by Eva Luxe
Mom nods resolutely.
“You’re right, Gregory. That wasn’t nice of me. I apologize.”
She sniffles as she says it, as if she’s a bit embarrassed to have to apologize yet again. Mom just can’t seem to help herself when it comes to being critical of Meredith— nor when it comes to letting me in on many other opinions she holds about everything and anything under the sun.
A part of me understands, as this isn’t exactly a match made in heaven. It’s more like a match made in a kingdom that still wants to believe that fucking fairy tale marriages exist. And one that forces me to go along with it by marrying someone, anyone, before I take my rightful place as King.
Chapter 5 – Gregory
I guess this is the part where I should explain why I’m marrying Meredith. Even though I don’t particularly understand it myself.
Forced to quickly choose a bride, I went for the one girl I fell head over heels in love— or at least in lust— with when I met her in Miami while both of us were vacationing there with friends. I was exploring the States with single friends since I knew I only had a little time left to spend doing that before having to tie the knot— after finding a woman to tie the knot with, of course.
And Meredith was apparently there on something called Spring Break, when college girls go wild. There was a lot to learn about American women, apparently.
We had an amazing time together, if “amazing” equals buzzed, drunk or hungover the whole trip. She told me she’d never seen a guy as ripped or a cock as big as mine. No one can go wrong with flattery such as that. I may be the fucking Prince of Ambrosia, but I still like hearing an attractive woman tell me all about the many ways in which I’ve got it going on.
We spent one too many hot Miami nights drinking ice cold cuba libres and fucking under both the water and the stars. After a long night of drinking— again— I accidentally overslept and missed my flight to Boston, which was supposed to be my next destination.
So, I decided to extend my trip, as did Meredith. She postponed her flight back to Denver, where she’s an acting student, so that we could spend another few drunken, festive nights together.
That week was like something out of a dream, and I guess I just got caught up in an escapist fervor. In a way, it was my only chance to pretend I’m a normal, college kid rather than outdated royalty from some place no one’s ever heard of.
In case you’re wondering, Ambrosia is a small island nation in the Baltic sea, just off the coast of Estonia and Latvia. It’s so tiny and insignificant that if you look it up on a map it probably won’t even show up.
But we still have royalty there, although we don’t do anything important. It’s all just for show, some family history no one ever wanted to let go of, even though everything is really run by a parliamentary republic. If you look up what that is, you probably won’t understand it, since no one really does.
Thanks to some fucking relic of royalty law and important family tradition I don’t care about but my parents do, I have to get married to someone. I don’t think I even believe in marriage. I used to think I was just too young to figure out whether I did or not; I figured I was just spending time spreading my royal wild oats.
But now I’m in my early thirties and I think I’d probably know by now if I wanted to settle down. In fact, though, the opposite was true. I liked having any girl any time I wanted her, and then moving on to the next.
I was under so much pressure, with my mom saying it’s embarrassing that the prince is still a bachelor at this age and people are starting to talk about whether or not I’ll ever get married. Once my father was diagnosed with a terminal illness it became clear that everyone was wondering who the king that takes his place is going to have as a wife. And it was unheard of in our family history for the king to not have a wife.
So, Mom decided there had to be a royal wedding. It’s all fake, a big sham, a show we put on to impress the commoners, so I figured it didn’t really matter who I picked. I might as well pick a fun girl with a tight little pussy and a nice ass. Meredith just happened to be in the right place at the right time, I guess.
She’s got “junk in the trunk”— a phrase I picked up when I was in America— and she’s good “in the sack”— that’s another one— and those seemed like good enough reasons to ask if she wanted to become the next princess of Ambrosia. Why not, right?
She said yes, of course— what girl wouldn’t say yes to that? When I phoned my mother to tell her the news, I thought she’d be pleased that I’d done what she’d requested and found a mate, but she was livid.
“An American girl?” she’d exploded, before I’d even been able to tell her more.
Not that there was much more I wanted to tell her, since I don’t exactly know how that conversation would go: So, Mom, I picked a girl who’s hot and who’s down to fuck a lot, okay?
I should have imagined that under these circumstances, Mom and Meredith would be off to a bad start right away.
“She doesn’t understand our culture, our tradition, the fact that we’re royalty,” Mom went on. “How are we going to explain to the people of Ambrosia that you’re marrying a… a…?”
“Commoner?” I guessed. “A foreigner?”
She had mumbled, “Something like that,” and I had just sighed. If she’d wanted to put conditions on my choice of a princess, then she should have said something before I’d asked Meredith to marry me.
Mom didn’t see it that way. And from there, things just got worse. I flew to Denver a few times and partied more with Meredith, but Mom always asked why we never did anything substantial together, and why Meredith never came to Ambrosia to visit me.
“Good idea,” I’d told Mom, deciding to ask Meredith to do it right away, just so she could start getting accustomed to life in her future kingdom.
When I did propose the trip to Meredith, though, she’d said she had to study and that maybe she’d come after her finals were over. Once she had finished them up, I told Mom I was going to invite her again.
