sleeve, and he sat back down.

  “It’s tomorrow; make a wish,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “It’s something my parents used to say when we stayed up till midnight: that now it’s tomorrow, and you get to make a wish.”

  “I’ve never heard of that.” Jeff’s voice was laced with an amused skepticism. “Sounds to me like they were looking for excuses to grant you wishes.”

  “So what if they were? The world could use more wishes.”

  Nina didn’t tell Jeff what she’d silently wished for all those years, that most of those wishes had been centered on him.

  The final notes of the church bells reverberated around them.

  Jeff reached tentatively for Nina’s face, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek. He leaned in to kiss her.

  It was a slow kiss, almost careful, as if Jefferson was afraid of rushing or getting it wrong. When they finally broke apart, Nina leaned her head against his chest. She could feel the thumping of his heart through his expensive button-down shirt. The sound was oddly comforting.

  “This is a terrible idea.” Her words were muffled, but the prince still threw an arm around her, pulling her closer.

  “I disagree. It’s a brilliant one.”

  “We could just—I don’t know, walk away and pretend it never happened—”

  “Why would we do that?”

  “Because.” Nina forced herself to tear away from his warmth, even as her body cried out at the sudden distance between them. “Aside from the fact that your sister is my best friend, I’m not your type.”

  “Sam will be the biggest fan of us, trust me,” Jeff assured her. That single word, us, seemed to carry more weight than it should. “And since when is smart and beautiful not my type?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Nina insisted, flustered. “I hardly own a hairbrush, I hate wearing heels, and in case you forgot, I’m a commoner.”

  “Hairbrushes are overrated, those sneakers are way cooler than heels, and who cares about whether your family has a title?”

  “America does! You know what I mean, Jeff,” she said impatiently. “I’m hardly the type of girl you should be taking to Matsuhara.”

  “I thought we established that all our future dates were going to be at Wawa.” Jeff hazarded a grin. “I like you, Nina. I know that I messed up, before. But I really want to change your mind. At the very least, could you stop being so difficult and give me the chance to try?”

  Despite her lingering misgivings, Nina smiled. “Don’t take it personally; I’m always difficult.”

  “It hasn’t scared me away so far,” Jeff reminded her.

  Nina shifted closer and kissed the Prince of America again.

  BEATRICE

  Beatrice didn’t dare glance back at Connor as she headed up the curved staircase of His Majesty’s Theater. The rest of her family, along with all their security, walked alongside her. Even Jeff was here, which should have surprised Beatrice, given that he usually went to great lengths to avoid the theater. But she was too preoccupied with her own anxiety to notice.

  After the Queen’s Ball—after she’d crossed an uncrossable line and kissed him—she’d been half afraid that Connor might hand in his resignation. Yet he had just shown up to work the next morning as usual.

  They’d barely spoken all week, their usual easy conversation and good-natured teasing replaced by a heavy silence. The few times Beatrice ventured a question, Connor’s answers were clipped and distant. He had clearly resolved to put the entire mess behind him and act like it had never happened.

  Which was precisely what she should be doing.

  “Beatrice, you sit here,” the queen commanded, as they swept through the curtain that led to the royal box.

  Adelaide gestured to the seat that was front and center. It was the most exposed to the other theatergoers: in the orchestra below, on the balcony above, even the other occupants of the private boxes, which wound around the mezzanine in a gilded semicircle. Beatrice recognized all the curious faces on those balconies, from the Nigerian trade envoy to the elderly Baroness Västerbotten, who was openly staring at the royal family through her opera lorgnettes.

  Beatrice took the seat her mother had indicated. She clasped one hand over the other in her lap, then reversed them. Strains of music floated from the orchestra, conversations overlapping as people found their way to their seats.

  “Your Royal Highness,” said a voice at her shoulder, and Beatrice glanced up into the dancing blue eyes of Teddy Eaton.

  She rose to her feet in a fluid motion, only to freeze with indecision. How was she supposed to welcome Teddy? A handshake felt too impersonal, given that this was a date, but a hug seemed a bit familiar.

  As if sensing her panic, Teddy reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips in an old-fashioned, courtly gesture. His kiss just barely brushed the surface of her skin.

  Beatrice swallowed. It took every last shred of her self-control not to turn around and glance at Connor. “Thank you for coming,” she declared, her words hollow and formal even to her own ears.

  The moment they took their seats next to each other, a dull roar of interest swept through the theater. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of them, held up their phones to snap a quick photo. Even the occupants of the other boxes didn’t bother to hide their stares.

  Beatrice ground her back teeth, wishing she hadn’t suggested something so high-profile and public. Of course peop
le were going to gossip about this. Beatrice never went on dates, and now she was at the season’s most anticipated show with the handsome, eminently eligible Theodore Eaton?

  Teddy turned to her, ignoring the flurry of excitement at his arrival. “So, are you excited about the show? They’re saying it’s completely revolutionary.”

  Beatrice saw her sister try to slip toward the back, but the queen put her hands on Samantha’s shoulders and steered her into the seat on Teddy’s left. She winced at the memory of how she’d snapped at Sam the other morning. She hadn’t meant to; she’d just been so on edge about what had happened the night before with Connor, and Sam’s accusations had caught her off guard.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” she told Teddy, and glanced in her sister’s direction. Maybe she could extend an olive branch by drawing her into the conversation. “Though Samantha is the one who’s really into musicals.”

  “Really?” Teddy asked, glancing at Samantha.

  “Beatrice is the official patron of the arts, not me,” Sam said sullenly. She turned to her friend Nina, in the chair on her other side.

  Beatrice blinked at her sister’s rudeness. “That position is just a formality,” she hurried to explain. “I’ve never had any musical ability.”

  Teddy’s eyes flicked briefly to Samantha, and a shadow of something darted over his expression. Then he gave Beatrice a smile. “You’re not a singer?”

  “I’m so tragically off-key that I got cut from fourth-grade choir.”

  But there was more to it. The truth was, Beatrice had always lacked the patience for theater, for the same reason she rarely read novels: she couldn’t relate to the characters. She remembered how frustrated she’d been as a child, when she saw a play about a princess on a quest. The whole thing had felt so deceitful to her—this story about a princess who drove the action, who got to make choices. Because the life of a princess was decided for her, long before she was even born.

  Writers got to pick the endings of their novels, but Beatrice wasn’t living a story. She was living history, and history went on forever.