But Mom had said, “Hold on a second,” and then she’d told me it’s probably better if Meredith didn’t come to Ambrosia until after we got married in the States.
“Why not?” I’d asked, baffled.
It seemed to me that my mom couldn’t make up her mind up about what she wanted. No matter what I did, she would want the opposite.
“Well, didn’t you say Meredith wanted to get married in Denver?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I told her. “But I figured you would insist…”
“The typical royal wedding here at the palace can happen later, Dear,” Mom was quick to interrupt. “Once we see how things go and people have time to adjust to the idea of…”
She had trailed off but I had already realized the implications of what Mom was saying. Apparently, Meredith wasn’t good enough for a royal Palace wedding, or at least not until she’d “proven” herself to my mom.
My mom’s biggest fear is looking bad in front of people— she is a Queen, after all, with impossibly high standards to live up to— and she knows that if I marry Meredith in front of the entire kingdom, it’s a done deal. Instead, she wants a “trial period” where we say I’m married to appease everyone’s curiosity, but we keep it hush hush and get married in the States.
Then Meredith and I will have our honeymoon and she’ll come back and live with us in Ambrosia but it will be at the country house and we’ll still keep a low profile. If all goes well and Mom approves of her, we’ll officially “unveil” her at a royal wedding celebration here at home. But if things don’t go well my mom says there’s always a backup plan. I don’t know what it is— I don’t even know if there is one yet— and I hope I never have to find out.
Now, Mom looks at me with pleading eyes, begging me to cooperate, as usual.
“Gregory, I know there’s no path that has come before us on such a thing as a royal marriage to… a random American girl,” she says. “And you know that so many people
have advised us not to let you do this. There are plenty of other, more suitable women to choose from here in our very own kingdom, and…”
“But, Mom,” I remind her, “You said I could do it.”
The way she says “random American girl” makes my skin crawl.
“I did,” she agrees. “And I’ll stand by my word. But I have a bad feeling about this choice of yours…”
“Oh, Mom,” I groan. “You’d have a problem no matter who I picked. You don’t think anyone is good for your little boy.”
“Gregaroo-roo,” she says, harkening back to the nickname of my childhood. “It’s very true that you will always be my little prince. The one I bounced on my knee during the day and rocked to sleep at night. I do know, however, that I have to let you go. I just didn’t realize it would be…”
She sees me shaking my head in annoyance, so she stops. What she probably doesn’t realize is that I’m also touched. I know she only wants the best for me.
“It’s not just that she’s an American girl I’ve never met,” my mom says, trying to explain herself for what has to be at least the tenth time. “It’s that she doesn’t even seem to want to meet us. To be involved in your life. Half the time you call her, she doesn’t even answer.”
“There’s a big time zone difference, Ma,” I complain, but inside, I’m thinking, Hmmmm. Is that true? Half the time? Really?
Meredith better not end up making a fool out of me. Sure, this is a sham marriage but it’s important to my family and I also don’t take lightly to being a laughingstock. I suppose I inherited some of my mother’s genes when it comes to caring about what people think.
“Well, Mom, I appreciate your concern,” I tell her, realizing that it’s sweet that she wants my fiancée to be into me. “But everything is fine. This is a big change for Meredith too, you know. But she’ll adjust and everything will turn out exactly the way you want it to, don’t worry.”
“Okay,” she says, slowly nodding her head, her gray hair bouncing up and down along with it. “I won’t.”
“Don’t you have some other things on your to do list to worry about instead, before we leave?” I ask her, with a grin.
“Yes,” she says, with a smile. “You’re right.”
I go in to see my dad, but feel bad for waking him.
“Hello, Son,” he says, trying to sit up in bed, but coughing instead.
“Hi, Dad,” I tell him. “I was just coming to say goodbye before my trip.”
“Goodbye, Son,” he says, and holds his arm up for me to come hug him.
As I embrace him, he says, “Congratulations on your impending nuptials. You’ll make a fine King.”
“Dad…” I say, not wanting him to start talking about death again.
But he shakes his head, as if that’s not what he was going to get into right now.
“Just remember to follow your heart,” he says. “In life, in love, and in leadership. It won’t steer you wrong.”
“Thanks, Dad, now get some rest,” I tell him, and he settles back down into his bed.
Talking to my dad always fills me with strength and resolve. I don’t know what I’ll do after he’s gone.
Of course, just like my mom is hoping, I’m right that everything will turn out okay. My mother never goes without something to worry about. I’m the one who shouldn’t worry, because I always get what I want, and things will work out just fine.
But that’s what everyone always tells themselves, at the beginning of their own story.
Chapter 6 – Ella
It’s Halloween. And it’s also a beautiful, sunny Saturday in Denver, even though it’s the end of October. But the only way I know that is because I walked the rather short distance from my house to the basement of my dad’s office, which I jokingly refer to as “the Dungeon,” where I’ve spent the rest of the day so far, after volunteering at the homeless shelter earlier, when it was gloomier outside.
There’s only a small window that’s just above the ground, but no light can even get in from there, because it’s covered with boxes. There are boxes everywhere, because after my dad died, we consolidated his offices and a few other cities to this one near the house in Denver, to better manage them here.
It’s a thriving medical equipment supply company, and it’s doing great, or at least it was, before his untimely death. I’ve made it my goal to understand his business and make sure to save it because I don’t think my step mother cares about it at all.
She seems content to spend the money shopping and taking extravagant trips to Vegas, L.A., and last month she even went on a cruise to the Caribbean. I know she probably has a new boyfriend even though she denies it.
Who else would she want to go to the Caribbean with? She certainly didn’t take my step sisters, which is surprising, because the two of them were always stuck so far up her ass I would have thought they would need a medical extraction before my step mom could go on a trip “alone.”
As if her ears are ringing, my step mother burst in through the door of the dungeon, without even bothering to knock. Just like Sheila, she always assumes that what’s mine is hers, starting with my father and ending up with his business and his office.
“Oh, there you are, Ella,” she says, as if I would be anywhere else. She makes me do all the grunt work, but I’m the only person competent to do the important stuff – and she surely doesn’t even try to lift a finger to do it on her own, nor does she make my step sisters do it, even though they benefit from the business as well. So, if I don’t do the grunt work, along with all the other work, it doesn’t get done.
When I was little, my mom used to say that money doesn’t grow on trees. There isn’t a whole lot I remember about her, but her euphemisms were one of them. Apparently, my step mother and step sisters think that not only does money grow on trees, but businesses also magically run themselves.
There are still office workers and assistants that my dad had hired, but I use them on a contract basis only. I don’t trust them enough to run the business.
I do give them all the grunt work that I can shuffle off to them, but when my step mother finds out, she always gets mad. She seems to think it’s my lot in life to do tasks that are beneath my knowledge or experience, even though I’m also the main contributor to the operational side of the business.
“Here are the invoices for the orders this month,” my stepmother says, putting a large file on my desk. “These need to be sent out before midnight. And the spreadsheets need to be filled out along with them.”
How very nice of you to be telling me this now at three o’clock in the afternoon, I think, but I know better than to say anything by now. I’ve argued a lot of things with my stepmother, but it never does any good. She doesn’t seem capable of listening to reason or having empathy. And she holds grudges like no other.
I’ll never understand why my dad married her. I guess he saw something in her that no one else does. Or maybe he just felt sorry for her because her husband had died around the same time my mom had, and she had been a single mother until then. But she’s certainly good at playing the victim, whereas my dad was never that way.
I still remember when he sat me down on my bed and told me that my mother had died. It had been a horrible freak accident. She had volunteered at a homeless shelter and she was crossing the street with a large crockpot full of food she had made, when a speeding car ran her over.
My dad told me the doctor said that the impact had killed her instantly; that she had never known what was coming and she had never felt anything. But one of the wonders of my youth was whether the doctor was right.
Part of me wanted him to be, as I knew that meant my mom hadn’t felt any pain. But another part of me hoped that he was wrong. That somehow she hadn’t feel pain or fear, but she had thought of me and my dad and knew how much we loved her. She knew we would always think about her and miss her. And she knew she died doing the one thing that she loved to do – taking care of other people.
It always gives me a little bit of comfort knowing that I’m continuing to carry out the thing my mother would be doing if she was still here. And I met some very interesting people along the way, homeless veterans as well as shelter staff and co-volunteers who would tell me lovely stories about my mother as I grew up, to help keep her memory alive. Everyone said she was the most beautiful, caring kind and loving person they had ever seen and that she was a whole lot of fun to boot.
I honestly don’t know how my dad could’ve gone from someone like her to someone like my step mom, no matter how many years passed in between. But I try to understand, because I think that life hardens us and makes us cynical. Look at me: I had always had a sinking suspicion that Paul wasn’t the right guy for me, and I turned out to be right.
I don’t believe in fairytales. I don’t believe in love or happy endings. So maybe my dad is like me and he became practical and decided that two widowed people with children were better off making a life together than apart. But ever since he married her, my step mother, she and my step sisters have been so cruel to me.
I never burdened my dad with it because I didn’t want him to feel bad. He’d been through enough. I just suffered in silence without seeing any way out.
And now that my dad is gone, I do the same thing for him that we did together for my mom. I carry out his legacy, what he would have wanted, even if I don’t understand as much as I did with my mom.
All I know is that for whatever reason, he loved my step mother enough to marry her and wanted there to be peace in our family. He even said so in his Will. So that is what I am aiming for now, even though it’s often a lot more easier said than done.
Suddenly there’s a knock at the door, and I open it to see Sharon and Nikki. I practically squeal, I’m so excited to see them.
But then I remember that my step mother will be upset because she wants me to work. She always has to ruin everything, but I’m not going to let her ruin this surprise visit from my two best friends.
